Chapter 6The Seventh Draft

A patch of black that reflected nothing came down and cut a talking face out in one piece.

The face was an old man’s. He stood in front of a roller shutter, speaking to whoever was holding the phone, his mouth opening and closing. Qingluan had the sound off. Halfway through what he was saying, the black came down from the top edge of the picture. It did not slide across. It pressed down, and its four edges closed in at once on his forehead, under his chin, and outside both ears. It was exactly the size of a face.

The phone was propped against the bamboo skewer tube. The screen glass reflected the string of little lamps along the edge of the awning: fifteen warm orange dots. On that black patch there was not one dot. The glass was still the same glass. Only that one patch did not reflect.

She counted twice. One, two.

On the second count it came down, and the black shrank. It drew in from the four sides and narrowed into a flat strip, as tall as a line of text. Its colour had faded too, to a grey-white. The grey-white strip had no words in it. The old man, the roller shutter, the caption underneath: all were gone. Only the strip was left.

She swiped down. Every three or four strips, another one. Further down, another, all the same width. It had been like this since the afternoon.

She closed the page and opened her draft.

The piece was still there, four hundred and twelve characters long. The last line had been typed last night. Last night she had deleted it, and then typed it back, one character at a time, exactly as before. Not one character had changed, and the punctuation had not changed either. So this draft did not count as the eighth. It was still the seventh.

In the daytime she worked at the office, editing drafts. Other people’s, and her own. Once revised, they went up for review, and only after review were they printed. In six years she had learned which character would be circled before the reviewer did. At night, though, this piece did not belong to the office. No one had asked her to write it, and when it was finished she did not know where it could go. The first draft had been written this spring, at this table, on the palm-sized folding keyboard.

Every change in the seven drafts had been made somewhere else. Adjectives taken out, verbs made softer, full stops changed to commas, one long paragraph split into two short ones. The words around it gave way, draft after draft, so that the line sat in the middle, less noticeable, and could slip through. The three characters joined together in that line had never given way, not once.

She remembered her grandfather’s words: keep the strong beat clear, so there is room for the words when they come back. The other words kept giving way, all of them, to leave room for those three.

She knew without looking which line would be swallowed. When she reached it, her right ring finger would slow down by itself. She had not told that finger to slow. The strong beat would also gain half a beat. That half beat was one she had added herself. Add one character, and that line would no longer read as hers.

First she took a screenshot.

Then she held down the delete key.

The cursor moved backwards, swallowing the characters one at a time. The little finger left first, the ring finger followed, and the index finger went last. Writing that line, she had stopped on every draft. Deleting, her hand never stopped. Deleting ran more smoothly than writing.

A green notice slid down from the top of the screen. It held only two characters: Approved.

She had submitted nothing. She had only deleted.

She swiped the green notice away with her thumb, and dragged the screenshot into the album. The album was hidden away under Settings, and it opened only to her fingerprint. Inside there were seven in all, one for each draft. Laid side by side, the seven showed the other characters shifting, but those three had not changed by a single stroke.

In the draft, that line was empty now. The cursor stopped at the far left, blinking.

She pressed her thumb down and rubbed the pad of it back and forth over the empty line. From left to right, then from right to left. The screen grew hot under the rubbing, and it left a greasy print of her fingerprint, but no characters came up.

“This is the seventh draft. I’ve changed it until it can survive.”

She said it very softly, to the empty line.

※

The rim of a pot knocked once. The notched side rang first, dull.

The stall owner stood at the pots with his back to her. The dark grey towel on his right shoulder hung down by its long end. He put the long-handled iron ladle into the chili oil jar, pressed it to the bottom, and lifted it. The red oil held at the notch, and not one drop fell. He came over and poured it into her bowl. A whole ladleful.

He did not say a word. He went back to the pots.

Steam rose from the bowl and hit her lenses. Two patches of white. The enamel bowl with a fine crack along its rim could no longer be seen. Behind the white there was only a blur of red.

She smiled briefly. The corners of her mouth went up, but her eyes did not follow. The lenses were white. No one could see whether her eyes had followed.

Half a ladle was her portion. Since the cold rain last year, it had always been half a ladle.

A whole ladle had started last night.

She compared the two. On the night she came back, after three weeks away, she had stood at the pot herself and asked, through the steam, for a little more. He gave her half a ladle, and no more. When she asked, he gave her half a ladle. When she refused and did not touch a mouthful, he gave her a whole ladle. Last night she had deleted the seventh draft. Tonight she had deleted the seventh draft once more. On each of those two nights he had added once.

