荣获最佳中短篇奇幻小说雨果奖《北京折叠》—— 

 当占人口大多数人的体力工作被智能机器逐步取代以后

郝景芳，1984年7月27日生于天津，小说作者，散文作者。2006年，毕业于清华大学物理系，2006-2008年就读于清华大学天体物理中心，现为清华大学经管学院在读博士生。

      郝景芳和译者刘宇昆（1976-）在2016年雨果奖颁奖现场

2016年8月21日上午9时，有科幻界诺奖之称的2016年第74届雨果奖颁奖典礼在

美国堪萨斯城举行，80后女作家郝景芳凭借《北京折叠》力压 Stephen King 

斯蒂芬·金的《讣告》摘得最佳中短篇小说奖。对此有业内人士表示，国内科

幻文学的水平被普遍认为已经达到了“国际水准”。

2015年最佳科幻长篇小说《三体》雨果奖获得者刘慈欣也对郝景芳的作品表示

欣赏，他说，现在中国的科幻受到世界读者的关注，“这跟整个国家的发展有

关系。科幻是一个国家整个实力的晴雨表。世界上哪个国家成了一个强国，科

幻的重心都会转移到那个国家去。整个中国文化在世界上的整体存在感都提升

很多，中国的科幻受到世界的关注，也是很自然的。而且，

美国科幻文学发展到现在，因为读者老化等原因，渐渐失去活力

的迹象，至少不再是科幻的黄金时代，

美国科幻界开始更多的关注中国、巴基斯坦等其他国家的科幻。”

相对于刘慈欣的宏大叙事，郝景芳自认其作品更关注个体、人心。在《北京折叠》中，北京被分为三个空间，土地每24小时翻转一次，不同空间的人在这片土地上轮流生活。

北京大地的一面是第一空间，五百万人口，生存时间是从清晨六点到第二天清晨六点。空间休眠，大地翻转。翻转后的另一面是第二空间和第三空间。第二空间生活着两千五百万人口，从次日清晨六点到夜晚十点，第三空间生活着五千万人，从十点到清晨六点，然后回到第一空间。时间经过了精心规划和最优分配，小心翼翼隔离，五百万人享用二十四小时，七千五百万人享用另外二十四小时。”在第三空间，垃圾工老刀一顿早饭要花一百块，老刀一个月工资一万块，而他希望能让自己捡来的孩子糖糖，上一月一万五学费的幼儿园，为了这个花费，他宁愿冒险去其他空间送信。

对于《北京折叠》的创作灵感，郝景芳曾透露，有一次，她工作忙得没有时间吃饭、喝水。看着窗外，天已经黑了下来，郝景芳突然有一种因为荒诞感而引起的伤感：无论我怎么书写这个世界的荒诞，我还是在这个世界中貌似严肃地活着，并为此忙碌。郝景芳说：“我写作最主要的动力来自于自己的一些旁观目睹，那些画面和感慨存在心里太满，我需要一个载体将它们保存起来。”曾经，郝景芳租住在北京北五环外的城乡结合部。楼下就是嘈杂的小巷子、小苍蝇馆子和大市场。郝景芳想：“有一些人是可以藏起来的，藏在看不见的空间。有了这个暗黑的想法，当然可以把某些人群永远藏在地下。”

人们印象中，通常典型的反乌托邦故事架构中，上层阶级为了维持更优越的生活需要剥削下层阶级，这种二元结构中上层阶级在道德上负有原罪，成为社会矛盾和故事矛盾的主要推力。

但郝景芳提问：如果下层阶级连被剥削的资格都已经失去呢？随着生产力的

极大发展，第一空间和第二空间的居民不再需要第三空间的劳动力，因为

使用智能机器人更便宜、更有效率，甚至连处理垃圾这样的杂务也早已被机

器人代劳，只不过出于社会稳定的需要而保留了这就业岗位。反而是第

一、第二空间的科技所创造的价值在维持整个社会，第三空间的人只是平白消耗资源。

李淼老师在今年银河奖颁奖典礼的演讲上提出，

未来人工智能机器人社会里，也许90%的人不再

需要工作，成为“宠物人”。

那么在这个可以折叠的北京中，第三世界的人们如果连处理垃圾的工作也没有了，清醒的时间进一步被缩短，仅仅是出于人道主义而被允许以最低质量的方式活着以节省资源，这不就是某种形态的“宠物废人”了吗？更悲哀的是，在这个世界中，可能这才是更高效的社会组织形式。

在马克思的理论中，人的存在价值就是其贡献的劳动价值。如果在机器在与人的竞争中步步前进，而大多数人还来不及将自己的劳动升级，那么人存在的价值本身就将受到冲击，这也就是《北京折叠》中人类面对的本质困境。在这样的社会结构中所有人类都不得不有所牺牲，即使是第一空间的人其实也折叠了自己的部分时间。最终夺走了人们时间的不是其它人类，而是城市这台永不停歇自行进化的巨大机器，人类只是来不及跟上而已。昼夜交替时老刀所见空间折叠的恢宏景象，正是这具无形机器的具现。

郝景芳的故事并没有明确的时间设定，但从一些细节中推断，也许就是在一、二百年之后。如果未来的人们写出一本《22世纪资本论》，他们所面对的世界将会是怎样？

希望不是一个机器人居住在第一空间的社会。

凤凰文化：《北京折叠》里呈现了一个中产阶级的空间，其实是这个在科幻小说里很少被提到。

郝景芳：阶级斗争也经常是分上等人跟下等人，但是其实无论是在历史还是在现实中，绝大部分人，既不把自己当成上等人，也不把自己当成下等人。人真的是只有到无法生存的时候，才会揭竿而起。在通常情况下，绝大部分人都是先寻找或者是改善自己的生存空间，这是一般人的正常逻辑。

因为在真正的历史大事件的描绘里面，这样的普通人往往是被忽略不计的，我们都写会陈胜吴广，都会写项羽，项羽明明就是一个贵族，陈胜吴广不揭竿而起就要被杀头了，所以我们就认为历史就是这样的两部分主体，但其实历史的主体是普通人。因为普通人是非常复杂的，他集善恶于一身，他有很多自私的地方，但是他又有很多的恻隐之心，所以我会想要写作为混杂体的普通人，是如何在这样的大背景中起到作用的。所以，哪怕接下来写《北京折叠》的续集，写成长篇，我也会花蛮多笔墨写中间层，而不是说最终靠大家暴力革命把这个城市推翻了，那个东西就有点过于简化了。

凤凰文化：我看《北京折叠》有一种很矛盾的感觉，它有一种温情主义在里面，其实第二空间、第三空间的人对老刀都是很友好的，没有特别残忍的事，但是这种温情的同时又是很残忍的，你连时间都不平等，连你的物理都被分割开，随着智能化的发展可能底层劳动力连被利用和压迫的价值都没有了。

郝景芳：我一直都还蛮想写这种残酷设定下的人的温情，因为我觉得人对自己和周围人的温情是一个本能，倒也不一定说人是多么高尚，他只要是一个真实的，具有人性的人，就会是这样的。

《北京折叠》的这个制度看上去是很不平等的，那比如说我们现在的留守儿童现象，在这个制度下，有两亿多人这么大规模地在城市里面打工，其中一大半必须长期跟自己的孩子相分隔，把孩子放在原来的环境里，自己在这边做着低廉的工作。如果从一个宏观上帝视角看，你会觉得这个制度简直是非常的不公平，他怎么能够剥夺这一个人最基本的、家庭和睦的权利呢？但是在这样的一个背景下，大家也并没有因此而奋起抵抗，而且你在这种其实是很残酷的过程中，还是可以发现其中每一个人，都是在朝着他自己心中温情的方向去努力。他在城市里打工，给小孩寄奶粉，实际上就是体现了这种制度的不平等，可是对于他来讲，这是他那个时候所能做的所有的事情。

记者：所以是那种“天地不仁”的视角，就冷眼旁观这种丰富的人性，它没有好或不好？

郝景芳：其实我会觉得社会制度是有好坏之分的，一个更好的社会制度，肯定是一个更加包容性，能够让更多的人享受到好的生活，然后能够增强人与人之间的理解、互助的。现实中的制度，包括我写的小说中的制度，确实是有很多不太好的地方。只不过我觉得，制度的可存在性和善恶这是两回事，任何一个制度框架它有很多都值得批评的地方，美国它现在的制度里的矛盾也很严重，但是一个哪怕是不完好的制度，也可能是可存在并且可运行很久的。

这个时候每个人作为一个单独的、很无力的个体，改变不了很多事情的时候，他需要在短暂的生命中去面对这种残酷性。我们想改变现实，但是经常是得在一个两三百年的尺度上，来大规模地做到这个事情。可是在现实中，一个人生命比较有意义的可能就是那三四十年，在这个过程中他可能改变不了什么，他需要在这个残酷的世界中求生存，人的生存逻辑和一个上帝视角的逻辑是不一样的。

               北 京 折 叠

（1）

清晨4:50，老刀穿过熙熙攘攘的步行街，去找彭蠡。

从垃圾站下班之后，老刀回家洗了个澡，换了衣服。白色衬衫和褐色裤子，这是他唯一一套体面衣服，衬衫袖口磨了边，他把袖子卷到胳膊肘。老刀四十八岁，没结婚，已经过了注意外表的年龄，又没人照顾起居，这一套衣服留着穿了很多年，每次穿一天，回家就脱了叠上。他在垃圾站上班，没必要穿得体面，偶尔参加谁家小孩的婚礼，才拿出来穿在身上。这一次他不想脏兮兮地见陌生人。他在垃圾站连续工作了五小时，很担心身上会有味道。

步行街上挤满了刚刚下班的人。拥挤的男人女人围着小摊子挑土特产，大声讨价还价。食客围着塑料桌子，埋头在酸辣粉的热气腾腾中，饿虎扑食一般，白色蒸汽遮住了脸。油炸的香味弥漫。货摊上的酸枣和核桃堆成山，腊肉在头顶摇摆。这个点是全天最热闹的时间，基本都收工了，忙碌了几个小时的人们都赶过来吃一顿饱饭，人声鼎沸。

老刀艰难地穿过人群。端盘子的伙计一边喊着让让一边推开挡道的人，开出一条路来，老刀跟在后面。

彭蠡家在小街深处。老刀上楼，彭蠡不在家。问邻居，邻居说他每天快到关门才回来，具体几点不清楚。

老刀有点担忧，看了看手表，清晨5点。

他回到楼门口等着。两旁狼吞虎咽的饥饿少年围绕着他。他认识其中两个，原来在彭蠡家见过一两次。少年每人面前摆着一盘炒面或炒粉，几个人分吃两个菜，盘子里一片狼藉，筷子扔在无望而锲而不舍地拨动，寻找辣椒丛中的肉星。老刀又下意识闻了闻小臂，不知道身上还有没有垃圾的腥味。周围的一切嘈杂而庸常，和每个清晨一样。

“哎，你们知道那儿一盘回锅肉多少钱吗？”那个叫小李的少年说。

“靠，菜里有沙子。”另外一个叫小丁的胖少年突然捂住嘴说，他的指甲里还带着黑泥， “坑人啊。得找老板退钱！”

“人家那儿一盘回锅肉，就三百四。”小李说，“三百四！一盘水煮牛肉四百二呢。”

“什么玩意？这么贵。”小丁捂着腮帮子咕哝道。

另外两个少年对谈话没兴趣，还在埋头吃面，小李低头看着他们，眼睛似乎穿过他们，看到了某个看不见的地方，目光里有热切。

老刀的肚子也感觉到饥饿。他迅速转开眼睛，可是来不及了，那种感觉迅速席卷了他，胃的空虚像是一个深渊，让他身体微微发颤。他有一个月不吃清晨这顿饭了。一顿饭差不多一百块，一个月三千块，攒上一年就够糖糖两个月的幼儿园开销了。

他向远处看，城市清理队的车辆已经缓缓开过来了。

他开始做准备，若彭蠡一时再不回来，他就要考虑自己行动了。虽然会带来不少困难，但时间不等人，总得走才行。身边卖大枣的女人高声叫卖，不时打断他的思绪，声音的洪亮刺得他头疼。步行街一端的小摊子开始收拾，人群像用棍子搅动的池塘里的鱼，倏一下散去。没人会在这时候和清理队较劲。小摊子收拾得比较慢，清理队的车耐心地移动。步行街通常只是步行街，但对清理队的车除外。谁若走得慢了，就被强行收拢起来。

这时彭蠡出现了。他剔着牙，敞着衬衫的扣子，不紧不慢地踱回来，不时打饱嗝。彭蠡六十多了，变得懒散不修边幅，两颊像沙皮狗一样耷拉着，让嘴角显得总是不满意地撇着。如果只看这幅模样，不知道他年轻时的样子，会以为他只是个胸无大志只知道吃喝的怂包。但从老刀很小的时候，他就听父亲讲过彭蠡的事。

老刀迎上前去。彭蠡看到他要打招呼，老刀却打断他：“我没时间和你解释。我需要去第一空间，你告诉我怎么走。”

彭蠡愣住了，已经有十年没人跟他提过第一空间的事，他的牙签捏在手里，不知不觉掰断了。他有片刻没回答，见老刀实在有点急了，才拽着他向楼里走。“回我家说，”彭蠡说，“要走也从那儿走。”

