The gods always protect those who peacefully endure hardship. As for those who unfortunately suffer calamity, it can only be said that their own fate is to blame, not that the gods failed to protect them.
The above sentiment was a conclusion reached by Su Dongpo and his family as they journeyed down the river through the Three Gorges. He believed that if a man cannot control his body and mind, he cannot control his soul. Lin Song, however, believed that even if a man controls his body and mind, he may not be able to control his soul.
If a man who is supposed to be busy from morning to night suddenly finds himself with nothing to do—not because he is lazy, but because he simply cannot find a boss to hire him—what, then, can he do?
Stroll through the park, drink a cup of home-brewed coffee, find a shady spot under a tree for a nap. All the things he once considered beautiful now feel remote and unattainable. The inner struggle makes his former sharpness seem utterly dull.
Zhongshan Park’s main gate opens onto Jiefang Avenue. The stretch from Hangkong Road to Xunli Gate was once the widest road in Hankou. Lined with towering French plane trees, it was a canopy of shade in the summer. In the dry autumn, when the seed pods ripened and burst, the wind would scatter their fluffy contents across the sidewalks, laying down a thick, yellow carpet. This was autumn’s most distinct marker on Lin Song’s route to school.
By the third grade, Lin Song could go to Hangkong Road by himself. He would take the No. 42 bus from the stop in front of the Jianghan Palace on Jingwu Road. It cost five cents and was just two stops away.
At the Hangkong Road intersection stood the Hankou Hotel, and opposite it, the Wuhan Hotel. Later, the Changjiang Hotel was squeezed in between them. Lin Song’s uncle lived behind the four-story building with the blue-tiled roof, on the second floor of the second row of apartments. It was a dormitory assigned by his uncle’s work unit, a single open room for a family of four.
The Dell laptop Lin Song used for writing was nearly eight years old. Its once-replaced battery was now showing significant decay, the power cord’s outer sheath was cracked and aged, and the keyboard had been replaced six months ago due to malfunctioning keys. Lin Song had bought extra RAM on Taobao and had a repair shop expand the hard drive.
For the most part, it still worked fine. Recently, however, the USB port seemed to have loosened, preventing it from properly connecting to the printer.
Did this computer, which he had tinkered with so many times, need yet another repair? He often mulled it over: either get a new one, or stop using a laptop altogether.
While scrolling through videos online, he saw someone call Fou Ts’ong a piano master. Lin Song thought to himself, if a person studies with an excellent teacher, year after year, day after day, practicing the same thing with undivided attention, they would most likely become a master, wouldn’t they?
But then, a second thought occurred to him. His father had driven a truck his entire life, yet he remained merely a skilled truck driver, never hailed by his peers as a “master of trucking.” Since ancient times, those who drive horses or vehicles have done so for a living. No matter how skilled, a truck driver simply exchanges labor for a salary to support his family. That is all.
If you wake up with an aching back, it’s probably not a muscle strain, but a “chill.” The same word used in the phrase “corrupting public morals.” Which is to say, if a person does something that “corrupts public morals,” their back will ache.
When your nose is running uncontrollably and your stomach is churning in absolute misery, that’s when you’re about to get better. Experience had taught him that.
He went to three pharmacies looking for Lamisil. The saleswoman at one told him, “This stuff works great. Our cat used it for a few days, and its ringworm cleared right up.”
In the rest area on the second floor of the mall, a row of six electric massage chairs was fully occupied. The standard uniform for each idle person was a smartphone or a tablet, reclining and scrolling in blissful leisure.
The piano was still being played without a break; there was always a child sitting on the bench, toying with it. Lin Song had no choice but to sit behind a pillar and scroll through his phone. He thought to himself, if he managed to claim the piano next time, he would have to play without stopping, leaving no chance for mischievous kids.
At the Yangguofu Malatang stall, a waitress from another shop sat at a dining table watching videos on a large tablet. Near her was a young man hunched over a laptop, building an Excel sheet. He finished a title, hit save, and stretched luxuriously.
Past noon, tired people who skipped lunch—men, women, aunties—leaned back in chairs scattered throughout the mall, each engrossed in their phone.
The coffee machine at the Bestore had been removed. There would be no more 9-yuan-for-two iced Americanos.
When it comes to life, don’t bargain with the trends. The bowl of rice in your hands is all yours.
Everyone’s understanding of the world is different. Lin Song felt that in many communities lacking deep communication, some people would erect statues of idols despised by others as their own role models. It was a dull form of social interaction.
After dinner, on this weekend night, he realized it had been a long time since he’d seen a movie. Nick Cheung’s new film, Redemption, was apparently too much of a “Hong Kong movie.” The ticketing app showed that all its screenings were relegated to the last slot in Theater 7, after 11 PM, as if it were a horror film that couldn’t be seen in the light of day.
To avoid the hassle, watching a movie online was an option. But, to his own surprise, How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World, a film that had once captivated him, now made him feel tired after just eleven minutes. He quit the browser and closed the laptop screen.