Old Zhong's Watch
Old Zhong has mended watches at the lane mouth for thirty years — dead movements, cloudy glass, broken straps, made to tick again. Few wear mechanical watches now, yet the old still come, and so do grandsons sent by grandfathers. A dented watch from a late husband comes back to life under his hand, and an old woman hears her lost one in its tick. Old Zhong says the watch lives, so the person lives. A quiet tale of a vanishing craft, and the time kept by the hand.
Old Zhong had mended watches at the lane mouth for thirty years.
His counter was the smallest: a pane of glass, and beneath it a magnifier, tweezers, gears of every size, a few coils of spring. Most who came were old — a watch that would not tick, a glass gone cloudy, a strap broken. Old Zhong took it, opened the back, blew, nudged, closed it, and said try. The old man leaned in, heard the tick, and smiled.
Few wear mechanical watches now. When a young one comes it is mostly for a grandfather — his old Shanghai stopped. Old Zhong says a watch is a machine, but also a keepsake; inside it hides the years.
Old Zhong loved watches himself. On the counter sat an old pocket watch his master had passed him, its brass shell worn bright. A watch is like a person, he said; it needs someone to mind it, or it will not go.
Once an old woman brought a worn watch, its case dented; it was her late husband's, laid by ten years, found yesterday, not running. Old Zhong took it, opened with care; the oil had dried to lumps, the gears rusted stuck. He cleaned, oiled, set a new hairspring, aligned the beat; the hands trembled and walked. The woman held it to her ear, tears came, and said she heard him. Old Zhong said, the watch lives, so the person lives.
Children came too, saying father's watch broke. Old Zhong charged nothing, fixed it, and said wear it well; a true watch keeps a true heart.
His son in the capital urged him to close the counter; the craft is fading, he said. Old Zhong said, fading, but they still come. He kept an old Shanghai for himself, wound it daily, and it kept perfect time.
One autumn the cultural center held the old-crafts fair; Old Zhong went, set a table, mended on site. Among the watchers a young man brought a cheap digital watch. Don't laugh, uncle, he said, it's my grandpa's, this one only. Old Zhong worked a while, changed the battery, set the time; the young man put it on, raised his wrist like treasure found. A good watch isn't dear, Old Zhong said, it's had someone to wear it.
Days went on. Old Zhong's counter stood wiped in sun, draped in cloth in rain. Once half a month passed with no customer; he did not fret, wiped a watch, watched the lane. The craft will end, he said, but as long as someone treasures a watch, there will be watches to mend.
Year's end he wrote a line for the counter: the gears spent, a life's affairs; the hand still points, an old friend's face. Some said it was too literary; Old Zhong said, what I mend is time.
At night, closing, Old Zhong tucked the old pocket watch in his breast. Wind crossed the lane mouth; far off the office towers still burned with light, and countless screens flickered. He thought, those leaping digits will, one day, need someone with hands to count them again, notch by notch.