He never asked what she was writing. All he could see was her thumb moving back and forth across the screen.

One line less on her side. Half a ladle more on his.

She pulled the bowl half an inch towards herself.

She picked up the white porcelain spoon and stirred the red oil into the broth, a little at a time, until the broth changed colour.

Two fingers below the collar, the string of arcs lay under her clothes. Last night it had lit up, ring after ring, from behind her right ear down to her collarbone. This morning she had pulled her collar open in front of the mirror. The arcs were still there, and still lit, only grey. Their brightness had not dropped at all. The colour had been drawn out, and what was left was a grey like cement, flat to the touch.

The two feather shapes on her back had folded in too. Last night they had opened, with a gap between them through which the road could be seen. This morning they had folded into two narrow bands, running down either side of her shoulder blades. They were cool, and not much wider than a belt. She had sat at the office all day, and not once had she leaned back in her chair.

She had only been given them last night, and a single night’s sleep had taken them back. This was the first thing the tower took.

※

Outside the awning, everything went dark for a moment.

The big screen at the crossroads, the freezer door of the convenience store, the light box on the roller shutter opposite, and the phone propped on the bamboo skewer tube all went black in the same second. They stayed black for one beat. Then they came back on, all the same jade-white, with no words, no symbols, nothing at all. White, with a touch of gold in it.

The spoon slid from her hand, fell into the bowl, and sank beneath the red layer.

She did not fish for it.

At the far end of the street, through the gap between two buildings, a light was climbing from the ground. It came from across the river. It rose from the foot of the tower, straight up, until it reached the black band over her head and was cut off. The deck of the elevated road lay across the top of the awning, and above the deck she could see nothing. All she could see was the lower part of the beam: thick, white, and not wavering at all.

The people in the street stood up.

Two from the first table, one from the third, three from the fifth. Chopsticks put down, bowls not pushed away, no money paid. Once they were standing, they all lowered their heads, turned, and walked in the same direction. With their backs to that light, they went west.

The people waiting for seats by the bridge pier had gone too. The cyclists got off and walked their bikes. Nobody ran.

As they walked, their steps came into line. At first the street was a jumble of noise, dozens of pairs of shoes each going its own way. After twenty-odd steps the sound gathered into single strokes, each one equally heavy and equally spaced. She counted three of them and knew it. It was the strong beat the tower had spoken last night.

The stall owner did not leave. He stood with his head bowed in the shallow pit among the three pots, his heels not moving. The flame had not been turned off. It was turned down as low as it would go.

She stood up and pushed her stool back under the table. In her pocket was a banknote folded in two. She pressed it under the bowl.

Then she walked east.

People came towards her, one after another, all with their heads down. She turned sideways and let one pass, then another. Someone’s elbow brushed against her arm, and that person did not stop or look up. Not one of them looked at her.

The footsteps of the whole street landed on the same beat. Her foot landed half a beat behind it. She had not meant to. Her fingers were still pressed to the outside of her thigh, keeping her own time, one strong beat and three weak. Her feet followed her hand.

Two crossroads.

At the first crossroads the traffic lights were still changing as usual. Red, then green, then red again. No car stopped, and no one waited. At the second crossroads she looked back once. The awning could no longer be seen. The row of little lamps under the elevated road was still lit, a very small point of warm orange among all the lights of the street.

She turned back round and kept walking.

※

Steps had been cut into the flood wall by the river: nineteen of them, of stone, with a layer of damp rising on the surface.

More people were coming down from above. Those who had been watching the night view by the river had all turned round. Heads down, they went down one step at a time, all at the same pace. Qingluan went up against the flow.

Her rubber soles met the wet stone. They clung, then let go. On the edge of each step, three anti-slip grooves had been cut. As a sole pressed over them, a groove bit, then let go. Cling. Bite. Release. Each time she went up one step, someone came down one, passing her and stirring a little wind. In the wind was the fishy smell of the river.

On the seventh step, a woman’s handbag knocked against her waist. The woman did not stop.

On the twelfth step, something behind her shoulders loosened.

The silk shawl had come out of itself. It slid down from both shoulders, a long length of ink-green cloth, at first wet and heavy, clinging to her arms and dragging down. When it reached her wrists, it suddenly grew light. Its end came apart and broke into scattered points of light. They did not fall. They rose.

Under her collar, something tightened. The grey layer began to crack from the innermost ring, into very fine lines, and the light underneath pushed it open, bit by bit. The first ring lit up. Cyan, one ring, lying close behind her right ear.

The second ring had not lit. It was still grey. The two narrow bands on her back had not moved either.