在他们身后，清理队已经缓缓开了过来，像秋风扫落叶一样将人们扫回家。“回家啦，回家啦。转换马上开始了。”车上有人吆喝着。

彭蠡带老刀上楼，进屋。他的单人小房子和一般公租屋无异，六平米房间，一个厕所，一个能做菜的角落，一张桌子一把椅子，胶囊床铺，胶囊下是抽拉式箱柜，可以放衣服物品。墙面上有水渍和鞋印，没做任何修饰，只是歪斜着贴了几个挂钩，挂着夹克和裤子。进屋后，彭蠡把墙上的衣服毛巾都取下来，塞到最靠边的抽屉里。转换的时候，什么都不能挂出来。老刀以前也住这样的单人公租房。一进屋，他就感到一股旧日的气息。

彭蠡直截了当地瞪着老刀：“你不告诉我为什么，我就不告诉你怎么走。”

已经5点半了，还有半个小时。

老刀简单讲了事情的始末。从他捡到纸条瓶子，到他偷偷躲入垃圾道，到他在第二空间接到的委托，再到他的行动。他没有时间描述太多，最好马上就走。

“你躲在垃圾道里？去第二空间？”彭蠡皱着眉，“那你得等24小时啊。”

“二十万块。”老刀说，“等一礼拜也值啊。”

“你就这么缺钱花？”

老刀沉默了一下。“糖糖还有一年多该去幼儿园了。”他说，“我来不及了。”

老刀去幼儿园咨询的时候，着实被吓到了。稍微好一点的幼儿园招生前两天，就有家长带着铺盖卷在幼儿园门口排队，两个家长轮着，一个吃喝拉撒，另一个坐在幼儿园门口等。就这么等上四十多个小时，还不一定能排进去。前面的名额早用钱买断了，只有最后剩下的寥寥几个名额分给苦熬排队的爹妈。这只是一般不错的幼儿园，更好一点的连排队都不行，从一开始就是钱买机会。老刀本来没什么奢望，可是自从糖糖一岁半之后，就特别喜欢音乐，每次在外面听见音乐，她就小脸放光，跟着扭动身子手舞足蹈。那个时候她特别好看。老刀对此毫无抵抗力，他就像被舞台上的灯光层层围绕着，只看到一片耀眼。无论付出什么代价，他都想送糖糖去一个能教音乐和跳舞的幼儿园。

彭蠡脱下外衣，一边洗脸，一边和老刀说话。说是洗脸，不过只是用水随便抹一抹。水马上就要停了，水流已经变得很小。彭蠡从墙上拽下一条脏兮兮的毛巾，随意蹭了蹭，又将毛巾塞进抽屉。他湿漉漉的头发显出油腻的光泽。

“你真是作死，”彭蠡说，“她又不是你闺女，犯得着吗。”

“别说这些了。快告我怎么走。”老刀说。

彭蠡叹了口气：“你可得知道，万一被抓着，可不只是罚款，得关上好几个月。”

“你不是去过好多次吗？”

“只有四次。第五次就被抓了。”

“那也够了。我要是能去四次，抓一次也无所谓。”

老刀要去第一空间送一样东西，送到了挣十万块，带来回信挣二十万。这不过是冒违规的大不韪，只要路径和方法对，被抓住的几率并不大，挣的却是实实在在的钞票。他不知道有什么理由拒绝。他知道彭蠡年轻的时候为了几笔风险钱，曾经偷偷进入第一空间好几次，贩卖私酒和烟。他知道这条路能走。

5:45。他必须马上走了。

彭蠡又叹口气，知道劝也没用。他已经上了年纪，对事懒散倦怠了，但他明白，自己在五十岁前也会和老刀一样。那时他不在乎坐牢之类的事。不过是熬几个月出来，挨两顿打，但挣的钱是实实在在的。只要抵死不说钱的下落，最后总能过去。秩序局的条子也不过就是例行公事。他把老刀带到窗口，向下指向一条被阴影覆盖的小路。

“从我房子底下爬下去，顺着排水管，毡布底下有我原来安上去的脚蹬，身子贴得足够紧了就能避开摄像头。从那儿过去，沿着阴影爬到边上。你能摸着也能看见那道缝。沿着缝往北走。一定得往北。千万别错了。”

彭蠡接着解释了爬过土地的诀窍。要借着升起的势头，从升高的一侧沿截面爬过五十米，到另一侧地面，爬上去，然后向东，那里会有一丛灌木，在土地合拢的时候可以抓住并隐藏自己。老刀没有听完，就已经将身子探出窗口，准备向下爬了。

彭蠡帮老刀爬出窗子，扶着他踩稳了窗下的踏脚。彭蠡突然停下来。“说句不好听的，”他说，“我还是劝你最好别去。那边可不是什么好地儿，去了之后没别的，只能感觉自己的日子有多操蛋。没劲。”

老刀的脚正在向下试探，身子还扒着窗台。“没事。”他说得有点费劲，“我不去也知道自己的日子有多操蛋。”

“好自为之吧。”彭蠡最后说。

老刀顺着彭蠡指出的路径快速向下爬。脚蹬的位置非常舒服。他看到彭蠡在窗口的身影，点了根烟，非常大口地快速抽了几口，又掐了。彭蠡一度从窗口探出身子，似乎想说什么，但最终还是缩了回去。窗子关上了，发着幽幽的光。老刀知道，彭蠡会在转换前最后一分钟钻进胶囊，和整个城市数千万人一样，受胶囊定时释放出的气体催眠，陷入深深睡眠，身子随着世界颠倒来去，头脑却一无所知，一睡就是整整40个小时，到次日晚上再睁开眼睛。彭蠡已经老了，他终于和这个世界其他五千万人一样了。

老刀用自己最快的速度向下，一蹦一跳，在离地足够近的时候纵身一跃，匍匐在地上。彭蠡的房子在四层，离地不远。爬起身，沿高楼在湖边投下的阴影奔跑。他能看到草地上的裂隙，那是翻转的地方。还没跑到，就听到身后在压抑中轰鸣的隆隆和偶尔清脆的嘎啦声。老刀转过头，高楼拦腰截断，上半截正从天上倒下，缓慢却不容置疑地压迫过来。

老刀被震住了，怔怔看了好一会儿。他跑到缝隙，伏在地上。

转换开始了。这是24小时周期的分隔时刻。整个世界开始翻转。钢筋砖块合拢的声音连成一片，像出了故障的流水线。高楼收拢合并，折叠成立方体。霓虹灯、店铺招牌、阳台和附加结构都被吸收入墙体，贴成楼的肌肤。结构见缝插针，每一寸空间都被占满。

大地在升起。老刀观察着地面的走势，来到缝的边缘，又随着缝隙的升起不断向上爬。他手脚并用，从大理石铺就的地面边缘起始，沿着泥土的截面，抓住土里埋藏的金属断茬，最初是向下，用脚试探着退行，很快，随着整快土地的翻转，他被带到空中。

老刀想到前一天晚上城市的样子。

当时他从垃圾堆中抬起眼睛，警觉地听着门外的声音。周围发酵腐烂的垃圾散发出刺鼻的气息，带一股发腥的甜腻味。他倚在门前。铁门外的世界在苏醒。

当铁门掀开的缝隙透入第一道街灯的黄色光芒，他俯下身去，从缓缓扩大的缝隙中钻出。街上空无一人，高楼灯光逐层亮起，附加结构从楼两侧探出，向两旁一节一节伸展，门廊从楼体内延伸，房檐延轴旋转，缓缓落下，楼梯降落延伸到马迷途上。步行街的两侧，一个又一个黑色立方体从中间断裂，向两侧打开，露出其中货架的结构。立方体顶端伸出招牌，连成商铺的走廊，两侧的塑料棚向头顶延伸闭合。街道空旷得如同梦境。

霓虹灯亮了，商铺顶端闪烁的小灯打出新疆大枣、东北拉皮、上海烤麸和湖南腊肉。

整整一天，老刀头脑中都忘不了这一幕。他在这里生活了四十八年，还从来没有见过这一切。他的日子总是从胶囊起，至胶囊终，在脏兮兮的餐桌和被争吵萦绕的货摊之间穿行。这是他第一次看到世界纯粹的模样。

每个清晨，如果有人从远处观望——就像大货车司机在高速北京入口处等待时那样——他会看到整座城市的伸展与折叠。

清晨六点，司机们总会走下车，站在高速边上，揉着经过一夜潦草睡眠而昏沉的眼睛，打着哈欠，相互指点着望向远处的城市中央。高速截断在七环之外，所有的翻转都在六环内发生。不远不近的距离，就像遥望西山或是海上的一座孤岛。

晨光熹微中，一座城市折叠自身，向地面收拢。高楼像最卑微的仆人，弯下腰，让自己低声下气切断身体，头碰着脚，紧紧贴在一起，然后再次断裂弯腰，将头顶手臂扭曲弯折，插入空隙。高楼弯折之后重新组合，蜷缩成致密的巨大魔方，密密匝匝地聚合到一起，陷入沉睡。然后地面翻转，小块小块土地围绕其轴，一百八十度翻转到另一面，将另一面的建筑楼宇露出地表。楼宇由折叠中站立起身，在灰蓝色的天空中像苏醒的兽类。城市孤岛在橘黄色晨光中落位，展开，站定，腾起弥漫的灰色苍云。

司机们就在困倦与饥饿中欣赏这一幕无穷循环的城市戏剧。

（2）

折叠城市分三层空间。大地的一面是第一空间，五百万人口，生存时间是从清晨六点到第二天清晨六点。空间休眠，大地翻转。翻转后的另一面是第二空间和第三空间。第二空间生活着两千五百万人口，从次日清晨六点到夜晚十点，第三空间生活着五千万人，从十点到清晨六点，然后回到第一空间。时间经过了精心规划和最优分配，小心翼翼隔离，五百万人享用二十四小时，七千五百万人享用另外二十四小时。

大地的两侧重量并不均衡，为了平衡这种不均，第一空间的土地更厚，土壤里埋藏配重物质。人口和建筑的失衡用土地来换。第一空间居民也因而认为自身的底蕴更厚。

老刀从小生活在第三空间。他知道自己的日子是什么样，不用彭蠡说他也知道。他是个垃圾工，做了二十八年垃圾工，在可预见的未来还将一直做下去。他还没找到可以独自生存的意义和最后的怀疑主义。他仍然在卑微生活的间隙占据一席。

老刀生在北京城，父亲就是垃圾工。据父亲说，他出生的时候父亲刚好找到这份工作，为此庆贺了整整三天。父亲本是建筑工，和数千万其他建筑工一样，从四方涌到北京寻工作，这座折叠城市就是父亲和其他人一起亲手建的。一个区一个区改造旧城市，像白蚁漫过木屋一样啃噬昔日的屋檐门槛，再把土地翻起，建筑全新的楼宇。他们埋头斧凿，用累累砖块将自己包围在中间，抬起头来也看不见天空，沙尘遮挡视线，他们不知晓自己建起的是怎样的恢弘。直到建成的日子高楼如活人一般站立而起，他们才像惊呆了一样四处奔逃，仿佛自己生下了一个怪胎。奔逃之后，镇静下来，又意识到未来生存在这样的城市会是怎样一种殊荣，便继续辛苦摩擦手脚，低眉顺眼勤恳，寻找各种存留下来的机会。据说城市建成的时候，有八千万想要寻找工作留下来的建筑工，最后能留下来的，不过两千万。

垃圾站的工作能找到也不容易，虽然只是垃圾分类处理，但还是层层筛选，要有力气有技巧，能分辨能整理，不怕辛苦不怕恶臭，不对环境挑三拣四。老刀的父亲靠强健的意志在汹涌的人流中抓住机会的细草，待人潮退去，留在干涸的沙滩上，抓住工作机会，低头俯身，艰难浸在人海和垃圾混合的酸朽气味中，一干就是二十年。他既是这座城市的建造者，也是城市的居住者和分解者。

老刀出生时，折叠城市才建好两年，他从来没去过其他地方，也没想过要去其他地方。他上了小学、中学。考了三年大学，没考上，最后还是做了垃圾工。他每天上五个小时班，从夜晚十一点到清晨四点，在垃圾站和数万同事一起，快速而机械地用双手处理废物垃圾，将第一空间和第二空间传来的生活碎屑转化为可利用的分类的材质，再丢入再处理的熔炉。他每天面对垃圾传送带上如溪水涌出的残渣碎片，从塑料碗里抠去吃剩的菜叶，将破碎酒瓶拎出，把带血的卫生巾后面未受污染的一层薄膜撕下，丢入可回收的带着绿色条纹的圆筒。他们就这么干着，以速度换生命，以数量换取薄如蝉翼的仅有的奖金。

第三空间有两千万垃圾工，他们是夜晚的主人。另三千万人靠贩卖衣服食物燃料和保险过活，但绝大多数人心知肚明，垃圾工才是第三空间繁荣的支柱。每每在繁花似锦的霓虹灯下漫步，老刀就觉得头顶都是食物残渣构成的彩虹。这种感觉他没法和人交流，年轻一代不喜欢做垃圾工，他们千方百计在舞厅里表现自己，希望能找到一个打碟或伴舞的工作。在服装店做一个店员也是好的选择，手指只拂过轻巧衣物，不必在泛着酸味的腐烂物中寻找塑料和金属。少年们已经不那么恐惧生存，他们更在意外表。

