Colorful years

On the eve of May Day in 2006, all was quiet. Zhang Chao sat alone at his desk, surrounded by stillness. The old-fashioned desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish glow, as if time itself had frozen in that moment.

The Nokia phone lay quietly on the corner of the table, its screen completely black, without any message notifications. A few occasional barks from outside the window broke the silence of the night, only emphasizing the emptiness and desolation of the 90-square-meter old house.

Zhang Chao had long been accustomed to this solitary life. Since his divorce from his wife Wang Li a year ago, leaving with nothing, this subsidized apartment had become his refuge from social interaction. Here, he could escape the hustle and bustle of the outside world and immerse himself in his own private world.

However, tonight was different. A surge of longing welled up within him, leaving him restless. Usually at this time, Xiao Hong would call promptly. They would talk about many things—sometimes her students' essays, sometimes a particular author's style, sometimes simply listening to each other's breathing as they prepared lessons and reviewed documents together.

Those warm memories kept flashing through Zhang Chao's mind. He couldn't help but think of Xiao Hong's gentle voice and the wonderful times they had spent together.

But now, all of that is in the past, leaving him alone in this empty room, feeling endless loneliness and solitude.

Zhang Chao's fingers unconsciously traced the frosted cover of the book, "Beautiful Prose Like Songs." This set of books was compiled under his leadership when he was the deputy director of the Cultural Bureau, and Xiao Hong, as the head of the Chinese language teaching and research group, had offered many suggestions. Now, turning to the title page, one can still see her delicate annotations: "The analysis of 'Moonlight over the Lotus Pond' on page 43 can be supplemented with an analysis of synesthesia."

With a "ding," the mobile phone vibrated in the drawer. Zhang Chao practically lunged to grab it, but the screen only flashed the words "Welcome to China Mobile." He shook his head with a wry smile; a man in his forties, yet still acting like a young boy waiting for a girl's reply.

The wall clock pointed to three in the morning. Zhang Chao simply brewed a strong cup of tea and, by the light of the desk lamp, reread the translator's preface to *Treasure Island*. In the text, when Stevenson was writing while ill, his pen suddenly paused on the word "tuberculosis"—wasn't Xiao Hong's husband also killed by lung cancer? That year, she had just been named a municipal-level outstanding teacher, but had to take six months off to care for her sick husband.

The tea went cold and was refilled, only to go cold again. When he read about Stevenson's journey across the ocean for love, Zhang Chao slammed the book shut. The old computer hummed, and his trembling fingers typed on the keyboard: "Xiao Hong: Tonight, I reread Stevenson's biography. This lung disease patient, whom doctors predicted wouldn't live past thirty, actually crossed the Atlantic for his lover..."

He wrote halfway through, then deleted it all. In the end, he only sent a short message: "Labor creates the world. Happy May Day." These days, text messages cost a dime each, and he didn't want to seem too verbose.

As dawn broke, Zhang Chao realized with a start that he had fallen asleep on the sofa in his shirt. Suddenly, the classic Nokia ringtone sounded, and the caller ID read "Teacher Xiao from No. 1 Middle School."

"Have you...read the latest issue of the Literary Gazette?" Xiao Hong's voice was a little hoarse, and the sound of the school's morning exercises broadcast could be heard in the background.

Zhang Chao gripped the phone cord tightly: "Not yet, what good articles are there?"

“There’s a review saying that ‘Beautiful Prose Like Songs’ is too conservative in its selection of material…” She suddenly fell silent halfway through her sentence, leaving only a faint static sound. Zhang Chao knew that this was a phone call she made from the teaching and research office during a break from lesson preparation.

“I bought a ticket to Cigu Town,” he blurted out. “I heard the sulfur springs there are good for pharyngitis.” The image of Xiao Hong teaching a graduating class last winter, her voice hoarse and unable to speak, flashed before my eyes.

The sound of pages turning came from the other end of the phone. "I have to lead my students in rehearsing a poetry recitation for Youth Day tomorrow." Her refusal was tactful, but Zhang Chao heard the crisp sound of a pen falling—it was the Hero 329 he had given her, and the cap always slipped off when it was loose.

After hanging up the phone, Zhang Chao stared blankly at the sycamore tree outside the window. Ten years ago, he had read his poem to Xiao Hong under this tree; back then, she was a student teacher with a ponytail. Now, the tree's shade could cover half the balcony, but their relationship had regressed to that of "ordinary colleagues."

The hot spring pools in Cigu Town had a pale blue hue, but Zhang Chao felt a chill run through him. His younger companions were laughing and taking pictures with their Motorola phones, while he only sent Xiao Hong a message from the changing room: "Spring water temperature 42°C," as if reporting something to her.

On the bus back, the ringtone for "The First Snow of 2002" played seven or eight times for the passenger in front. Zhang Chao closed his eyes and pretended to doze off, pondering whether he should go to No. 1 Middle School tomorrow to deliver that box of dried sea buckthorn fruit—until his phone vibrated and interrupted his thoughts.

“You just got a message from an unknown number.” Xiao Hong’s text message, with her distinctive punctuation, said, “It said it was a reunion with old classmates, but I told you you were away on a business trip.” It was clearly adapted from a joke, but Zhang Chao’s lips still curled up. He could almost picture Xiao Hong in the teachers’ dormitory, awkwardly forwarding funny text messages while grading papers.

As night deepened and all was quiet, the screen of the mobile phone suddenly lit up, breaking the tranquility. Xiao Hong sent a message: "After grading sixty essays, I found that three students copied model essays from 'Beautiful Essays Like Songs'."

Upon seeing the message, Zhang Chao called back without hesitation. The moment the call connected, the two of them burst out laughing simultaneously, as if they were on the same wavelength.

"Didn't you often use the trick of switching things out back then too!" Xiao Hong's voice carried a long-lost lightness, as if she had returned to the time when they worked together. "Do you remember that teachers' essay competition?"

Zhang Chao certainly remembers how, back then, they were young and full of enthusiasm for education and admiration for each other. However, time has passed, and they are no longer the same people they once were.

They tacitly avoided discussing their personal lives, talking about teaching and work like two long-lost colleagues reunited. Xiao Hong shared some amusing anecdotes from grading essays, while Zhang Chao recounted his work experience at the Bureau of Culture.

However, before hanging up the phone, when Xiao Hong softly said "Get some rest," Zhang Chao clearly heard the plastic tinkling of the Jin Sang Zi throat lozenges in her drawer. He had asked someone to bring them to her last week, hoping to alleviate her discomfort from overuse of her voice.

While washing up, Zhang Chao stood in front of the mirror, gazing at his reflection. He saw the gray hairs at his temples, the wrinkles around his eyes, and the white towel issued by the Cultural Bureau. Time flies; almost half of 2006 had passed. How much longer could he, the deputy director, and that research group leader, continue to deceive themselves like this?