She kept climbing. The nineteenth step.

The river was wide. The tower stood on the far side of the water.

Three columns. Several diagonal braces. A very large sphere wedged between the columns, its windows lit white, pane by pane. Higher up, the beam rose from the foot of the tower and wrapped the body of the tower inside it. The higher it went, the whiter it grew, until the sphere at the top was only a shadow. Above the shadow there was nothing. The light had swallowed everything else. She could not see the top of the tower.

To the north-east, in the sky, hung the disc.

The disc hung above the river, twenty-odd times the size of the moon, so large that she had to turn her head to see all of it. Its bright side took up three quarters of it, with a rim of pale violet around the edge. On the bright side there were white clouds, in clumps, not moving. On the dark part, a small patch, there were a few specks of light. At the upper right of the disc, a little higher than the disc itself, on the side nearer the tower, a black mouth stood open. Round its edge ran a very fine white ring, and the stars outside the ring were twisted into curves.

Last night the disc had hung in the same place. She did not know what it was. Not one of the people going down the steps looked up.

She took off her glasses.

A patch of white on each lens, the white of the beam. The light struck, and the lenses sent it back. In the moment it went back, the other side would know where she was, and which way she was looking.

When she was six, backstage at the storytelling hall, she stood at the edge of the curtain and watched someone dance the Flying Apsara. Side light from the proscenium fell on her face. A man carrying props walked past and said, “What are you looking at, little girl?” She did not leave. She watched that passage through to the end. But from that day, she learned to watch from a place where the light could not reach her face. At twelve she put on glasses, and she learned one more thing. When she looked at something, she tucked her chin in a little, two or three degrees, so that the light fell on the top edge of the lenses and could not be sent back. Sixteen years. Her chin had stayed tucked in the whole time.

Since last night she could see clearly without her glasses. This morning she had put them on all the same. Her hands were quicker than her head.

She folded her glasses and put them in the left pocket of her jacket.

She lifted her chin.

She had come to look. She had not come to be looked at by that light.

Then the beam moved.

A beam split off from the foot of the tower. It came across the river, low over the water, not fast, lighting a white path across the surface all the way. At the bank it followed the railing, passed a row of empty benches, passed a paper cup someone had dropped, and reached the top of the steps. There it stopped in front of the toes of her shoes.

It had come looking for her. Last night that light had turned in mid-air, as if it were choosing someone. Tonight it had finished choosing.

The beam was white, with a touch of cold gold in the white. Its edge was cut clean in one stroke, with no fray.

The ring behind her right ear was pulsing, beat after beat, following her strong beat.

“That line I deleted myself. Tonight I will go and take it back.”

As she spoke, the first ring shone a little clearer. The second was still grey. Her voice went out, and nothing on the river caught it. The wind carried it away to the west.

She took a step, and stepped into it.

Her left foot was still on the wet stone. Her right foot came down, and it was no longer wet.

※

The floor was jade-white.

Square tiles, each one the same size. The joints lined up, one with the next, too fine for a sheet of paper to slide into, running from under her feet to a long way off. The water from her right sole left a print on the tile. Then came her left foot, and another print.

Nothing in the hall stood in her way.

She looked back. Behind her was a wall as well, jade-white, with no door and no seam. She could not tell where the light had come in.

There were no pillars, no lamps, no windows, and not one character on the walls. The light came from the walls themselves, even, equally bright on all four sides. The walls were jade-white as well, thick and curved, closing overhead into a dome. The walls let through a little of the light from outside. She could see that there was something out there, but not what it was.

She took a step forward. Her footsteps went out, struck the wall, and came back trailing a tail two beats long. Only in an empty place could sound drag out this long.

The wall on the left was different. The tail was shorter, and the sound came back quicker and duller. On the other side of that wall, something very large was pressed up against it.

She took another step and listened again. The left side was still dull. The thing did not move.

Straight ahead were steps. Twenty-seven of them, jade-white, each one the same height. She counted them from the bottom up, twice. Both times there were twenty-seven.

At the top of the steps, dead centre, stood a wooden post. It was ink-black, a good deal taller than a man. Its body bore rows of shallow hollows, which from so far off she could only make out as grain. The post had an old crack running slantwise from top to bottom, and in the crack was lodged a small scrap of white cloth. From a distance it was only a speck of white.

He stood in front of the post.

From so far away, she could see only an outline. A jade-white long gown, its hem falling below his knees. At his waist, an ink-black sash, tied tight. He was barehanded, but both hands were wrapped in white cloth. The cloth ran from the base of the fingers to the wrist, and the fingers were left bare. On his right wrist the cloth was thicker than on the left, one turn pressed over another, all the way up to the cuff. She could not count how many turns there were.