老刀并不嫌弃自己的工作，但他去第二空间的时候，非常害怕被人嫌弃。

那是前一天清晨的事。他捏着小纸条，偷偷从垃圾道里爬出，按地址找到写纸条的人。第二空间和第三空间的距离没那么远，它们都在大地的同一面，只是不同时间出没。转换时，一个空间高楼折起，收回地面，另一个空间高楼从地面中节节升高，踩着前一个空间的楼顶作为地面。唯一的差别是楼的密度。他在垃圾道里躲了一昼夜才等到空间敞开。他第一次到第二空间，并不紧张，唯一担心的是身上腐坏的气味。

所幸秦天是宽容大度的人。也许他早已想到自己将招来什么样的人，当小纸条放入瓶中的时候，他就知道自己将面对的是谁。

秦天很和气，一眼就明白老刀前来的目的，将他拉入房中，给他热水洗澡，还给他一件浴袍换上。“我只有依靠你了。”秦天说。

秦天是研究生，住学生公寓。一个公寓四个房间，四个人一人一间，一个厨房两个厕所。老刀从来没在这么大的厕所洗过澡。他很想多洗一会儿，将身上气味好好冲一冲，但又担心将澡盆弄脏，不敢用力搓动。墙上喷出泡沫的时候他吓了一跳，热蒸汽烘干也让他不适应。洗完澡，他拿起秦天递过来的浴袍，犹豫了很久才穿上。他把自己的衣服洗了，又洗了厕所盆里随意扔着的几件衣服。生意是生意，他不想欠人情。

秦天要送礼物给他相好的女孩子。他们在工作中认识，当时秦天有机会去第一空间实习，联合国经济司，她也在那边实习。只可惜只有一个月，回来就没法再去了。他说她生在第一空间，家教严格，父亲不让她交往第二空间的男孩，所以不敢用官方通道寄给她。他对未来充满乐观，等他毕业就去申请联合国新青年项目，如果能入选，就也能去第一空间工作。他现在研一，还有一年毕业。他心急如焚，想她想得发疯。他给她做了一个项链坠，能发光的材质，透明的，玫瑰花造型，作为他的求婚信物。

“我当时是在一个专题研讨会，就是上回讨论联合国国债那个会，你应该听说过吧？就是那个……anyway，我当时一看，啊……立刻跑过去跟她说话，她给嘉宾引导座位，我也不知道应该说点什么，就在她身后走过来又走过去。最后我假装要找同传，让她带我去找。她特温柔，说话细声细气的。我压根就没追过姑娘，特别紧张，……后来我们俩好了之后有一次说起这件事……你笑什么？……对，我们是好了。……还没到那种关系，就是……不过我亲过她了。”秦天也笑了，有点不好意思，“是真的。你不信吗？是。连我自己也不信。你说她会喜欢我吗？”

“我不知道啊。”老刀说，“我又没见过她。”

这时，秦天同屋的一个男生凑过来，笑道：“大叔，您这么认真干吗？这家伙哪是问你，他就是想听人说‘你这么帅，她当然会喜欢你’。”

“她很漂亮吧？”

“我跟你说也不怕你笑话。”秦天在屋里走来走去，“你见到她就知道什么叫清雅绝伦。”

秦天突然顿住了，不说了，陷入回忆。他想起依言的嘴，他最喜欢的就是她的嘴，那么小小的，莹润的，下嘴唇饱满，带着天然的粉红色，让人看着看着就忍不住想咬一口。她的脖子也让他动心，虽然有时瘦得露出筋，但线条是纤直而好看的，皮肤又白又细致，从脖子一直延伸到衬衫里，让人的视线忍不住停在衬衫的第二个扣子那里。他第一次轻吻她一下，她躲开，他又吻，最后她退无可退，就把眼睛闭上了，像任人宰割的囚犯，引他一阵怜惜。她的唇很软，他用手反复感受她腰和臀部的曲线。从那天开始，他就居住在思念中。她是他夜晚的梦境，是他抖动自己时看到的光芒。

秦天的同学叫张显，和老刀开始聊天，聊得很欢。

张显问老刀第三空间的生活如何，又说他自己也想去第三空间住一段。他听人说，如果将来想往上爬，有过第三空间的管理经验是很有用的。现在几个当红的人物，当初都是先到第三空间做管理者，然后才升到第一空间，若是停留在第二空间，就什么前途都没有，就算当个行政干部，一辈子级别也高不了。他将来想要进政府，已经想好了路。不过他说他现在想先挣两年钱再说，去银行来钱快。他见老刀的反应很迟钝，几乎不置可否，以为老刀厌恶这条路，就忙不迭地又加了几句解释。

“现在政府太混沌了，做事太慢，僵化，体系也改不动。”他说，“等我将来有了机会，我就推快速工作作风改革。干得不行就滚蛋。”他看老刀还是没说话，又说，“选拔也要放开。也向第三空间放开。”

老刀没回答。他其实不是厌恶，只是不大相信。

张显一边跟老刀聊天，一边对着镜子打领带，喷发胶。他已经穿好了衬衫，浅蓝色条纹，亮蓝色领带。喷发胶的时候一边闭着眼睛皱着眉毛避开喷雾，一边吹口哨。

张显夹着包走了，去银行实习上班。秦天说着话也要走。他还有课，要上到下午四点。临走前，他当着老刀的面把五万块定金从网上转到老刀卡里，说好了剩下的钱等他送到再付。老刀问他这笔钱是不是攒了很久，看他是学生，如果拮据，少要一点也可以。秦天说没事，他现在实习，给金融咨询公司打工，一个月十万块差不多。这也就是两个月工资，还出得起。老刀一个月一万块标准工资，他看到差距，但他没有说。秦天要老刀务必带回信回来，老刀说试试。秦天给老刀指了吃喝的所在，叫他安心在房间里等转换。

老刀从窗口看向街道。他很不适应窗外的日光。太阳居然是淡白色，不是黄色。日光下的街道也显得宽阔，老刀不知道是不是错觉，这街道看上去有第三空间的两倍宽。楼并不高，比第三空间矮很多。路上的人很多，匆匆忙忙都在急着赶路，不时有人小跑着想穿过人群，前面的人就也加起速，穿过路口的时候，所有人都像是小跑着。大多数人穿得整齐，男孩子穿西装，女孩子穿衬衫和短裙，脖子上围巾低垂，手里拎着线条硬朗的小包，看上去精干。街上汽车很多，在路口等待的时候，不时有看车的人从车窗伸出头，焦急地向前张望。老刀很少见到这么多车，他平时习惯了磁悬浮，挤满人的车厢从身边加速，呼一阵风。

中午十二点的时候，走廊里一阵声响。老刀从门上的小窗向外看。楼道地面化为传送带开始滚动，将各屋门口的垃圾袋推入尽头的垃圾道。楼道里腾起雾，化为密实的肥皂泡沫，飘飘忽忽地沉降，然后是一阵水，水过了又一阵热蒸汽。

背后突然有声音，吓了老刀一跳。他转过身，发现公寓里还有一个男生，刚从自己房间里出来。男生面无表情，看到老刀也没有打招呼。他走到阳台旁边一台机器旁边，点了点，机器里传出咔咔刷刷轰轰嚓的声音，一阵香味飘来，男生端出一盘菜又回了房间。从他半开的门缝看过去，男孩坐在地上的被子和袜子中间，瞪着空无一物的墙，一边吃一边咯咯地笑。他不时用手推一推眼镜。吃完把盘子放在脚边，站起身，同样对着空墙做击打动作，费力气顶住某个透明的影子，偶尔来一个背摔，气喘吁吁。

老刀对第二空间最后的记忆是街上撤退时的优雅。从公寓楼的窗口望下去，一切都带着令人羡慕的秩序感。九点十五分开始，街上一间间卖衣服的小店开始关灯，聚餐之后的团体面色红润，相互告别。年轻男女在出租车外亲吻。然后所有人回楼，世界蛰伏。

夜晚十点到了。他回到他的世界，回去上班。

（3）

第一和第三空间之间没有连通的垃圾道，第一空间的垃圾经过一道铁闸，运到第三空间之后，铁闸迅速合拢。老刀不喜欢从地表翻越，但他没有办法。

他在呼啸的风中爬过翻转的土地，抓住每一寸零落的金属残渣，找到身体和心理平衡，最后匍匐在离他最遥远的一重世界的土地上。他被整个攀爬弄得头晕脑胀，胃口也不舒服。他忍住呕吐，在地上趴了一会儿。

当他爬起身的时候，天亮了。

老刀从来没有见过这样的景象。太阳缓缓升起，天边是深远而纯净的蓝，蓝色下沿是橙黄色，有斜向上的条状薄云。太阳被一处屋檐遮住，屋檐显得异常黑，屋檐背后明亮夺目。太阳升起时，天的蓝色变浅了，但是更宁静透彻。老刀站起身，向太阳的方向奔跑。他想要抓住那道褪去的金色。蓝天中能看见树枝的剪影。他的心狂跳不已。他从来不知道太阳升起竟然如此动人。

他跑了一段路，停下来，冷静了。他站在街道中央。路的两旁是高大树木和大片草坪。他环视四周，目力所及，远远近近都没有一座高楼。他迷惑了，不确定自己是不是真的到了第一空间。他能看见两排粗壮的银杏。

他又退回几步，看着自己跑来的方向。街边有一个路牌。他打开手机里存的地图，虽然没有第一空间动态图权限，但有事先下载的静态图。他找到了自己的位置和他要去的地方。他刚从一座巨大的园子里奔出来，翻转的地方就在园子的湖边。

老刀在万籁俱寂的街上跑了一公里，很容易找到了要找的小区。他躲在一丛灌木背后，远远地望着那座漂亮的房子。

8:30，依言出来了。

她像秦天描述的一样清秀，只是没有那么漂亮。老刀早就能想到这点。不会有任何女孩长得像秦天描述的那么漂亮。他明白了为什么秦天着重讲她的嘴。她的眼睛和鼻子很普通，只是比较秀气，没什么好讲的。她的身材还不错，骨架比较小，虽然高，但看上去很纤细。穿了一条乳白色连衣裙，有飘逸的裙摆，腰带上有珍珠，黑色高跟皮鞋。

老刀悄悄走上前去。为了不吓到她，他特意从正面走过去，离得远远的就鞠了一躬。

她站住了，惊讶地看着他。

老刀走近了，说明来意，将包裹着情书和项链坠的信封从怀里掏出来。

她的脸上滑过一丝惊慌，小声说：“你先走，我现在不能和你说。”

“呃……我其实没什么要说的，”老刀说，“我只是送信的。”

她不接，双手紧紧地搅握着，只是说：“我现在不能收。你先走。我是说真的，拜托了，你先走吧好吗？”她说着低头，从包里掏出一张名片，“中午到这里找我。”

老刀低头看看，名片上写着一个银行的名字。

“十二点。到地下超市等我。”她又说。

老刀看得出她过分的不安，于是点头收起名片，回到隐身的灌木丛后，远远地观望着。很快，又有一个男人从房子里出来，到她身边。男人看上去和老刀年龄相仿，或者年轻两岁，穿着一套很合身的深灰色西装，身材高而宽阔，虽没有突出的肚子，但是觉得整个身体很厚。男人的脸无甚特色，戴眼镜，圆脸，头发向一侧梳得整齐。

男人搂住依言的腰，吻了她嘴唇一下。依言想躲，但没躲开，颤抖了一下，手挡在身前显得非常勉强。

老刀开始明白了。

一辆小车开到房子门前。单人双轮小车，黑色，敞篷，就像电视里看到的古代的马车或黄包车，只是没有马拉，也没有车夫。小车停下，歪向前，依言踏上去，坐下，拢住裙子，让裙摆均匀覆盖膝盖，散到地上。小车缓缓开动了，就像有一匹看不见的马拉着一样。依言坐在车里，小车缓慢而波澜不惊。等依言离开，一辆无人驾驶的汽车开过来，男人上了车。

老刀在原地来回踱着步子。他觉得有些东西非常憋闷，但又说不出来。他站在阳光里，闭上眼睛，清晨蓝天下清凛干净的空气沁入他的肺。空气给他一种冷静的安慰。

片刻之后，他才上路。依言给的地址在她家东面，3公里多一点。街上人很少。8车道的宽阔道路上行驶着零星车辆，快速经过，让人看不清车的细节。偶尔有华服的女人乘坐着双轮小车缓缓飘过他身旁，沿步行街，像一场时装秀，端坐着姿态优美。没有人注意到老刀。绿树摇曳，树叶下的林荫路留下长裙的气味。

依言的办公地在西单某处。这里完全没有高楼，只是围绕着一座花园有零星分布的小楼，楼与楼之间的联系气若游丝，几乎看不出它们是一体。走到地下，才看到相连的通道。

老刀找到超市。时间还早。一进入超市，就有一辆小车跟上他，每次他停留在货架旁，小车上的屏幕上就显示出这件货物的介绍、评分和同类货物质量比。超市里的东西都写着他看不懂的文字。食物包装精致，小块糕点和水果用诱人的方式摆在盘里，等人自取。他没有触碰任何东西。不过整个超市似乎并没有警卫或店员。

还不到十二点，顾客就多了起来。有穿西装的男人走进超市，取三明治，在门口刷一下就匆匆离开。还是没有人特别注意老刀。他在门口不起眼的位置等着。

依言出现了。老刀迎上前去，依言看了看左右，没说话，带他去了隔壁的一家小餐厅。两个穿格子裙子的小机器人迎上来，接过依言手里的小包，又带他们到位子上，递上菜单。依言在菜单上按了几下，小机器人转身，轮子平稳地滑回了后厨。

