Under the Tower

I

Lin woke every morning in the single bed in his bedroom. On the bedside table were a basic table lamp, a pair of clean socks laid out in advance, a glass of water poured the night before, and a notebook held down by the glass and the socks.

Outside the window was a steady gray light. In the distance stood the Central Tower, its surface dark and bare, its height difficult to measure. Seen from most streets, it was in the center, always visible. Lin could always see the tower in the same place. Its height and distance never changed.

It never shed its leaves, nor had it ever grown. The tower simply stood there, without wind, without change, with no traces of corrosion or repair.

Lin usually woke at six exactly, but today it was six-oh-three. He drained the glass in one swallow, put on his socks, and wrote the time in his notebook, on the first line of the daily record page.

Every day he recorded the time he woke, his breathing rate, fragments of dreams, but no one seemed to look at these entries, and he had never been asked to hand them in. He still wrote every day. Occasionally he added an unrelated sentence, such as “The wind’s direction is very light,” or “Yesterday’s dream was like a rerun,” but these sentences were usually crossed out the next day.

The notebook had been issued by his workplace. Printed on its cover was the outline of a column. This was the Central Tower.

Lin did not want to wash yet. He still had a little time, but more importantly, he was still very sleepy. He had switched off the light late the night before. Books lay open on the desk, not put away. He had turned a few pages, then opened a book of poetry, leafed through it for a while, then put it down. As if he were searching for something, as if he were avoiding something. Only after midnight had the room finally gone quiet.

He went over and opened the window. The morning wind blew in from the direction of the tower, carrying the smell of the city. Lin stood at the window, looking at the tower.

The wind blew for a while. He still stood without moving. He watched the tower. In primary school, he had also watched a hole in his classroom wall.

The plaster had peeled away there, exposing the dark gray cement underneath, rough and powdery. The children would scrape at it with pencils and rulers, a little at a time. The hole slowly deepened, its edges spread, and more plaster fell away. During that time he stared at the hole every day, looking from the same angle, sometimes without moving at all. Sometimes he felt that a long time had passed, but nothing had changed.

The alarm rang. This was the ultimatum Lin had set himself: if he did not wash and leave now, he would be late. He closed the window.

He stepped out of his home, the taste of toothpaste still strong in his mouth, a rough, dry feeling between his lips and teeth. His hands moved without his noticing and touched the stiff notebook tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. His workplace required him to carry it at all times. It was also the only thing he needed to take to work.

He walked through the empty corridor. His footsteps echoed between the walls.

Perhaps because he had not eaten, the morning here made him feel a little cold. The city was clean but disorderly. The gray-black paving stones bore only a barely visible layer of dust, as though they had just been swept.

He noticed that the layout of the streets was slightly different. The supermarket whose white lights were always on had today been replaced by a shop with no sign, and he did not know what it sold; the tram tracks seemed to have one more branch than yesterday, while the traffic light at the roadside flashed in a direction that had nothing to do with it.

Although the distance to the tower was unclear, the city seemed to have formed around it. The tower was the starting point. The streets spread from it in every direction, like branches and leaves, or like the marks left by a glass of water spilled on the ground. Narrow streets and broad streets, roads and tram tracks crisscrossed. There were intersections everywhere, while houses had been built in the gaps between those intersections and lines, like something filled in afterward.

Lin stood at a street corner, watching the city. He thought of groups of snakes waking from hibernation.

He walked toward the subway station, toward the tower too. There were already quite a few people on the street. Perhaps because of the weather, or perhaps because they had not eaten breakfast either, they walked with their shoulders drawn in a little, their hands in their coat pockets. They were strangers who had nothing to do with one another, yet they looked like a group that had rehearsed. Everyone was moving in the same direction. Their jobs were always away from where they lived, somewhere closer to the tower. Lin was one of them. They walked toward the tower.

Sometimes someone would stop to tie a shoelace or close their eyes to savor the previous night’s sleep, but they soon resumed walking. No one stood in a daze, and no one walked in the opposite direction. For a moment Lin could not tell whether this street really led to the tower, or whether he only thought that was the direction because everyone was walking that way.

The subway station was in an area densely packed with roads and houses. Streets and buildings tangled together like splotches of ink and lines tangled into a ball, drawn on paper in a daze. He looked up. The sky was no longer visible. In the only remaining gap was the huge black body of the Central Tower, its top out of sight. He looked around. The strangers dressed much like him were also looking up at the tower.

The train arrived. He hurriedly took out his notebook, wrote “7:09” in a blank space, and boarded the train.

