The Thing in the Wall

The Thing in the Wall

The day Old Zhang got the demolition notice, he was watering plants on his son's balcony. Someone from the neighborhood committee called. The old house was coming down at the end of the month, they said. He should clear out his things.

"Nothing to clear out," Old Zhang said. "It's been empty for three years."

He hung up and stood on the balcony a long time, water still streaming from the can, the succulents in their pots nearly drowning.

There was one thing he'd been putting off. Forty years ago, he had sealed a tin box into the bedroom wall.

---

The old house was at the far end of the deepest alley in the urban village. The banyan tree at the entrance was still there, thicker now, two sizes up. Every wall was painted with the character for "demolish" in red lacquer—some faded, some fresh, layered like strange tree rings.

The lock had been changed. When he moved out three years ago, the community had replaced all of them uniformly. The key had never moved from his keychain. It took two tries to get it open.

The smell inside was better than he expected. Maybe Old Liu next door had been coming by to open the windows—Old Liu had moved away last year too, but he'd left a spare key. There was mildew, of course, mixed with old wood and dust. Old Zhang inhaled deeply. He'd smelled this for forty years and only now realized what it was.

The bedroom wall was on the left. The partition he'd built with his own hands—you could spot it right away now. The lower half had darker mortar lines, a later addition.

He brought a hammer and chisel, set them at his feet, but didn't start right away. He sat on the edge of where the bed used to be—the frame was long gone, just an outline pressed into the concrete floor—and looked at the wall.

He remembered the day he sealed it.

It was raining. He'd come back from the factory still in his work clothes. He shoved the tin box into the cavity, then mixed cement, laid bricks, smoothed plaster. Worked through the night. Went to work the next morning as usual. At the time, he thought: once the wall is sealed, it's over.

Forty years.

---

The third brick came loose, and he saw the box.

Heavily rusted. A biscuit tin, the peony pattern on top barely visible. It was wedged tight between the bricks. He had to pull hard to free it. Rust flaked off, staining his hands.

He didn't open it yet. He carried it back to where the bed used to be, set it on his knees, wiped the lid with his sleeve.

The lid was rusted shut. He pried it with the tip of the chisel. It gave.

A smell of rust and old paper.

Inside: a letter and a ring.

The letter was in a kraft envelope, no stamp, no address. The flap had been sealed with paste, long since dried. Nothing written on the front. The ring was wrapped in red cloth, faded now to a pale pink.

He picked up the ring first. Silver, a thin band. On the inside, two characters were engraved: A-Zhen.

He remembered buying it. He'd stood at the jewelry counter in the department store for nearly an hour. The clerk asked which one he wanted. He asked if they had anything under fifty yuan. The clerk showed him a few, and he picked this one—a little pattern work, but nothing flashy. He thought A-Zhen would like it.

He held the ring in his palm, weighed it. Lighter than he remembered.

Then he opened the letter.

The paper was yellow and brittle, the folds about to split. He had to be very careful. It was written in blue ballpoint, the strokes heavy, nearly cutting through in places.

A-Zhen,

I've written this letter several times. Tore up the earlier ones. Don't know if I can get through this one either.

There's something I want to tell you. Can't say it in person. Can't write it either, it seems. Forget it. I'll just say it.

I want to marry you.

I know your family is well-off. Your father works at the supply-and-marketing co-op. I'm just a factory worker, thirty-eight yuan fifty a month. But I'll work hard. I'm already saving. I don't smoke or drink. Apart from food, I don't spend on anything. In two more years, I should have enough to rent a decent place.

You once said you like lychees. In the summers, I'll buy them for you every day.

I know this letter isn't well written. Don't laugh at me.

Zhang Jianguo April 12, 1976

Old Zhang finished reading. The corner of his mouth moved. Not a smile. Not a cry. Just moved.

The letter was never delivered. The day he wrote it, he went to find A-Zhen, letter in hand. He reached her front gate and saw a jeep parked outside. The door was open. Laughter spilled out. He heard someone say: Director Li's son from Supply, back from the army, the family had arranged a job for him.

He stood at the end of the lane for a long time. Then he went home. The letter went into the tin box. The ring went into the tin box. The next day, he sealed the box into the wall.

He never looked for another woman after that.

Not out of some deliberate waiting. He just couldn't find the point. People introduced him to women. He went, sat down, had nothing to say. Eventually he stopped going. Later, when he was older, people stopped bringing it up.

Forty years. Gone like that.

---

The sound of an excavator came through the window. Not far. Probably taking down the house at the mouth of the alley.

Old Zhang folded the letter back along its original creases, carefully, slid it into the envelope. The envelope went back into the tin box, the ring too.

He closed the lid.

He stood up, brushed the rust and plaster dust from his pants, picked up the hammer and chisel, and walked out of the bedroom, out of the old house.

At the door, he stopped. Turned around. Looked at the red character for "demolish."

Then he left.

Behind him, the wall that had stood for forty years was finally coming down. But the things in the box—Old Zhang took them with him.

Some things were never meant to be sealed in a wall. And some things, you don't dig out until the wall is about to fall.

But now, the wall hadn't fallen yet, and he had already brought them out.

This was the second brave thing Old Zhang had done in his life.

The first was forty-three years ago, when he stopped A-Zhen outside the factory gate and said: My name is Zhang Jianguo. I'd like to get to know you.