两个人面对面坐了片刻，老刀又掏出信封。

依言却没有接：“……你能听我解释一下吗？”

老刀把信封推到她面前：“你先收下这个。”

依言推回给他。

“你先听我解释一下行吗？”依言又说。

“你没必要跟我解释，”老刀说，“信不是我写的。我只是送信而已。”

“可是你回去要告诉说的。”依言低了低头。小机器人送上了两个小盘子，一人一份，是某种红色的生鱼片，薄薄两片，摆成花瓣的形状。依言没有动筷子，老刀也没有。信封被小盘子隔在中央，两个人谁也没再推。“我不是背叛他。去年他来的时候我就已经订婚了。我也不是故意瞒他或欺骗他，或者说……是的，我骗了他，但那是他自己猜的。他见到吴闻来接我，就问是不是我爸爸。我……我没法回答他。你知道，那太尴尬了。我……”

依言说不下去了。

老刀等了一会儿说：“我不想追问你们之前的事。你收下信就行了。”

依言低头好一会儿又抬起来：“你回去以后，能不能替我瞒着他？”

“为什么？”

“我不想让他以为我是坏女人耍他。其实我心里是喜欢他的。我也很矛盾。”

“这些和我没关系。”

“求你了……我是真的喜欢他。”

老刀沉默了一会儿，他需要做一个决定。

“可是你还是结婚了？”他问她。

“吴闻对我很好。好几年了。”依言说，“他认识我爸妈。我们订婚也很久了。况且……我比秦天大三岁，我怕他不能接受。秦天以为我是实习生。这点也是我不好，我没说实话。最开始只是随口说的，到后来就没法改口了。我真的没想到他是认真的。”

依言慢慢透露了她的信息。她是这个银行的总裁助理，已经工作两年多了，只是被派往联合国参加培训，赶上那次会议，就帮忙参与了组织。她不需要上班，老公挣的钱足够多，可她不希望总是一个人呆在家里，才出来上班，每天只工作半天，拿半薪。其余的时间自己安排，可以学一些东西。她喜欢学新东西，喜欢认识新人，也喜欢联合国培训的那几个月。她说像她这样的太太很多，半职工作也很多。中午她下了班，下午会有另一个太太去做助理。她说虽然对秦天没有说实话，可是她的心是真诚的。

“所以，”她给老刀夹了新上来的热菜，“你能不能暂时不告诉他？等我……有机会亲自向他解释可以吗？”

老刀没有动筷子。他很饿，可是他觉得这时不能吃。

“可是这等于说我也得撒谎。”老刀说。

依言回身将小包打开，将钱包取出来，掏出五张一万块的纸币推给老刀。“一点心意，你收下。”

老刀愣住了。他从来没见过一万块钱的纸钞。他生活里从来不需要花这么大的面额。他不自觉地站起身，感到恼怒。依言推出钱的样子就像是早预料到他会讹诈，这让他受不了。他觉得自己如果拿了，就是接受贿赂，将秦天出卖。虽然他和秦天并没有任何结盟关系，但他觉得自己在背叛他。老刀很希望自己这个时候能将钱扔在地上，转身离去，可是他做不到这一步。他又看了几眼那几张钱，五张薄薄的纸散开摊在桌子上，像一把破扇子。他能感觉它们在他体内产生的力量。它们是淡蓝色，和一千块的褐色与一百块的红色都不一样，显得更加幽深遥远，像是一种挑逗。他几次想再看一眼就离开，可是一直没做到。

她仍然匆匆翻动小包，前前后后都翻了，最后从一个内袋里又拿出五万块，和刚才的钱摆在一起。“我只带了这么多，你都收下吧。”她说，“你帮帮我。其实我之所以不想告诉他，也是不确定以后会怎么样。也许我有一天真的会有勇气和他在一起呢。”

老刀看看那十张纸币，又看看她。他觉得她并不相信自己的话，她的声音充满迟疑，出卖了她的心。她只是将一切都推到将来，以消解此时此刻的难堪。她很可能不会和秦天私奔，可是也不想让他讨厌她，于是留着可能性，让自己好过一点。老刀能看出她骗她自己，可是他也想骗自己。他对自己说，他对秦天没有任何义务，秦天只是委托他送信，他把信送到了，现在这笔钱是另一项委托，保守秘密的委托。他又对自己说，也许她和秦天将来真的能在一起也说不定，那样就是成人之美。他还说，想想糖糖，为什么去管别人的事而不管糖糖呢。他似乎安定了一些，手指不知不觉触到了钱的边缘。

“这钱……太多了。”他给自己一个台阶下，“我不能拿这么多。”

“拿着吧，没事。”她把钱塞到他手里，“我一个礼拜就挣出来了。没事的。”

“……那我怎么跟他说？”

“你就说我现在不能和他在一起，但是我真的喜欢他。我给你写个字条，你帮我带给他。”依言从包里找出一个画着孔雀绣着金边的小本子，轻盈地撕下一张纸，低头写字。她的字看上去像倾斜的芦苇。