Lin worked in the Northern District Third Department of Format Standards as a document processing officer. He worked six days a week, from eight in the morning to six in the evening, at the Document Management Center.

The Document Management Center was a low building made of red brick. It had only one floor, but occupied an enormous area. It looked more like some kind of flattened structure lying flush against the ground.

Entering through the main door and following the numbers to his workstation, he sometimes felt the building stretching, as though it were quietly growing longer after every step he took. The feeling became more pronounced when he was tired or hesitant. He knew he had not gone the wrong way, but the route seemed a little longer than the day before.

Lin’s workstation was at the very back of the building, numbered B3-F-114. It was a narrow cubicle with just enough room for him to spread his arms and stretch. There were only five things inside: a desk, a wooden chair, a duct shaped like a range hood, a workflow chart stuck to the wall, and a ceiling light shining cold white.

The chart had been there a long time, its four corners held by transparent tape, but the tape had aged and yellowed.

There were countless cubicles like this. Although Lin had never looked into every one, they were all the same inside too.

He sat down, took the notebook out of his pocket, and set it at one corner of the desk. In the center of the desktop was a long, narrow black slit, like some kind of breathing hole. A few seconds later the slit spat out a sheet of paper.

Printed in the very center of the paper was:

“Ew8q-[cqpqmgi[[rj-iref[‘mclpns·～2pefryihgf;x;aisfni4wqyuio68”

Lin turned the sheet over so the printed side faced down. The paper was a little rough, its edges slightly curled. The light left a layer of gray reflection on its surface.

The top right corner was folded toward the bottom left, forming an acute angle at the top. A dry, even crease appeared in the paper. A fingernail slowly pressed the crease tight, and the angled corner sank down.

The point was folded toward the bottom right, forming a triangle with a rectangular strip exposed below. The place where the creases overlapped bulged slightly. A little air was pushed out, and the paper became compact inside.

The left corner of the rectangle was folded in two, its edges aligned; then the right corner was folded and pressed down in the same way. The bottom of the paper changed from a rectangle into a trapezoid, its sides slanting, its center slightly raised.

As the whole structure was closed, the triangle and trapezoid came together. A thumb and forefinger gently squeezed the join, and the central area slowly opened into a symmetrical pocket. The flap was rolled inside. A fingernail pressed the folded edge flat from the inside out, and the corners were pushed deep into the paper.

A triangular structure was complete. Its edges were flat, with nothing sticking up. The structure was stable.

He put the triangle beneath the duct. A few seconds later the duct seemed to smell something. It produced a slight suction and drew the paper inside.

The slit spat out the next sheet of paper.

Printed in the very center of the paper was:

“43ewr98 muyw-erfw9[e-t9-5wejfgmew-g,w9thetyk.tuy,mryu/be-rigfdg”

Lin repeated the movements: align, fold, press, insert.

The slit spat out the next sheet of paper.

Printed in the very center of the paper was:

“Xq9vBz!el2#RmT7kdWp0@YufLxoE4CjHNsbV^KgZiM6AJtQ3d”

His hands were beginning to hurt again. There was numbness as well as stinging pain, and his movements were a little out of control. Whenever he stretched his fingers, it felt as though a few thin steel wires were holding them at the joints, making it a struggle. Lin did not know what time it was, did not know how long he had been folding triangles. There was no clock or window in the cubicle.

He looked around and saw only the red brick walls. At the base of the wall on his left was a ragged opening, like a small mousehole. On the other side was another cubicle. One afternoon about a month earlier, Lin’s hands had been shaking so badly that he had accidentally dropped a folded paper triangle. It had slid through the mousehole into the other cubicle.

He stared at the opening. Stared.

Just as he was about to ignore this small mistake and start folding the next sheet, a shifting shadow appeared on the other side of the hole. A star folded from paper slowly rolled through. He put the star beneath the duct and processed it as usual. The duct sniffed and sucked it away as usual.

The next day another star rolled through of its own accord. Lin sent it into the duct, but this time he also sent a triangle across. It passed through the wall and vanished.

From that day on, in the pauses in their work, they began passing triangles and stars back and forth often. Lin was not sure what they were doing either. Only now he could faintly hear the friction of folding paper and see a dancing gray shadow of no clear shape.

Once a flattened star came through. Its corners had collapsed, the crisscrossing creases were indistinct, and the whole thing looked a little untidy. Its shape reminded Lin of a kind of clumsy blue-and-orange starfish in the pools left on the beach at low tide. He gently set it at the corner of his desk, as though he were not ready to send it into the duct yet. It was the first time he had not processed a piece of paper immediately.