He held his hands in the martial salute, the fist wrapped around the palm, pressed to his chest. It was the greeting of someone who trains in the martial arts. His right hand came loose from the salute by half an inch and stopped there, in front of his chest. It was the opening of a stance he had not finished.

The backstage of the storytelling hall had once held the costume trunks of an opera troupe. She had seen people strike a pose like this and hold it for one beat, and the audience below the stage cheered. In that held beat a person had to breathe. Their chest rose and fell beneath the costume, and anyone sitting close could see it.

He held the pose for half a second.

In that half second nothing moved. There was dust in the hall, very fine, which had been sinking slowly through the light. In this half second it stopped sinking and hung where it was. The points of light at the end of her shawl, which had been rising, stopped too. His chest did not move.

When the half second was over, the first ripple pushed out from under his feet.

There was no wind and no sound. The ripple ran down the twenty-seven steps, one step at a time. It reached the bottom and pressed across the tiles towards her. A few small puddles her shoes had brought in were the first to ripple, their lines all running outward. Then it was her turn.

She was pushed backwards and slid. Her rubber soles squeaked twice on the tiles, short squeaks. The shawl was pressed flat against her back.

When she came to a stop, she looked down and counted the tiles. From the lowest step, it was exactly twelve tiles.

He wanted her to stand here.

Qingluan looked up at him. Her chin was not tucked in.

On her right, at the height of her shoulder, a rectangular object rose out of the air.

Faint, with a jade-white ground and no frame. In the top left corner was a photograph: her, face on, wearing glasses, chin tucked in two or three degrees. It was the one from her work ID card. Beneath the photograph were several lines of writing. She could not make out what they said. Below those were lines of numbers, the gaps between the numbers all equal. The last line was not writing. It was a grey-white blank strip, as wide as the one on her phone.

He did not look at her. His gaze fell on the panel at her right, on the photograph of her in glasses, and stopped there.

She was not wearing her glasses. She stood an arm’s length from the photograph. His gaze had not moved in her direction once.

He spoke.

“Order is harmony.”

A voice. Each character landed on the beat of the post.

She counted. Five characters, five beats, one beat for each, no more and no less.

The hall was so large that her footsteps could drag for two beats. His voice did not drag. It was as if it landed straight on her ear, and when it stopped, it was gone.

“Harmony is obedience.”

Five characters, five beats. The gap between this and the line before had been one beat as well.

On the beat when he finished, his right fist came down into his left palm. There was no sound. The post made no sound either. But the beats came from the direction of the post, one after another, and she could count them.

The wall let light through. She could see outside a blurred brightness, on the river side, the side she had just come from. On the first beat, the patch nearest the river went dark. On the second beat, the one behind it. On the third and fourth beats, the patches went out one after another, retreating west. On the sixth beat, only one horizontal line of light was left outside the wall. It was the elevated road.

On the seventh beat, the line of the elevated road broke.

She had counted the string of lamps: fifteen of them, hung under the elevated road beside the third bridge pier from the east. Through this wall, from this distance, she could not find those lamps. She saw only that the line had broken. After it broke, nothing was left of that stretch.

The note was still in her pocket, with only one time on it: half past ten at night. It was the knocking-off time that an aunt who swept the streets had given her that day. She did not know what time it was now. The screen of her phone was white.

Her thumb pressed twice on the outside of her thigh, once lightly, once hard.

“Obedience is happiness. You are happy tonight—that line you deleted yourself.”

The second half was hers. It was the line she had said at the top of the river steps. He had taken it word for word, changing only the I to you. The length was the same too.

The beat at the dash was empty. When a person speaks a long sentence, they always have to even out their breath somewhere along it, and where the breath is evened out, the strong beat loosens a little. His beat there was empty, cleanly empty, with no breath and no loosening.

She remembered the passage her grandfather had cut. The words were cut, but the strong beat was still struck, and the stage was left with a gap of four whole beats, as clean as this. Those four beats had been kept on purpose.

The rows of numbers beneath the photograph moved. Beside the last grey-white strip, two more characters appeared.

He spoke those two characters aloud too. It was the same voice, each character landing on the post, one beat to each character: Approved.

On the second character the pitch rose, only a little, just enough to measure.

It was the tone of praise. She had heard it many times at work. A manuscript went up, the reviewer on the phone finished going through it, and said those two characters. On the second character the voice rose as well.

The words he spoke drew no echo at all from the hall.