最后，老刀离开餐厅的时候，又回头看了一眼。依言的眼睛注视着墙上的一幅画。她的姿态静默优雅，看上去就像永远都不会离开这里似的。

他用手捏了捏裤子口袋里的纸币。他讨厌自己，可是他想把纸币抓牢。

（4）

老刀从西单出来，依原路返回。重新走早上的路，他觉得倦意丛生，一步也跑不动了。宽阔的步行街两侧是一排垂柳和一排梧桐，正是晚春，都是鲜亮的绿色。他让暖意丛生的午后阳光照亮僵硬的面孔，也照亮空乏的心底。
他回到早上离开的园子，赫然发现园子里来往的人很多。园子外面两排银杏树庄严茂盛。园门口有黑色小汽车驶入。园里的人多半穿着材质顺滑、剪裁合体的西装，也有穿黑色中式正装的，看上去都有一番眼高于顶的气质。也有外国人。他们有的正在和身边人讨论什么，有的远远地相互打招呼，笑着携手向前走。
老刀犹豫了一下要到哪里去，街上人很少，他一个人站着极为显眼，去公共场所又容易被注意，他很想回到园子里，早一点找到转换地，到一个没人的角落睡上一觉。他太困了，又不敢在街上睡。他见出入园子的车辆并无停滞，就也尝试着向里走。直到走到园门边上，他才发现有两个小机器人左右逡巡。其他人和车走过都毫无问题，到了老刀这里，小机器人忽然发出嘀嘀的叫声，转着轮子向他驶来。声音在宁静的午后显得刺耳。园里人的目光汇集到他身上。他慌了，不知道是不是自己的衬衫太寒酸。他尝试着低声对小机器人说话，说他的西装落在里面了，可是小机器人只是嘀嘀嗒嗒地叫着，头顶红灯闪烁，什么都不听。园里的人们停下脚步看着他，像是看到小偷或奇怪的人。很快，从最近的建筑中走出三个男人，步履匆匆地向他们跑过来。老刀紧张极了，他想退出去，已经太晚了。
“出什么事了？”领头的人高声询问着。
老刀想不出解释的话，手下意识地搓着裤子。
一个三十几岁的男人走在最前面，一到跟前就用一个纽扣一样的小银盘上上下下地晃，手的轨迹围绕着老刀。他用怀疑的眼神打量他，像用罐头刀试图撬开他的外壳。
“没记录。”男人将手中的小银盘向身后更年长的男人示意，“带回去吧？”
老刀突然向后跑，向园外跑。
可没等他跑出去，两个小机器人悄无声息挡在他面前，扣住他的小腿。它们的手臂是箍，轻轻一扣就合上。他一下子踉跄了，差点摔倒又摔不倒，手臂在空中无力的乱划。
“跑什么？”年轻男人更严厉地走到他面前，瞪着他的眼睛。
“我……”老刀头脑嗡嗡响。
两个小机器人将他的两条小腿扣紧，抬起，放在它们轮子边上的平台上，然后异常同步地向最近的房子驶去，平稳迅速，保持并肩，从远处看上去，或许会以为老刀脚踩风火轮。老刀毫无办法，除了心里暗喊一声糟糕，简直没有别的话说。他懊恼自己如此大意，人这么多的地方，怎么可能没有安全保障。他责怪自己是困倦得昏了头，竟然在这样大的安全关节上犯如此低级的错误。这下一切完蛋了，他想，钱都没了，还要坐牢。
小机器人从小路绕向建筑后门，在后门的门廊里停下来。三个男人跟了上来。年轻男人和年长男人似乎就老刀的处理问题起了争执，但他们的声音很低，老刀听不见。片刻之后，年长男人走到他身边，将小机器人解锁，然后拉着他的大臂走上二楼。
老刀叹了一口气，横下一条心，觉得事到如今，只好认命。
年长者带他进入一个房间。他发现这是一个旅馆房间，非常大，比秦天的公寓客厅还大，似乎有自己租的房子两倍大。房间的色调是暗沉的金褐色，一张极宽大的双人床摆在中央。床头背后的墙面上是颜色过渡的抽象图案，落地窗，白色半透明纱帘，窗前是一个小圆桌和两张沙发。他心里惴惴。不知道年长者的身份和态度。
“坐吧，坐吧。”年长者拍拍他肩膀，笑笑，“没事了。”
老刀狐疑地看着他。
“你是第三空间来的吧？”年长者把他拉到沙发边上，伸手示意。
“您怎么知道？”老刀无法撒谎。
“从你裤子上。”年长者用手指指他的裤腰，“你那商标还没剪呢。这牌子只有第三空间有卖的。我小时候我妈就喜欢给我爸买这牌子。”
“您是……”
“别您您的，叫你吧。我估摸着我也比你大不了几岁。你今年多大？我五十二。……你看看，就比你大四岁。”他顿了一下，又说，“我叫葛大平，你叫我老葛吧。”
老刀放松了些。老葛把西装脱了，活动了一下膀子，从墙壁里接了一杯热水，递给老刀。他长长的脸，眼角眉梢和两颊都有些下坠，戴一副眼镜，也向下耷拉着，头发有点自来卷，蓬松地堆在头顶，说起话来眉毛一跳一跳，很有喜剧效果。他自己泡了点茶，问老刀要不要，老刀摇摇头。
“我原来也是第三空间的。咱也算半个老乡吧。”老葛说，“所以不用太拘束。我还是能管点事儿，不会把你送出去的。”
老刀长长地出了口气，心里感叹万幸。他于是把自己到第二、第一空间的始末讲了一遍，略去依言感情的细节，只说送到了信，就等着回去。
老葛于是也不见外，把他自己的情况讲了。他从小也在第三空间长大，父母都给人送货。十五岁的时候考上了军校，后来一直当兵，文化兵，研究雷达，能吃苦，技术又做得不错，赶上机遇又好，居然升到了雷达部门主管，大校军衔。家里没背景不可能再升，就申请转业，到了第一空间一个支持性部门，专给政府企业做后勤保障，组织会议出行，安排各种场面。虽然是蓝领的活儿，但因为涉及的都是政要，又要协调管理，就一直住在第一空间。这种人也不少，厨师、大夫、秘书、管家，都算是高级蓝领了。他们这个机构安排过很多重大场合，老葛现在是主任。老刀知道，老葛说的谦虚，说是蓝领，其实能在第一空间做事的都是牛人，即使厨师也不简单，更何况他从第三空间上来，能管雷达。
“你在这儿睡一会儿。待会儿晚上我带你吃饭去。”老葛说。
老刀受宠若惊，不大相信自己的好运。他心里还有担心，但是白色的床单和错落堆积的枕头显出召唤气息，他的腿立刻发软了，倒头昏昏沉沉睡了几个小时。
醒来的时候天色暗了，老葛正对着镜子捋头发。他向老刀指了指沙发上的一套西装制服，让他换上，又给他胸口别上一个微微闪着红光的小徽章，身份认证。
下楼来，老刀发现原来这里有这么多人。似乎刚刚散会，在大厅里聚集三三两两说话。大厅一侧是会场，门还开着，门看上去很厚，包着红褐色皮子；另一侧是一个一个铺着白色桌布的高脚桌，桌布在桌面下用金色缎带打了蝴蝶结，桌中央的小花瓶插着一只百合，花瓶旁边摆着饼干和干果，一旁的长桌上则有红酒和咖啡供应。聊天的人们在高脚桌之间穿梭，小机器人头顶托盘，收拾喝光的酒杯。
老刀尽量镇定地跟着老葛。走到会场内，他忽然看到一面巨大的展示牌，上面写着：
折叠城市五十年。
“这是……什么？”他问老葛。
“哦，庆典啊。”老葛正在监督场内布置，“小赵，你来一下，你去把桌签再核对一遍。机器人有时候还是不如人靠谱，它们认死理儿。”
老刀看到，会场里现在是晚宴的布置，每张大圆桌上都摆着鲜艳的花朵。
他有一种恍惚的感觉，站在角落里，看着会场中央巨大的吊灯，像是被某种光芒四射的现实笼罩，却只存在在它的边缘。舞台中央是演讲的高台，背后的布景流动播映着北京城的画面。大概是航拍，拍到了全城的风景，清晨和日暮的光影，紫红色暗蓝色天空，云层快速流转，月亮从角落上升起，太阳在屋檐上沉落。大气中正的布局，沿中轴线对称的城市设计，延伸到六环的青砖院落和大面积绿地花园。中式风格的剧院，日本式美术馆，极简主义风格的音乐厅建筑群。然后是城市的全景，真正意义上的全景，包含转换的整个城市双面镜头：大地翻转，另一面城市，边角锐利的写字楼，朝气蓬勃的上班族；夜晚的霓虹，白昼一样的天空，高耸入云的公租房，影院和舞厅的娱乐。
只是没有老刀上班的地方。
他仔细地盯着屏幕，不知道其中会不会展示建城时的历史。他希望能看见父亲的时代。小时候父亲总是用手指着窗外的楼，说“当时我们”。狭小的房间正中央挂着陈旧的照片，照片里的父亲重复着垒砖的动作，一遍一遍无穷无尽。他那时每天都要看见那照片很多遍，几乎已经腻烦了，可是这时他希望影像中出现哪怕一小段垒砖的镜头。
他沉浸在自己的恍惚中。这也是他第一次看到转换的全景。他几乎没注意到自己是怎么坐下的，也没注意到周围人的落座，台上人讲话的前几分钟，他并没有注意听。
“……有利于服务业的发展，服务业依赖于人口规模和密度。我们现在的城市服务业已经占到GDP85%以上，符合世界第一流都市的普遍特征。另外最重要的就是绿色经济和循环经济。”这句话抓住了老刀的注意力，循环经济和绿色经济是他们工作站的口号，写得比人还大贴在墙上。他望向台上的演讲人，是个白发老人，但是精神显得异常饱满，“……通过垃圾的完全分类处理，我们提前实现了本世纪节能减排的目标，减少污染，也发展出成体系成规模的循环经济，每年废旧电子产品中回收的贵金属已经完全投入再生产，塑料的回收率也已达到80%以上。回收直接与再加工工厂相连……”
老刀有远亲在再加工工厂工作，在科技园区，远离城市，只有工厂和工厂和工厂。据说那边的工厂都差不多，机器自动作业，工人很少，少量工人晚上聚集着，就像荒野部落。
他仍然恍惚着。演讲结束之后，热烈的掌声响起，才将他从自己的纷乱念头中拉出来，他也跟着鼓了掌，虽然不知道为什么。他看到演讲人从舞台上走下来，回到主桌上正中间的座位。所有人的目光都跟着他。
忽然老刀看到了吴闻。
吴闻坐在主桌旁边一桌，见演讲人回来就起身去敬酒，然后似乎有什么话要问演讲人。演讲人又站起身，跟吴闻一起到大厅里。老刀不自觉地站起来，心里充满好奇，也跟着他们。老葛不知道到哪里去了，周围开始上菜。
老刀到了大厅，远远地观望，对话只能听见片段。
“……批这个有很多好处。”吴闻说，“是，我看过他们的设备了……自动化处理垃圾，用溶液消解，大规模提取材质……清洁，成本也低……您能不能考虑一下？”
吴闻的声音不高，但老刀清楚地听见“处理垃圾”的字眼，不由自主凑上前去。
白发老人的表情相当复杂，他等吴闻说完，过了一会儿才问：“你确定溶液无污染？”
吴闻有点犹豫：“现在还是有一点……不过很快就能减低到最低。”
老刀离得很近了。
白发老人摇了摇头，眼睛盯着吴闻：“事情哪是那么简单的，你这个项目要是上马了，大规模一改造，又不需要工人，现在那些劳动力怎么办，上千万垃圾工失业怎么办？”
白发老人说完转过身，又返回会场。吴闻呆愣愣地站在原地。一个从始至终跟着老人的秘书模样的人走到吴闻身旁，同情地说：“您回去好好吃饭吧。别想了。其实您应该明白这道理，就业的事是顶天的事。您以为这种技术以前就没人做吗？”
老刀能听出这是与他有关的事，但他摸不准怎样是好的。吴闻的脸显出一种迷惑、懊恼而又顺从的神情，老刀忽然觉得，他也有软弱的地方。
这时，白发老人的秘书忽然注意到老刀。
“你是新来的？”他突然问。
“啊……嗯。”老刀吓了一跳。
“叫什么名字？我怎么不知道最近进人了。”
老刀有些慌，心砰砰跳，他不知道该说些什么。他指了指胸口上别着的工作人员徽章，仿佛期望那上面有个名字浮现出来。但徽章上什么都没有。他的手心涌出汗。秘书看着他，眼中的怀疑更甚了。他随手拉着一个会务人员，那人说不认识老刀。
秘书的脸铁青着，一只手抓住老刀的手臂，另一只手拨了通讯器。
老刀的心提到嗓子眼，就在那一刹那，他看到了老葛的身影。
老葛一边匆匆跑过来，一边按下通讯器，笑着和秘书打招呼，点头弯腰，向秘书解释说这是临时从其他单位借调过来的同事，开会人手不够，临时帮忙的。秘书见老葛知情，也就不再追究，返回会场。老葛将老刀又带回自己的房间，免得再被人撞见查检。深究起来没有身份认证，老葛也做不得主。
“没有吃席的命啊。”老葛笑道，“你等着吧，待会儿我给你弄点吃的回来。”
老刀躺在床上，又迷迷糊糊睡了。他反复想着吴闻和白发老人说的话，自动垃圾处理，这是什么样的呢，如果真的这样，是好还是不好呢。
再次醒来时，老刀闻到一碟子香味，老葛已经在小圆桌上摆了几碟子菜，还正在从墙上的烤箱中把剩下一个菜端出来。老葛又拿来半瓶白酒和两个玻璃杯，倒上。
“有一桌就坐了俩人，我把没怎么动过的菜弄了点回来，你凑合吃，别嫌弃就行。他们吃了一会儿就走了。”老葛说。
“哪儿能嫌弃呢。”老刀说，“有口吃的就感激不尽了。这么好的菜。这些菜很贵吧？”
“这儿的菜不对外，所以都不标价。我也不知道多少钱。”老葛已经开动了筷子，“也就一般吧。估计一两万之间，个别贵一点可能三四万。就那么回事。”
老刀吃了两口就真的觉得饿了。他有抗饥饿的办法，忍上一天不吃东西也可以，身体会有些颤抖发飘，但精神不受影响。直到这时，他才发觉自己的饥饿。他只想快点咀嚼，牙齿的速度赶不上胃口空虚的速度。吃得急了，就喝一口。这白酒很香，不辣。老葛慢悠悠的，微笑着看着他。
“对了，”老刀吃得半饱时，想起刚才的事，“今天那个演讲人是谁？我看着很面熟。”
“也总上电视嘛。”老葛说，“我们的顶头上司。很厉害的老头儿。他可是管实事儿的，城市运作的事儿都归他管。”
“他们今天说起垃圾自动处理的事儿。你说以后会改造吗？”
“这事儿啊，不好说，”老葛砸了口酒，打了个嗝，“我看够呛。关键是，你得知道当初为啥弄人工处理。其实当初的情况就跟欧洲二十世纪末差不多，经济发展，但失业率上升，印钱也不管用，菲利普斯曲线不符合。”
他看老刀一脸茫然，呵呵笑了起来：“算了，这些东西你也不懂。”
他跟老刀碰了碰杯子，两人一齐喝了又斟上。
“反正就说失业吧，这你肯定懂。”老葛接着说，“人工成本往上涨，机器成本往下降，到一定时候就是机器便宜，生产力一改造，升级了，GDP上去了，失业也上去了。怎么办？政策保护？福利？越保护工厂越不雇人。你现在上城外看看，那几公里的厂区就没几个人。农场不也是吗。大农场一搞几千亩地，全设备耕种，根本要不了几个人。咱们当时怎么搞过欧美的，不就是这么规模化搞的吗。但问题是，地都腾出来了，人都省出来了，这些人干嘛去呢。欧洲那边是强行减少每人工作时间，增加就业机会，可是这样没活力你明白吗。最好的办法是彻底减少一些人的生活时间，再给他们找到活儿干。你明白了吧？就是塞到夜里。这样还有一个好处，就是每次通货膨胀几乎传不到底层去，印钞票、花钞票都是能贷款的人消化了，GDP涨了，底下的物价却不涨。人们根本不知道。”
老刀听得似懂非懂，但是老葛的话里有一股凉意，他还是能听出来的。老葛还是嬉笑的腔调，但与其说是嬉笑，倒不如说是不愿意让自己的语气太直白而故意如此。
“这话说着有点冷。”老葛自己也承认，“可就是这么回事。我也不是住在这儿了就说话向着这儿。只是这么多年过来，人就木了，好多事儿没法改变，也只当那么回事了。”
老刀有点明白老葛的意思了，可他不知道该说什么好。
两人都有点醉。他们趁着醉意，聊了不少以前的事，聊小时候吃的东西，学校的打架。老葛最喜欢吃酸辣粉和臭豆腐，在第一空间这么久都吃不到，心里想得痒痒。老葛说起自己的父母，他们还在第三空间，他也不能总回去，每次回去都要打报告申请，实在不太方便。他说第三空间和第一空间之间有官方通道，有不少特殊的人也总是在其中往来。他希望老刀帮他带点东西回去，弥补一下他自己亏欠的心。老刀讲了他孤独的少年时光。
昏黄的灯光中，老刀想起过去。一个人游荡在垃圾场边缘的所有时光。
不知不觉已经是深夜。老葛还要去看一下夜里会场的安置，就又带老刀下楼。楼下还有未结束的舞会末尾，三三两两男女正从舞厅中走出。老葛说企业家大半精力旺盛，经常跳舞到凌晨。散场的舞厅器物凌乱，像女人卸了妆。老葛看着小机器人在狼藉中一一收拾，笑称这是第一空间唯一真实的片刻。
老刀看了看时间，还有三个小时转换。他收拾了一下心情，该走了。

（5）
白发演讲人在晚宴之后回到自己的办公室，处理了一些文件，又和欧洲进行了视频通话。十二点感觉疲劳，摘下眼镜揉了揉鼻梁两侧，准备回家。他经常工作到午夜。
电话突然响了，他按下耳机。是秘书。
大会研究组出了状况。之前印好的大会宣言中有一个数据之前计算结果有误，白天突然有人发现。宣言在会议第二天要向世界宣读，因而会议组请示要不要把宣言重新印刷。白发老人当即批准。这是大事，不能有误。他问是谁负责此事，秘书说，是吴闻主任。
他靠在沙发上小睡。清晨四点，电话又响了。印刷有点慢，预计还要一个小时。
他起身望向窗外。夜深人静，漆黑的夜空能看到静谧的猎户座亮星。
猎户座亮星映在镜面般的湖水中。老刀坐在湖水边上，等待转换来临。
他看着夜色中的园林，猜想这可能是自己最后一次看这片风景。他并不忧伤留恋，这里虽然静美，可是和他没关系，他并不钦羡嫉妒。他只是很想记住这段经历。夜里灯光很少，比第三空间遍布的霓虹灯少很多，建筑散发着沉睡的呼吸，幽静安宁。
清晨五点，秘书打电话说，材料印好了，还没出车间，问是否人为推迟转换的时间。
白发老人斩钉截铁地说，废话，当然推迟。
清晨五点四十分，印刷品抵达会场，但还需要分装在三千个会议夹子中。
老刀看到了依稀的晨光，这个季节六点还没有天亮，但已经能看到蒙蒙曙光。
他做好了一切准备，反复看手机上的时间。有一点奇怪，已经只有一两分钟到六点了，还是没有任何动静。他猜想也许第一空间的转换更平稳顺滑。
清晨六点十分，分装结束。
白发老人松了一口气，下令转换开始。
老刀发现地面终于动了，他站起身，活动了一下有点麻木的手脚，小心翼翼来到边缘。土地的缝隙开始拉大，缝隙两边同时向上掀起。他沿着其中一边往截面上移动，背身挪移，先用脚试探着，手扶住地面退行。大地开始翻转。
六点二十分，秘书打来紧急电话，说吴闻主任不小心将存着重要文件的数据key遗忘在会场，担心会被机器人清理，需要立即取回。
白发老人有点恼怒，但也只好令转换停止，恢复原状。
老刀在截面上正慢慢挪移，忽然感觉土地的移动停止了，接着开始调转方向，已错开的土地开始合拢。他吓了一跳，连忙向回攀爬。他害怕滚落，手脚并用，异常小心。
土地回归的速度比他想象的快，就在他爬到地表的时候，土地合拢了，他的一条小腿被两块土地夹在中间，尽管是泥土，不足以切筋断骨，但力量十足，他试了几次也无法脱出。他心里大叫糟糕，头顶因为焦急和疼痛渗出汗水。他不知道是否被人发现了。
老刀趴在地上，静听着周围的声音。他似乎听到匆匆接近的脚步声。他想象着很快就有警察过来，将他抓起来，夹住的小腿会被砍断，带着疮口扔到监牢里。他不知道自己是什么时候暴露了身份。他伏在青草覆盖的泥土上，感觉到晨露的冰凉。湿气从领口和袖口透入他的身体，让他觉得清醒，却又忍不住战栗。他默数着时间，期盼这只是技术故障。他设想着自己如果被抓住了该说些什么。也许他该交待自己二十八年工作的勤恳诚实，赚一点同情分。他不知道自己会不会被审判。命运在前方逼人不已。
命运直抵胸膛。回想这四十八小时的全部经历，最让他印象深刻的是最后一晚老葛说过的话。他觉得自己似乎接近了些许真相，因而见到命运的轮廓。可是那轮廓太远，太冷静，太遥不可及。他不知道了解一切有什么意义，如果只是看清楚一些事情，却不能改变，又有什么意义。他连看都还无法看清，命运对他就像偶尔显出形状的云朵，倏忽之间又看不到了。他知道自己仍然是数字。在5128万这个数字中，他只是最普通的一个。如果偏生是那128万中的一个，还会被四舍五入，就像从来没存在过，连尘土都不算。他抓住地上的草。
六点三十分，吴闻取回数据key。六点四十分，吴闻回到房间。
六点四十五分，白发老人终于疲倦地倒在办公室的小床上。指令已经按下，世界的齿轮开始缓缓运转。书桌和茶几表面伸出透明的塑料盖子，将一切物品罩住并固定。小床散发出催眠气体，四周立起围栏，然后从地面脱离，地面翻转，床像一只篮子始终保持水平。
转换重新启动了。
老刀在三十分钟的绝望之后突然看到生机。大地又动了起来。他在第一时间拼尽力气将小腿抽离出来，在土地掀起足够高度的时候重新回到截面上。他更小心地撤退。血液复苏的小腿开始刺痒疼痛，如百爪挠心，几次让他摔倒，疼得无法忍受，只好用牙齿咬住拳头。他摔倒爬起，又摔倒又爬起，在角度飞速变化的土地截面上维持艰难地平衡。
他不记得自己怎么拖着腿上楼，只记得秦天开门时，他昏了过去。