After a while he finished folding his own paper triangle, laid it flat on his fingertips, and pushed it toward the opening. Just as his fingers drew near the edge, there was a movement toward him from the other side too. The other person seemed to be just about to send a star through as well.

Their fingers touched each other. Very lightly, like the sound of paper sliding over paper; almost no pressure, only a difference in temperature. The other person’s fingers were well proportioned, with no protruding knuckles, the nails evenly trimmed and smooth.

Only a little contact, slow and hesitant, then a quick withdrawal.

They were still passing them back and forth.

One day Lin folded paper as usual and pushed the triangle toward the opening, but the moment it arrived it was pushed back. It happened quickly, as if the person beyond the wall had been waiting all along for him to send that sheet of paper through. He bent to pick it up. The duct sniffed and sucked it in. He never saw the dancing shadow at the opening again.

That day he kept working. Sometimes he had to fold with one hand while the other soaked in a bowl full of ice cubes, taking turns soaking each hand until the pain eased. Sounds came from outside the cubicle, steady, heavy footsteps echoing. Lin recognized them as his superior’s footsteps. Unlike Lin, he was a senior document processing officer, responsible for managing the junior employees and folding paper cranes. He had come to speak. His voice seemed trained: level at the ends of sentences, neutral in tone, with an emphasis on rhythm and standards.

“Take proper care of your notebooks and keep a strict daily record.”

“The employee at workstation B3-F-113 has been reassigned to a post closer to the tower.”

“This employee has demonstrated good endurance and mental stability at work.”

“I hope you will take this as your goal, maintain progress, and reduce pauses.”

“Also, next month there will be the routine monthly assessment. Please take it very seriously.”

II

At seven in the evening, Lin came home. The sky was still light, like an unfinished piece of white cloth. There was no sign of dusk beginning. He opened the door. At some point an envelope had been pushed through the gap into his home, and now it lay between his feet as he stepped inside. The envelope was neither large nor small, a dull dark blue, like a book cover or some stretch of sea and sky. Lin picked it up. The paper was stiff and a little rough, with a texture of bark and paper interwoven. There was no sender’s name or address, only a line of numbers.

Inside the envelope was a stiff sheet of paper, sized to fit exactly, with almost no gap. Lin took it out. A line of standard type read:

“In view of your excellent work, you have been granted eligibility to draw closer to the tower.

In eight days, please bring this letter to Platform A7 at Station 2304.

The special train will arrive at 22:30.

No. C.6.1.I.”

Printed at the lower right of the text was an image of a squat rectangular block, its outline simple and heavy. Lin thought it must be the tower. He looked at the letter, reading the information over and over, studying the horizontal and vertical strokes of each character, the way each stroke tapered.

Lin slipped the letter back into the envelope and put it into the inner breast pocket of his coat, as if shielding an object not yet fully formed, its surface like transparent film, making him afraid to apply even the slightest pressure.

He stood on, silently looking ahead, until his knees began to ache a little.

For the next eight days, he told no one.

On the evening of the ninth day, he left home. His pace was neither fast nor slow, somewhere between lazy and hurried, the letter held close to his chest. At nine, dusk was just beginning to show. The streets lengthened and slowly receded into the distance. The lights were dim yellow. Few people were out, and most of them were walking toward home. Lin walked in the opposite direction.

He did not know how long he had been walking, but dusk had deepened. Orange and purple interwove into a blur of light and shadow, the evening glow at the edge of the sky. The tower had its back to the light, becoming a blurred black mark beneath the darkening sky. Light spread around it without touching it.

The city’s edges disappeared into the sunset glow. The buildings and people on either side of the street seemed insignificant. Lin’s pace still did not change. He did not even stop to give the distant tower another look.

He had never been to Station 2304, but it was exactly like all the other stations. From far off it was set into the darkening sky, like a piece of metal sunk into the ground, its structure low, its outline blurred in his vision. The station had no lights. Darkness enclosed the chairs on the platform. He came closer, felt his way from memory, and sat down on a metal chair. It was ten. The metal chair sank a little beneath him. There was no light source nearby, no sound.

He heard footsteps, neither quick nor heavy, with no rhythm, only sound itself. The sound came nearer little by little until he saw a figure standing under an unlit streetlamp, its features indistinct, without expression, like a paper cutout pasted in a dark place. A few seconds later the person turned slightly and leaned against a post. Lin looked to the other side. There was a figure there too, sitting just as he was on one of the station’s metal chairs.

