Afterwards, the glories and misfortunes of Rong Jinzhen’s life slowly came out, and at the same time the manner in which he was cared for changed. He was now treated as someone to be treasured; no one dared to slight him — they all handled him with the utmost care and respect. My father said that he was sure that if it were not for the nature of the work that he had done, he would have already become a household name, a hero. His miraculous achievements would be eulogized for generation after generation.
I replied, ‘But why should someone’s former profession dictate how he is to be treated at hospital? He should receive that kind of treatment anyway, shouldn’t he?’
‘There is that,’ my father said. ‘But as his outstanding service to the nation was slowly but surely revealed, everyone began to show him greater respect. They all began to dedicate a place in their hearts for him: the man they first saw had disappeared; he was now something so much more.’
In spite of this — in spite of everyone doing as much as possible to look after him — I felt that his life was intolerably difficult, and intolerably sad. At times I would see him through the window, squatting down on a sofa, his face completely blank, his eyes without a glimmer of light — completely unmoving, like a statue. Except for his hands: they never stopped trembling, as if they were being worked upon by some unknown force. In the evenings, through the pale white tranquil walls of the home, I would often hear his old man’s wheeze. It felt as though something or someone was pounding on him unremittingly. Then there were the nights when the stillness of people sleeping would occasionally be interrupted by what sounded like a Chinese oboe weeping ever so mournfully, the sound drifting through the walls. My father told me that Jinzhen made that heartwrenching wailing noise when he dreamed.
One evening in the canteen, I unexpectedly bumped into Rong Jinzhen. He sat in the seat facing me, his back bent, his head low, completely unmoving, just like a. . what was it. . a heap of clothes, a rag doll? He looked rather pitiful; the expression on his face showed the unrelenting and unmerciful passage of time. Silently I stole a look at his face and thought of what my father had said, thought of this man, once young, who had shown so much promise; a special operative of Unit 701 who had distinguished himself with meritorious service, had made exception contributions to the Unit. But now he looked so old, so mentally infirm. The passing of time had been without compassion, it had beaten him down, had turned him into a shell of a man — all that remained were his bones. Just like water wearing down a stone, or a particular phrase becoming crystallized and refined with the passage of time. As dusk fell, he looked so incredibly ancient: a truly ghastly sight, like a centenarian who might take his leave of this world at any time.
At first, with his head bent, he didn’t realize I was watching him, but after eating, as he stood up to leave, our eyes met. At that moment, a spark of something suddenly appeared in his eyes, as if life had just been returned to them. Turning towards me, he moved closer, with a kind of robotic movement; a shadow of pain clung about his face, like a beggar stumbling towards his chosen mark. Standing in front of me, he stared at me with two goldfish-like eyes, stretching out both his hands, as if begging for something. With great difficulty his trembling mouth sputtered out the following words: ‘Notebook, notebook, notebook. . ’
I was scared out of my wits, at a complete loss. Fortunately the duty nurse had noticed what was happening and quickly rushed over to extricate me. Immediately she started consoling him — then, putting her arm around him, she guided him step by step out of the room and into the darkness of the corridor. He continued to look back and forth between her and me.
Afterwards, my father told me that it didn’t matter who it was, but if your eyes met his, he would move towards you and ask after his long-lost notebook as though somewhere behind your eyes he had caught a glimpse of it.
‘He is still searching for it then?’ I asked.
‘Yes, still searching,’ my father replied.
‘Didn’t you say that they had found it?’
‘Yes, it was found,’ my father said. ‘but how could he know that?’
I couldn’t help but gasp in astonishment.
I thought that as a mentally crippled man, a man completely undone, it is perhaps no wonder that he had already lost his memory.
But there was something strange about this: the memory of his lost notebook seemed to be etched in his mind, carved in stone; he seemed to be almost brooding over it. He didn’t know that it had been found, he wasn’t aware of how time had cruelly passed him by. Nothing remained — nothing except for this one last recollection, this notebook. As the seasons passed, he staunchly held on, continuing to search for his notebook — for more than twenty years now. And the search continues. Even today.
What about tomorrow?
Might something unexpected happen?
Sadly, I think: maybe. . maybe. .
The third reason I wrote this final section has to do with the demands of my readers. There are those who are keen to believe in dark forces and evil plots. They believe in secret, clandestine meetings behind the scenes. They believe in all the conspiracies. These people, of course, hope that I will pick up my pen and write something in this fashion. The problem is that there are also many people, the majority, who are extremely practical — they like to get to the bottom of things, they want to understand everything thoroughly; they cannot help but keep turning things over and over in their minds. So they ask, what happened after BLACK? Indeed, this type of person seems to hold a grudge if they remain unsatisfied. They need to know. It was for this group that I decided to write this final section.
So, in the summer of the following year, I once again found myself paying a visit to Unit 701.
2
Just as time ate away at the colour of the gate to Unit 701’s compound, it also eroded some of the mystery surrounding the entire place, and eroded some of its imposing and yet serene nature. I used to find that being granted permission to pass through those gates was a painfully tedious and complicated affair. But this time the sentinel on duty simply inspected my credentials (my national ID card and reporter’s pass), instructed me to register my name in rather a nondescript logbook, and that was it. It was so easy that I couldn’t help but think that something was amiss, as if the guard was neglecting his duty or something. But once I made it deeper into the compound, these misgivings soon disappeared. Before me, in the large courtyard, peddlers hawked their goods, temporary workers idled about; everyone looked rather carefree and unconcerned, as though they were in some uninhabited sector. It was a veritable picture of bucolic simplicity.
I am not especially fond of the traditional image of Unit 701, but nor do I like seeing what it has become: it made me feel as though I were stepping on something insubstantial, like air. However, after asking about, I discovered that there was yet another inner courtyard within Unit 701’s complexes and I had simply stepped into the newly constructed residential area. This courtyard within a courtyard was like a cave inside a larger cave. Not only was it not easy to find, but if you did, you would not even notice that you had entered it. The sentinels on guard in this sector were like spectres. They would appear in front of you suddenly and without warning, striking a rather threatening and chilling pose, like an imposing ice sculpture towering up before you. They would forbid you to draw any closer. They seemed, in fact, almost afraid that you would come closer, as though the very warmth from your body would melt them; as if they really were made of ice and snow.