在第二空间，老刀睡了十个小时。秦天找同学来帮他处理了腿伤。肌肉和软组织大面积受损，很长一段时间会妨碍走路，但所幸骨头没断。他醒来后将依言的信交给秦天，看秦天幸福而又失落的样子，什么话也没有说。他知道，秦天会沉浸距离的期冀中很长时间。

再回到第三空间，他感觉像是已经走了一个月。城市仍然在缓慢苏醒，城市居民只过了平常的一场睡眠，和前一天连续。不会有人发现老刀的离开。
他在步行街营业的第一时间坐到塑料桌旁，要了一盘炒面，生平第一次加了一份肉丝。只是一次而已，他想，可以犒劳一下自己。然后他去了老葛家，将老葛给父母的两盒药带给他们。两位老人都已经不大能走动了，一个木讷的小姑娘住在家里看护他们。
他拖着伤腿缓缓踱回自己租的房子。楼道里喧扰嘈杂，充满刚睡醒时洗漱冲厕所和吵闹的声音，蓬乱的头发和乱敞的睡衣在门里门外穿梭。他等了很久电梯，刚上楼就听见争吵。他仔细一看，是隔壁的女孩阑阑和阿贝在和收租的老太太争吵。整栋楼是公租房，但是社区有统一收租的代理人，每栋楼又有分包，甚至每层有单独的收租人。老太太也是老住户了，儿子不知道跑到哪里去了，她长得瘦又干，单独一个人住着，房门总是关闭，不和人来往。阑阑和阿贝在这一层算是新人，两个卖衣服的女孩子。阿贝的声音很高，阑阑拉着她，阿贝抢白了阑阑几句，阑阑倒哭了。
“咱们都是按合同来的哦。”老太太用手戳着墙壁上屏幕里滚动的条文，“我这个人从不撒谎唉。你们知不知道什么是合同咧？秋冬加收10%取暖费，合同里写得清清楚楚唉。”
“凭什么啊？凭什么？”阿贝扬着下巴，一边狠狠地梳着头发，“你以为你那点小猫腻我们不知道？我们上班时你全把空调关了，最后你这按电费交钱，我们这给你白交供暖费。你蒙谁啊你！每天下班回来这屋里冷得跟冰一样。你以为我们新来的好欺负吗？”
阿贝的声音尖而脆，划得空气道道裂痕。老刀看着阿贝的脸，年轻、饱满而意气的脸，很漂亮。她和阑阑帮他很多，他不在家的时候，她们经常帮他照看糖糖，也会给他熬点粥。他忽然想让阿贝不要吵了，忘了这些细节，只是不要吵了。他想告诉她女孩子应该安安静静坐着，让裙子盖住膝盖，微微一笑露出好看的牙齿，轻声说话，那样才有人爱。可是他知道她们需要的不是这些。
他从衣服的内衬掏出一张一万块的钞票，虚弱地递给老太太。老太太目瞪口呆，阿贝、阑阑看得傻了。他不想解释，摆摆手回到自己的房间。
摇篮里，糖糖刚刚睡醒，正迷糊着揉眼睛。他看着糖糖的脸，疲倦了一天的心软下来。他想起最初在垃圾站门口抱起糖糖时，她那张脏兮兮的哭累了的小脸。他从没后悔将她抱来。她笑了，吧唧了一下小嘴。他觉得自己还是幸运的。尽管伤了腿，但毕竟没被抓住，还带了钱回来。他不知道糖糖什么时候才能学会唱歌跳舞，成为一个淑女。
他看看时间，该去上班了。

         Folding  Beijing

              BY HAO JINGFANG, TRANSLATED BY KEN LIU

1.

At ten of five in the morning, Lao Dao crossed the busy pedestrian lane on his way to find Peng Li.

After the end of his shift at the waste processing station, Lao Dao had gone home, first to shower and then to change. He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of brown pants—the only decent clothes he owned. The shirt’s cuffs were frayed, so he rolled them up to his elbows. Lao Dao was forty–eight, single, and long past the age when he still took care of his appearance. As he had no one to pester him about the domestic details, he had simply kept this outfit for years. Every time he wore it, he’d come home afterward, take off the shirt and pants, and fold them up neatly to put away. Working at the waste processing station meant there were few occasions that called for the outfit, save a wedding now and then for a friend’s son or daughter.

Today, however, he was apprehensive about meeting strangers without looking at least somewhat respectable. After five hours at the waste processing station, he also had misgivings about how he smelled.

People who had just gotten off work filled the road. Men and women crowded every street vendor, picking through local produce and bargaining loudly. Customers packed the plastic tables at the food hawker stalls, which were immersed in the aroma of frying oil. They ate heartily with their faces buried in bowls of hot and sour rice noodles, their heads hidden by clouds of white steam. Other stands featured mountains of jujubes and walnuts, and hunks of cured meat swung overhead. This was the busiest hour of the day—work was over, and everyone was hungry and loud.

Lao Dao squeezed through the crowd slowly. A waiter carrying dishes shouted and pushed his way through the throng. Lao Dao followed close behind.

Peng Li lived some ways down the lane. Lao Dao climbed the stairs but Peng wasn’t home. A neighbor said that Peng usually didn’t return until right before market closing time, but she didn’t know exactly when.

Lao Dao became anxious. He glanced down at his watch: Almost 5:00 AM.

He went back downstairs to wait at the entrance of the apartment building. A group of hungry teenagers squatted around him, devouring their food. He recognized two of them because he remembered meeting them a couple of times at Peng Li’s home. Each kid had a plate of chow mein or chow fun, and they shared two dishes family–style. The dishes were a mess while pairs of chopsticks continued to search for elusive, overlooked bits of meat amongst the chopped peppers. Lao Dao sniffed his forearms again to be sure that the stench of garbage was off of him. The noisy, quotidian chaos around him assured him with its familiarity.

“Listen, do you know how much they charge for an order of twice–cooked pork over there?” a boy named Li asked.

“Fuck! I just bit into some sand,” a heavyset kid named Ding said while covering his mouth with one hand, which had very dirty fingernails. “We need to get our money back from the vendor!”

Li ignored him. “Three hundred and forty yuan!” said Li. “You hear that? Three forty! For twice–cooked pork! And for boiled beef? Four hundred and twenty!”

“How could the prices be so expensive?” Ding mumbled as he clutched his cheek. “What do they put in there?”

The other two youths weren’t interested in the conversation and concentrated on shoveling food from the plate into the mouth. Li watched them, and his yearning gaze seemed to go through them and focus on something beyond.

Lao Dao’s stomach growled. He quickly averted his eyes, but it was too late. His empty stomach felt like an abyss that made his body tremble. It had been a month since he last had a morning meal. He used to spend about a hundred each day on this meal, which translated to three thousand for the month. If he could stick to his plan for a whole year, he’d be able to save enough to afford two months of tuition for Tangtang’s kindergarten.

He looked into the distance: The trucks of the city cleaning crew were approaching slowly.

He began to steel himself. If Peng Li didn’t return in time, he would have to go on this journey without consulting him. Although it would make the trip far more difficult and dangerous, time was of the essence and he had to go. The loud chants of the woman next to him hawking her jujube interrupted his thoughts and gave him a headache. The peddlers at the other end of the road began to pack up their wares, and the crowd, like fish in a pond disturbed by a stick, dispersed. No one was interested in fighting the city cleaning crew. As the vendors got out of the way, the cleaning trucks patiently advanced. Vehicles were normally not allowed in the pedestrian lane, but the cleaning trucks were an exception. Anybody who dilly–dallied would be packed up by force.

Finally, Peng Li appeared: His shirt unbuttoned, a toothpick dangling between his lips, strolling leisurely and burping from time to time. Now in his sixties, Peng had become lazy and slovenly. His cheeks drooped like the jowls of a Shar–Pei, giving him the appearance of being perpetually grumpy. Looking at him now, one might get the impression that he was a loser whose only ambition in life was a full belly. However, even as a child, Lao Dao had heard his father recounting Peng Li’s exploits when he had been a young man.

Lao Dao went up to meet Peng in the street. Before Peng Li could greet him, Lao Dao blurted out, “I don’t have time to explain, but I need to get to First Space. Can you tell me how?”

Peng Li was stunned. It had been ten years since anyone brought up First Space with him. He held the remnant of the toothpick in his fingers—it had broken between his teeth without his being aware of it. For some seconds, he said nothing, but then he saw the anxiety on Lao Dao’s face and dragged him toward the apartment building. “Come into my place and let’s talk. You have to start from there anyway to get to where you want to go.”

The city cleaning crew was almost upon them, and the crowd scattered like autumn leaves in a wind. “Go home! Go home! The Change is about to start,” someone called from atop one of the trucks.

Peng Li took Lao Dao upstairs into his apartment. His ordinary, single–occupancy public housing unit was sparsely furnished: Six square meters in area, a washroom, a cooking corner, a table and a chair, a cocoon–bed equipped with storage drawers underneath for clothes and miscellaneous items. The walls were covered with water stains and footprints, bare save for a few haphazardly installed hooks for jackets, pants, and linens. Once he entered, Peng took all the clothes and towels off the wall–hooks and stuffed them into one of the drawers. During the Change, nothing was supposed to be unsecured. Lao Dao had once lived in a single–occupancy unit just like this one. As soon as he entered, he felt the flavor of the past hanging in the air.

Peng Li glared at Lao Dao. “I’m not going to show you the way unless you tell me why.”

It was already five thirty. Lao Dao had only half an hour left.

Lao Dao gave him the bare outlines of the story: Picking up the bottle with a message inside; hiding in the trash chute; being entrusted with the errand in Second Space; making his decision and coming here for guidance. He had so little time that he had to leave right away.

“You hid in the trash chutes last night to sneak into Second Space?” Peng Li frowned. “That means you had to wait twenty–four hours!”

“For two hundred thousand yuan?” Lao Dao said, “Even hiding for a week would be worth it.”

“I didn’t know you were so short on money.”

Lao Dao was silent for a moment. “Tangtang is going to be old enough for kindergarten in a year. I’ve run out of time.”

Lao Dao’s research on kindergarten tuition had shocked him. For schools with decent reputations, the parents had to show up with their bedrolls and line up a couple of days before registration. The two parents had to take turns so that while one held their place in the line, the other could go to the bathroom or grab a bite to eat. Even after lining up for forty–plus hours, a place wasn’t guaranteed. Those with enough money had already bought up most of the openings for their offspring, so the poorer parents had to endure the line, hoping to grab one of the few remaining spots. Mind you, this was just for decent schools. The really good schools? Forget about lining up—every opportunity was sold off to those with money. Lao Dao didn’t harbor unrealistic hopes, but Tangtang had loved music since she was an eighteen–month–old. Every time she heard music in the streets, her face lit up and she twisted her little body and waved her arms about in a dance. She looked especially cute during those moments. Lao Dao was dazzled as though surrounded by stage lights. No matter how much it cost, he vowed to send Tangtang to a kindergarten that offered music and dance lessons.

Peng Li took off his shirt and washed while he spoke with Lao Dao. The “washing” consisted only of splashing some drops of water over his face because the water was already shut off and only a thin trickle came out of the faucet. Peng Li took down a dirty towel from the wall and wiped his face carelessly before stuffing the towel into a drawer as well. His moist hair gave off an oily glint.

“What are you working so hard for?” Peng Li asked. “It’s not like she’s your real daughter.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Lao Dao said. “Just tell me the way.”

Peng Li sighed. “Do you understand that if you’re caught, it’s not just a matter of paying a fine? You’re going to be locked up for months.”

“I thought you had gone there multiple times.”

“Just four times. I got caught the fifth time.”

“That’s more than enough. If I could make it four times, it would be no big deal to get caught once.”

Lao Dao’s errand required him to deliver a message to First Space—success would earn him a hundred thousand yuan, and if he managed to bring back a reply, two hundred thousand. Sure, it was illegal, but no one would be harmed, and as long as he followed the right route and method, the probability of being caught wasn’t great. And the cash, the cash was very real. He could think of no reason to not take up the offer. He knew that when Peng Li was younger, he had snuck into First Space multiple times to smuggle contraband and made quite a fortune. There was a way.

It was a quarter to six. He had to get going, now.

