That night, as I was buried in the pile of manuscripts, Gao Bo dropped by. He looked around at the mountain of calculations and shook his head. “I say, are you really thinking of living your whole life like he did?”
I chuckled, and said, “Professor Gao…”
He waved me off. “I’m no longer your professor. With luck, we’ll end up colleagues.”
“So it’s even better that I say this. Honestly, Professor Gao, I’ve never seen you so brilliant. That’s not a compliment. Forgive me for being blunt, but I feel that you lack perseverance. Like how recently, in that structural lightning protection system CAD—a wonderful project—you spent just a minimum of effort to complete it, and after completing the pioneering work, you foisted the rest of the work onto others because you felt it was too much trouble.”
“Ah, perseverance. Spending a lifetime on one thing isn’t how things are done any longer. In this age, apart from basic science, all other research should be surgical strikes. I’ve come to further demonstrate to you my lack of perseverance: Do you still remember what I said? If your dissertation was rejected, then I’d resign.”
“But I passed.”
“And I’m still resigning. You see now that the promise was a trap!”
“Where will you go?”
“The Lightning Institute at the Academy of Atmospheric Sciences has recruited me as director. I’m tired of universities! What about you? Do you have plans for the future? Come with me!”
I said I’d think about it, and two days later I agreed. I had no particular desire to go there, but it was the country’s largest institution of lightning research.
Two nights before leaving the university, I was still reading those calculation manuscripts when I heard a knock at the door. Zhang Bin.
“You’re leaving?” He looked over my packed bags.
“Yes. The day after tomorrow. I heard you retired.”
He nodded. “It came through yesterday. I’ve reached an age where all I want to do is rest. I’ve had such a tiring life.”
He sat down. I lit him a cigarette, and we stayed quiet a while before he said, “I’ve come to tell you another thing, something I’m afraid only you will understand. Do you know what the most painful thing in my life is?”
“I know, Professor. Extricating yourself from this fixation is no easy thing. It’s been thirty years, after all. But this hasn’t been the only thing you’ve done in that time. Besides, there are probably more than a few people over the past century who have studied ball lightning their entire lives, and none of them have been as fortunate as you.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You misunderstand. I’ve been through far more than you have, and have a deeper understanding of science and human life. I regret nothing about these three decades of research, much less feel any pain about it. And, like you say, I’ve exhausted my efforts. It’s not a block for me.”
So what was it, then? I thought about the many years since his wife died.
As if he could read my thoughts, he said, “Zheng Min’s death was a blow, but I think you’ll understand that for people like us whose mind and body are occupied so completely that the obsession becomes a part of you, anything else in life will always come second.”
“Then what could it be?” I asked in confusion.
Again, he shook his head with a smile. “It’s difficult to admit.” He went on smoking. My thoughts were jumbled. Was he ashamed of something? Then, due to the common pursuit that made our minds think alike, I realized what it was. “I believe you once said that you’ve spent these thirty years on an unending search for ball lightning in the field.”
He let out a long stream of smoke, and said, “That’s right. After Zheng Min died, my health declined and my legs got worse, and I didn’t get out as much. But I never interrupted my search, and, at least in the surrounding area, I’ve practically never let any thunderstorm slip by.”
“Then…” I paused, realizing in that instant all of his pain.
“Yes, you’ve guessed it. In thirty years, I’ve never seen ball lightning a second time.”
Unlike other mysteries of nature, ball lightning was not particularly rare. Surveys showed that at least one percent of people claimed to have seen it. But its appearance was accidental and random, following no rules, and it was entirely possible to spend thirty years in an arduous search during thunderstorms and never come across it, with only the cruelty of fate to blame.
He continued, “Long ago I read a Russian story that described a wealthy lord of a manor whose sole joy in life was drinking wine. Once, from a mysterious stranger, he bought a bottle, hauled up from an ancient shipwreck, that still contained a few drops of wine. Once he’d drunk that wine he was intoxicated with it, body and soul. The stranger told him that two bottles had been found in the wreck, but the whereabouts of the second bottle was unknown. At first the lord put no thought to this, but later the memory of that wine kept him up day and night, until at last he sold off the manor and all of his property and went off in search of the second bottle. Through untold hardships he wandered the earth, and grew old. Finally he found it, when he was now an old beggar on his deathbed. He drank the bottle, and then passed away happy.”
“He was fortunate,” I said.
“Zheng Min was fortunate, too, in a sense.”
I nodded, and fell deep into thought.
After a while, he said, “So about that pain—can you still maintain your detached attitude?”
I stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the campus in the darkness. “No, Professor. I can’t be detached. What you feel is not just pain, but a kind of fear! If you’re trying to show me how evil this road of ours can be, this time you’ve done it.”
Yes, he had done it. I could bear a lifetime of exhausted fruitlessness; I could bear abandoning everything in my life, living out my days alone; I could even sacrifice my life if necessary; but I could not stand it if I never had another glimpse of it. My first encounter determined the path for my entire life, and I could not stand not seeing it again. Other people might not understand, but could a sailor stand never seeing the sea again? Or a mountaineer never seeing a snowcap? Or a pilot never seeing the sky?
“Perhaps you can show it to us again.”
Staring blankly out the window, I said, “I don’t know, Professor Zhang.”
“But this is my final wish in life,” Zhang Bin said, standing up. “I have to go. Have you scanned that photograph?”
I recovered myself. “Oh, yes. I ought to have returned it to you before, but I broke the frame while taking it out and wanted to buy a new one, and I haven’t had time in the past few days.”
“That’s not necessary. The old one’s okay.” He took the photo. “The place feels like it’s missing something.”
I returned to the window and watched my advisor’s figure vanish into the darkness, his leg more hobbled than usual, his footsteps more labored.
Strange Phenomena II
When Zhang Bin left, I turned off the lights to go to bed, but couldn’t fall asleep, so when it happened, I’m certain I remained absolutely clearheaded.
I heard a soft sigh.
I couldn’t tell which direction it had come from; it seemed almost to fill the entire dark space of the dorm room. Alert, I lifed my head from the pillow.