Lin sat. The ground beneath his feet and the barely perceptible particles in the air began to vibrate slightly. A sound came from the distance, like metal scraping, or like rails being straightened in the dark. The air began to move first. Wind swept through the platform, and the scattered papers on the ground turned and curled slightly. Silently, the wind stirred up by a large object continued to move. A beam of light shone from far off, swept across the platform and Lin’s face, and disappeared. The sound drew closer, its texture turning rough, then gradually softer as it approached. Lin sat, staring into the darkness ahead.

The sound disappeared. The station lights came on. The instant they lit, the thing became visible: an enclosed structure occupied the space in front of the platform, regular in shape, like some kind of elongated block. Its surface was matte gray, reflecting no light. Its edges were neither sharp nor rounded, and there was no clearly defined entrance. Set into the side facing him was a piece of transparent material. He could not make out the interior, only layers of overlapping shadows.

The door opened and the carriage lit up. The light was neither bright nor dim, spread evenly along both sides of the ceiling and falling onto the seats. Two rows of seats extended along the sides of the carriage, their backs rather low, covered in gray-blue fabric.

Lin boarded the train, reached into the inside pocket of his coat, and felt the stiff envelope. The carriage was empty. There was no one, and no device for checking tickets. He sat by the window. Outside were blurry masses of buildings and scattered points of light.

The train began to move, the carriage trembling gently. The points of light outside became a thin line and vanished. From deep in the carriage came a sound of scraping metal, low, then sharp, then gradually fading away. A few seconds later it came again, softer than before. A lamp hung from the ceiling, its shade black, the size of a dinner plate. The bulb glowed pale yellow, its outline invisible, a blurred ball of light. The light stopped at the edge of the seat, beside Lin’s left hand. Beyond was dimness. The train kept trembling.

The sound of scraping metal came again. The hanging lamp tilted to the right, the edge of the light moved, and one finger of Lin’s left hand fell into darkness. A moment later the light dimmed slightly. The scrape of metal sounded, the lamp tilted left, and the light fell on that finger again. The ball of light moved slowly back to the center. The black cord from which the lamp hung made a right angle with the ceiling. The sound came again, steadier than before, even in pitch. The lamp tilted right. The light slid through the carriage, crossed the seats, and stopped halfway across the aisle. Lin’s whole body was in darkness. The lamp stayed there, the boundary of the light cutting across a seam in the floor, illuminating a gray line. The lamp slowly righted itself. The black cord lined up with the ceiling again. It tilted left, faster now, and Lin was back in the light. The lamp swung right again, the ball of light swinging with its black ring. The lamp tilted left. He felt the envelope at his chest, and his hand stayed there. The lamp swayed. Pale yellow light broke in the gaps between his eyelashes. He closed his eyes and had a dream about a glass.

A metallic sound, louder and rougher this time. He woke. Outside the window was still a flowing blackness. The lamp tilted right. The sound gradually weakened.

The light went out. The faint trembling ceased. Objects lost their shapes, lost their positions, melted into the fluid of night. Lin was disappearing too. Only his eyeballs kept rolling.

His eyes blinked. After the eighth blink, the objects around him reappeared. They were floating, only outlines, edges and corners, curved surfaces and flat surfaces existing indistinctly. Through the glass at his right, Lin saw a streetlamp, its black post holding up a polygonal lamp that shed a clean white light. He stood beneath it. The light was like a round island, his shadow huddled at his feet like a puddle. Each step stretched it a foot longer, yet it never managed to leave the circle of light.

Lin walked into the dark. The streetlamp behind him receded until it became a lone island far away. He walked very slowly, extending his right foot a little, touching the ground lightly with his toe, drawing it back, then reaching it out again, until the sole pressed firmly down and stayed still. His left foot followed, the same movements. Both hands stretched out in front of him, all ten fingers moving through the air, groping.

He moved this way again and again, his steps growing shorter and shorter, as though his ankles were being held back. His back slowly sagged, his waist bent, his knees bent too, his body pressed lower little by little. His feet lifted less and less from the ground, until he was all but dragging them forward.

When he looked back, the light was gone. There was nothing behind him. His hands reached downward ahead of him, his fingertips brushed cold grains, then drew back. After a while he reached out again. This time his whole palm braced against the ground, the roughness rubbing his palm hot, his body folding farther down. On both hands and both knees, he moved slowly forward.