Peng Li sighed again. He could see it was useless to try to dissuade Lao Dao. He was old enough to feel lazy and tired of everything, but he remembered how he had felt as a younger man and he would have made the same choice as Lao Dao. Back then, he didn’t care about going to prison. What was the big deal? You lost a few months and got beaten up a few times, but the money made it worthwhile. As long as you refused to divulge the source of the money no matter how much you suffered, you could survive it. The Security Bureau’s citation was nothing more than routine enforcement.

Peng Li took Lao Dao to his back window and pointed at the narrow path hidden in the shadows below.

“Start by climbing down the drain pipe from my unit. Under the felt cloth you’ll find hidden footholds I installed back in the day—if you stick close enough to the wall, the cameras won’t see you. Once you’re on the ground, stick to the shadows and head that way until you get to the edge. You’ll feel as well as see the cleft. Follow the cleft and go north. Remember, go north.”

Then Peng Li explained the technique for entering First Space as the ground turned during the Change. He had to wait until the ground began to cleave and rise. Then, from the elevated edge, he had to swing over and scramble about fifty meters over the cross section until he reached the other side of the turning earth, climb over, and head east. There, he would find a bush that he could hold onto as the ground descended and closed up. He could then conceal himself in the bush. Before Peng had even finished his explanation, Lao Dao was already halfway out the window, getting ready to climb down.

Peng Li held onto Lao Dao and made sure his foot was securely in the first foothold. Then he stopped. “I’m going to say something that you might not want to hear. I don’t think you should go. Over there … is not so great. If you go, you’ll end up feeling your own life is shit, pointless.”

Lao Dao was reaching down with his other foot, testing for the next foothold. His body strained against the windowsill and his words came out labored. “It doesn’t matter. I already know my life is shit without having gone there.”

“Take care of yourself,” Peng Li said.

Lao Dao followed Peng Li’s directions and groped his way down as quickly as he dared; the footholds felt very secure. He looked up and saw Peng Li light up a cigarette next to the window, taking deep drags. Peng Li put out the cigarette, leaned out, and seemed about to say something more, but ultimately he retreated back into his unit quietly. He closed his window, which glowed with a faint light.

Lao Dao imagined Peng Li crawling into his cocoon–bed at the last minute, right before the Change. Like millions of others across the city, the cocoon–bed would release a soporific gas that put him into deep sleep. He would feel nothing as his body was transported by the flipping world, and he would not open his eyes again until tomorrow evening, forty–hours later. Peng Li was no longer young; he was no longer different from the other fifty million who lived in Third Space.

Lao Dao climbed faster, barely touching the footholds. When he was close enough to the ground, he let go and landed on all fours. Luckily, Peng Li’s unit was only on the fourth story, not too far up. He got up and ran through the shadow cast by the building next to the lake. He saw the crevice in the grass where the ground would open up.

But before he reached it, he heard the muffled rumbling from behind him, interrupted by a few crisp clangs. Lao Dao turned around and saw Peng Li’s building break in half. The top half folded down and pressed toward him, slowly but inexorably.

Shocked, Lao Dao stared at the sight for a few moments before recovering. He raced to the fissure in the ground, and lay prostrate next to it.

The Change began. This was a process repeated every twenty–four hours. The whole world started to turn. The sound of steel and masonry folding, grating, colliding filled the air, like an assembly line grinding to a halt. The towering buildings of the city gathered and merged into solid blocks; neon signs, shop awnings, balconies, and other protruding fixtures retracted into the buildings or flattened themselves into a thin layer against the walls, like skin. Every inch of space was utilized as the buildings compacted themselves into the smallest space.

The ground rose up. Lao Dao watched and waited until the fissure was wide enough. He crawled over the marble–lined edge onto the earthen wall, grabbing onto bits of metal protruding out of the soil. As the cleft widened and the walls elevated, he climbed, using his hands as well as feet. At first, he was climbing down, testing for purchase with his feet. But soon, as the entire section of ground rotated, he was lifted into the air, and up and down flipped around.

Lao Dao was thinking about last night.

He had cautiously stuck his head out of the trash heap, alert for any sound from the other side of the gate. The fermenting, rotting garbage around him was pungent: Greasy, fishy, even a bit sweet. He leaned against the iron gate. Outside, the world was waking up.

As soon as the yellow glow of the streetlights seeped into the seam under the lifting gate, he squatted and crawled out of the widening opening. The streets were empty; lights came on in the tall buildings, story by story; fixtures extruded from the sides of buildings, unfolding and extending, segment by segment; porches emerged from the walls; the eaves rotated and gradually dropped down into position; stairs extended and descended to the street. On both sides of the road, one black cube after another broke apart and opened, revealing the racks and shelves inside. Signboards emerged from the tops of the cubes and connected together while plastic awnings extended from both sides of the lane to meet in the middle, forming a corridor of shops. The streets were empty, as though Lao Dao were dreaming.

The neon lights came on. Tiny flashing LEDs on top of the shops formed into characters advertising jujubes from Xinjiang, lapi noodles from Northeast China, bran dough from Shanghai, and cured meats from Hunan.

For the rest of the day, Lao Dao couldn’t forget the scene. He had lived in this city for forty–eight years, but he had never seen such a sight. His days had always started with the cocoon and ended with the cocoon, and the time in between was spent at work or navigating dirty tables at hawker stalls and loudly bargaining crowds surrounding street vendors. This was the first time he had seen the world, bare.

Every morning, an observer at some distance from the city—say, a truck driver waiting on the highway into Beijing—could see the entire city fold and unfold.

At six in the morning, the truck drivers usually got out of their cabs and walked to the side of the highway, where they rubbed their eyes, still drowsy after an uncomfortable night in the truck. Yawning, they greeted each other and gazed at the distant city center. The break in the highway was just outside the Seventh Ring Road, while all the ground rotation occurred within the Sixth Ring Road. The distance was perfect for taking in the whole city, like gazing at an island in the sea.

In the early dawn, the city folded and collapsed. The skyscrapers bowed submissively like the humblest servants until their heads touched their feet; then they broke again, folded again, and twisted their necks and arms, stuffing them into the gaps. The compacted blocks that used to be the skyscrapers shuffled and assembled into dense, gigantic Rubik’s Cubes that fell into a deep slumber.

The ground then began to turn. Square by square, pieces of the earth flipped 180 degrees around an axis, revealing the buildings on the other side. The buildings unfolded and stood up, awakening like a herd of beasts under the gray–blue sky. The island that was the city settled in the orange sunlight, spread open, and stood still as misty gray clouds roiled around it.

The truck drivers, tired and hungry, admired the endless cycle of urban renewal.

 2.

The folding city was divided into three spaces. One side of the earth was First Space, population five million. Their allotted time lasted from six o’clock in the morning to six o’clock the next morning. Then the space went to sleep, and the earth flipped.

The other side was shared by Second Space and Third Space. Twenty–five million people lived in Second Space, and their allotted time lasted from six o’clock on that second day to ten o’clock at night. Fifty million people lived in Third Space, allotted the time from ten o’clock at night to six o’clock in the morning, at which point First Space returned. Time had been carefully divided and parceled out to separate the populations: Five million enjoyed the use of twenty–four hours, and seventy–five million enjoyed the next twenty–four hours.

The structures on two sides of the ground were not even in weight. To remedy the imbalance, the earth was made thicker in First Space, and extra ballast buried in the soil to make up for the missing people and buildings. The residents of First Space considered the extra soil a natural emblem of their possession of a richer, deeper heritage.

Lao Dao had lived in Third Space since birth. He understood very well the reality of his situation, even without Peng Li pointing it out. He was a waste worker; he had processed trash for twenty–eight years, and would do so for the foreseeable future. He had not found the meaning of his existence or the ultimate refuge of cynicism; instead, he continued to hold onto the humble place assigned to him in life.

Lao Dao had been born in Beijing. His father was also a waste worker. His father told him that when Lao Dao was born, his father had just gotten his job, and the family had celebrated for three whole days. His father had been a construction worker, one of millions of other construction workers who had come to Beijing from all over China in search of work. His father and others like him had built this folding city. District by district, they had transformed the old city. Like termites swarming over a wooden house, they had chewed up the wreckage of the past, overturned the earth, and constructed a brand new world. They had swung their hammers and wielded their adzes, keeping their heads down; brick by brick, they had walled themselves off until they could no longer see the sky. Dust had obscured their views, and they had not known the grandeur of their work. Finally, when the completed building stood up before them like a living person, they had scattered in terror, as though they had given birth to a monster. But after they calmed down, they realized what an honor it would be to live in such a city in the future, and so they had continued to toil diligently and docilely, to meekly seek out any opportunity to remain in the city. It was said that when the folding city was completed, more than eighty million construction workers had wanted to stay. Ultimately, no more than twenty million were allowed to settle.

It had not been easy to get a job at the waste processing station. Although the work only involved sorting trash, so many applied that stringent selection criteria had to be imposed: The desired candidates had to be strong, skillful, discerning, organized, diligent, and unafraid of the stench or difficult environment. Strong–willed, Lao Dao’s father had held fast onto the thin reed of opportunity as the tide of humanity surged and then receded around him, until he found himself a survivor on the dry beach.

His father had then kept his head down and labored away in the acidic rotten fetor of garbage and crowding for twenty years. He had built this city; he was also a resident and a decomposer.

Construction of the folding city had been completed two years before Lao Dao’s birth. He had never been anywhere else, and had never harbored the desire to go anywhere else. He finished elementary school, middle school, high school, and took the annual college entrance examination three times—failing each time. In the end, he became a waste worker, too. At the waste processing station, he worked for five hours each shift, from eleven at night to four in the morning. Together with tens of thousands of co–workers, he mechanically and quickly sorted through the trash, picking out recyclable bits from the scraps of life from First Space and Second Space and tossing them into the processing furnace. Every day, he faced the trash on the conveyer belt flowing past him like a river, and he scraped off the leftover food from plastic bowls, picked out broken glass bottles, tore off the clean, thin backing from blood–stained sanitary napkins, stuffing it into the recyclables can marked with green lines. This was their lot: to eke out a living by performing the repetitive drudgery as fast as possible, to toil hour after hour for rewards as thin as the wings of cicadas.

Twenty million waste workers lived in Third Space; they were the masters of the night. The other thirty million made a living by selling clothes, food, fuel, or insurance, but most people understood that the waste workers were the backbone of Third Space’s prosperity. Each time he strolled through the neon–bedecked night streets, Lao Dao thought he was walking under rainbows made of food scraps. He couldn’t talk about this feeling with others. The younger generation looked down on the profession of the waste worker. They tried to show off on the dance floors of nightclubs, hoping to find jobs as DJs or dancers. Even working at a clothing store seemed a better choice: their fingers would be touching thin fabric instead of scrabbling through rotting garbage for plastic or metal. The young were no longer so terrified about survival; they cared far more about appearances.

Lao Dao didn’t despise his work. But when he had gone to Second Space, he had been terrified of being despised.

The previous morning, Lao Dao had snuck his way out of the trash chute with a slip of paper and tried to find the author of the slip based on the address written on it.

Second Space wasn’t far from Third Space. They were located on the same side of the ground, though they were divided in time. At the Change, the buildings of one space folded and retracted into the ground as the buildings of another space extended into the air, segment by segment, using the tops of the buildings of the other space as its foundation. The only difference between the spaces was the density of buildings. Lao Dao had to wait a full day and night inside the trash chute for the opportunity to emerge as Second Space unfolded. Although this was the first time he had been to Second Space, he wasn’t anxious. He only worried about the rotting smell on him.

Luckily, Qin Tian was a generous soul. Perhaps he had been prepared for what sort of person would show up since the moment he put that slip of paper inside the bottle.

Qin Tian was very kind. He knew at a glance why Lao Dao had come. He pulled him inside his home, offered him a hot bath, and gave him one of his own bathrobes to wear. “I have to count on you,” Qin Tian said.

Qin was a graduate student living in a university–owned apartment. He had three roommates, and besides the four bedrooms, the apartment had a kitchen and two bathrooms. Lao Dao had never taken a bath in such a spacious bathroom, and he really wanted to soak for a while and get rid of the smell on his body. But he was also afraid of getting the bathtub dirty and didn’t dare to rub his skin too hard with the washcloth. The jets of bubbles coming out of the bathtub walls startled him, and being dried by hot jets of air made him uncomfortable. After the bath, he picked up the bathrobe from Qin Tian and only put it on after hesitating for a while. He laundered his own clothes, as well as a few other shirts casually left in a basin. Business was business, and he didn’t want to owe anyone any favors.

Qin Tian wanted to send a gift to a woman he liked. They had gotten to know each other from work when Qin Tian had been given the opportunity to go to First Space for an internship with the UN Economic Office, where she was also working. The internship had lasted only a month. Qin told Lao Dao that the young woman was born and bred in First Space, with very strict parents. Her father wouldn’t allow her to date a boy from Second Space, and that was why he couldn’t contact her through regular channels. Qin was optimistic about the future; he was going to apply to the UN’s New Youth Project after graduation, and if he were to be chosen, he would be able to go to work in First Space. He still had another year of school left before he would get his degree, but he was going crazy pining for her. He had made a rose–shaped locket for her that glowed in the dark: This was the gift he would use to ask for her hand in marriage.

“I was attending a symposium, you know, the one that discussed the UN’s debt situation? You must have heard of it… anyway, I saw her, and I was like, Ah! I went over right away to talk to her. She was helping the VIPs to their seats, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just followed her around. Finally, I pretended that I had to find interpreters, and I asked her to help me. She was so gentle, and her voice was really soft. I had never really asked a girl out, you understand, so I was super nervous… Later, after we started dating, I brought up how we met… Why are you laughing? Yes, we dated. No, I don’t think we quite got to that kind of relationship, but… well, we kissed.” Qin Tian laughed as well, a bit embarrassed. “I’m telling the truth! Don’t you believe me? Yes, I guess sometimes even I can’t believe it. Do you think she really likes me?”

“I have no idea,” Lao Dao said. “I’ve never met her.”

One of Qin Tian’s roommates came over, and smiling, said, “Uncle, why are you taking his question so seriously? That’s not a real question. He just wants to hear you say, ‘Of course she loves you! You’re so handsome.’”

“She must be beautiful.”

“I’m not afraid that you’ll laugh at me.” Qin Tian paced back and forth in front of Lao Dao. “When you see her, you’ll understand the meaning of ‘peerless elegance.’”

Qin Tian stopped, sinking into a reverie. He was thinking of Yi Yan’s mouth. Her mouth was perhaps his favorite part of her: So tiny, so smooth, with a full bottom lip that glowed with a natural, healthy pink, making him want to give it a loving bite. Her neck also aroused him. Sometimes it appeared so thin that the tendons showed, but the lines were straight and pretty. The skin was fair and smooth, extending down into the collar of her blouse so that his gaze lingered on her second button. The first time he tried to kiss her, she had moved her lips away shyly. He had persisted until she gave in, closing her eyes and returning the kiss. Her lips had felt so soft, and his hands had caressed the curve of her waist and backside, again and again. From that day on, he had lived in the country of longing. She was his dream at night, and also the light he saw when he trembled in his own hand.

Qin Tian’s roommate was called Zhang Xian, who seemed to relish the opportunity to converse with Lao Dao.

Zhang Xian asked Lao Dao about life in Third Space, and mentioned that he actually wanted to live in Third Space for a while. He had been given the advice that if he wanted to climb up the ladder of government administration, some managerial experience in Third Space would be very helpful. Several prominent officials had all started their careers as Third Space administrators before being promoted to First Space. If they had stayed in Second Space, they wouldn’t have gone anywhere and would have spent the rest of their careers as low–level administrative cadres. Zhang Xian’s ambition was to eventually enter government service, and he was certain he knew the right path. Still, he wanted to go work at a bank for a couple of years first and earn some quick money. Since Lao Dao seemed noncommittal about his plans, Zhang Xian thought Lao Dao disapproved of his careerism.

“The current government is too inefficient and ossified,” he added quickly, “slow to respond to challenges, and I don’t see much hope for systematic reform. When I get my opportunity, I’ll push for rapid reforms: Anyone who’s incompetent will be fired.” Since Lao Dao still didn’t seem to show much reaction, he added, “I’ll also work to expand the pool of candidates for government service and promotion, including opening up opportunities for candidates from Third Space.”

Lao Dao said nothing. It wasn’t because he disapproved; rather, he found it hard to believe Zhang Xian.

While he talked with Lao Dao, Zhang Xian was also putting on a tie and fixing his hair in front of the mirror. He had on a shirt with light blue stripes, and the tie was a bright blue. He closed his eyes and frowned as the mist of hairspray settled around his face, whistling all the while.

Zhang Xian left with his briefcase for his internship at the bank. Qin Tian said he had to get going as well since he had classes that would last until four in the afternoon. Before he left, he transferred fifty thousand yuan over the net to Lao Dao’s account while Lao Dao watched, and explained that he would transfer the rest after Lao Dao succeeded in his mission.

“Have you been saving up for this for a while?” Lao Dao asked. “You’re a student, so money is probably tight. I can accept less if necessary.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m on a paid internship with a financial advisory firm. They pay me around a hundred thousand each month, so the total I’m promising you is about two months of my salary. I can afford it.”

Lao Dao said nothing. He earned the standard salary of ten thousand each month.

“Please bring back her answer,” Qin Tian said.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Help yourself to the fridge if you get hungry. Just stay put here and wait for the Change.”

Lao Dao looked outside the window. He couldn’t get used to the sunlight, which was a bright white, not the yellow he was used to. The street seemed twice as wide in the sun as what Lao Dao remembered from Third Space, and he wasn’t sure if that was a visual illusion. The buildings here weren’t nearly as tall as buildings in Third Space. The sidewalks were filled with people walking very fast, and from time to time, some trotted and tried to shove their way through the crowd, causing those in front of them to begin running as well. Everyone seemed to run across intersections. The men dressed mostly in western suits while the women wore blouses and short skirts, with scarves around their necks and compact, rigid purses in their hands that lent them an air of competence and efficiency. The street was filled with cars, and as they waited at intersections for the light to change, the drivers stuck their heads out of the windows, gazing ahead anxiously. Lao Dao had never seen so many cars; he was used to the mass–transit maglev packed with passengers whooshing by him.

Around noon, he heard noises in the hallway outside the apartment. Lao Dao peeked out of the peephole in the door. The floor of the hallway had transformed into a moving conveyor belt, and bags of trash left at the door of each apartment were shoved onto the conveyor belt to be deposited into the chute at the end. Mist filled the hall, turning into soap bubbles that drifted through the air, and then water washed the floor, followed by hot steam.

A noise from behind Lao Dao startled him. He turned around and saw that another of Qin Tian’s roommates had emerged from his bedroom. The young man ignored Lao Dao, his face impassive. He went to some machine next to the balcony and pushed some buttons, and the machine came to life, popping, whirring, grinding. Eventually, the noise stopped, and Lao Dao smelled something delicious. The young man took out a piping hot plate of food from the machine and returned to his room. Through the half–open bedroom door, Lao Dao could see that the young man was sitting on the floor in a pile of blankets and dirty socks, and staring at his wall as he ate and laughed, pushing up his glasses from time to time. After he was done eating, he left the plate at his feet, stood up, and began to fight someone invisible as he faced the wall. He struggled, his breathing labored, as he wrestled the unseen enemy.

Lao Dao’s last memory of Second Space was the refined air with which everyone conducted themselves before the Change. Looking down from the window of the apartment, everything seemed so orderly that he felt a hint of envy. Starting at a quarter past nine, the stores along the street turned off their lights one after another; groups of friends, their faces red with drink, said goodbye in front of restaurants. Young couples kissed next to taxicabs. And then everyone returned to their homes, and the world went to sleep.

It was ten at night. He returned to his world to go to work.

 3.

There was no trash chute connecting First Space directly with Third Space. The trash from First Space had to pass through a set of metal gates to be transported into Third Space, and the gates shut as soon as the trash went through. Lao Dao didn’t like the idea of having to go over the flipping ground, but he had no choice.

As the wind whipped around him, he crawled up the still–rotating earth toward First Space. He grabbed onto metal structural elements protruding from the soil, struggling to balance his body and calm his heart, until he finally managed to scrabble over the rim of this most distant world. He felt dizzy and nauseated from the intense climb, and forcing down his churning stomach, he remained still on the ground for a while.

By the time he got up, the sun had risen.

Lao Dao had never seen such a sight. The sun rose gradually. The sky was a deep and pure azure, with an orange fringe at the horizon, decorated with slanted, thin wisps of cloud. The eaves of a nearby building blocked the sun, and the eaves appeared especially dark while the background was dazzlingly bright. As the sun continued to rise, the blue of the sky faded a little, but seemed even more tranquil and clear. Lao Dao stood up and ran at the sun; he wanted to catch a trace of that fading golden color. Silhouettes of waving tree branches broke up the sky. His heart leapt wildly. He had never imagined that a sunrise could be so moving.

After a while, he slowed down and calmed himself. He was standing in the middle of the street, lined on both sides with tall trees and wide lawns. He looked around, and he couldn’t see any buildings at all. Confused, he wondered if he had really reached First Space. He pondered the two rows of sturdy gingkoes.

He backed up a few steps and turned to look in the direction he had come from. There was a road sign next to the street. He took out his phone and looked at the map—although he wasn’t authorized to download live maps from First Space, he had downloaded and stored some maps before leaving on this trip. He found where he was as well as where he needed to be. He was standing next to a large open park, and the seam he had emerged from was next to a lake in that park.

Lao Dan ran about a kilometer through the deserted streets until he reached the residential district containing his destination. He hid behind some bushes and observed the beautiful house from a distance.

At eight thirty, Yi Yan came out of the house.

She was indeed as elegant as Qin Tian’s description had suggested, though perhaps not as pretty. Lao Dao wasn’t surprised, however. No woman could possibly be as beautiful as Qin Tian’s verbal portrait. He also understood why Qin Tian had spoken so much of her mouth. Her eyes and nose were fairly ordinary. She had a good figure: Tall, with delicate bones. She wore a milky white dress with a flowing skirt. Her belt was studded with pearls, and she had on black heels.

Lao Dao walked up to her. To avoid startling her, he approached from the front, and bowed deeply when he was still some distance away.

She stood still, looking at him in surprise.

Lao Dao came closer and explained his mission. He took out the envelope with the locket and Qin Tian’s letter.

She looked alarmed. “Please leave,” she whispered. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Uh… I don’t really need to talk to you,” Lao Dao said. “I just need to give you this letter.”

She refused to take it from him, clasping her hands tightly. “I can’t accept this now. Please leave. Really, I’m begging you. All right?” She took out a business card from her purse and handed it to him. “Come find me at this address at noon.”

Lao Dao looked at the card. At the top was the name of a bank.

“At noon,” she said. “Wait for me in the underground supermarket.”

Lao Dao could tell how anxious she was. He nodded, put the card away, and returned to hide behind the bushes. Soon, a man emerged from the house and stopped next to her. The man looked to be about Lao Dao’s age, or maybe a couple of years younger. Dressed in a dark gray, well–fitted suit, he was tall and broad–shouldered. Not fat, just thickset. His face was nondescript: Round, a pair of glasses, hair neatly combed to one side.

The man grabbed Yi Yan around the waist and kissed her on the lips. Yi Yan seemed to give in to the kiss reluctantly.

Understanding began to dawn on Lao Dao.

A single–rider cart arrived in front of the house. The black cart had two wheels and a canopy, and resembled an ancient carriage or rickshaw one might see on TV, except there was no horse or person pulling the cart. The cart stopped and dipped forward. Yi Yan stepped in, sat down, and arranged the skirt of the dress neatly around her knees. The cart straightened and began to move at a slow, steady pace, as though pulled by some invisible horse. After Yi Yan left, a driverless car arrived, and the man got in.

Lao Dao paced in place. He felt something was pushing at his throat, but he couldn’t articulate it. Standing in the sun, he closed his eyes. The clean, fresh air filled his lungs and provided some measure of comfort.

A moment later, he was on his way. The address Yi Yan had given him was to the east, a little more than three kilometers away. There were very few people in the pedestrian lane, and only scattered cars sped by in a blur on the eight–lane avenue. Occasionally, well–dressed women passed Lao Dao in two–wheeled carts. The passengers adopted such graceful postures that it was as though they were in some fashion show. No one paid any attention to Lao Dao. The trees swayed in the breeze, and the air in their shade seemed suffused with the perfume from the elegant women.

Yi Yan’s office was in the Xidan commercial district. There were no skyscrapers at all, only a few low buildings scattered around a large park. The buildings seemed isolated from each other but were really parts of a single compound connected via underground passages.

Lao Dao found the supermarket. He was early. As soon as he came in, a small shopping cart began to follow him around. Every time he stopped by a shelf, the screen on the cart displayed the names of the goods on the shelf, their description, customer reviews, and comparison with other brands in the same category. All merchandise in the supermarket seemed to be labeled in foreign languages. The packaging for all the food products was very refined, and small cakes and fruits were enticingly arranged on plates for customers. He didn’t dare to touch anything, keeping his distance as though they were dangerous, exotic animals. There seemed to be no guards or clerks in the whole market.

More customers appeared before noon. Some men in suits came into the market, grabbed sandwiches, and waved them at the scanner next to the door before hurrying out. No one paid any attention to Lao Dao as he waited in an obscure corner near the door.

Yi Yan appeared, and Lao Dao went up to her. Yi Yan glanced around, and without saying anything, led Lao Dao to a small restaurant next door. Two small robots dressed in plaid skirts greeted them, took Yi Yan’s purse, brought them to a booth, and handed them menus. Yi Yan pressed a few spots on the menu to make her selection and handed the menu back to the robot. The robot turned and glided smoothly on its wheels to the back.

Yi Yan and Lao Dao sat mutely across from each other. Lao Dao took out the envelope.

Yi Yan still didn’t take it from him. “Can you let me explain?”

Lao Dao pushed the envelope across the table. “Please take this first.”

Yi Yan pushed it back.

“Can you let me explain first?”

“You don’t need to explain anything,” Lao Dao said. “I didn’t write this letter. I’m just the messenger.”

“But you have to go back and give him an answer.” Yi Yan looked down. The little robot returned with two plates, one for each of them. On each plate were two slices of some kind of red sashimi, arranged like flower petals. Yi Yan didn’t pick up her chopsticks, and neither did Lao Dao. The envelope rested between the two plates, and neither touched it. “I didn’t betray him. When I met him last year, I was already engaged. I didn’t lie to him or conceal the truth from him on purpose… Well, maybe I did lie, but it was because he assumed and guessed. He saw Wu Wen come to pick me up once, and he asked me if he was my father. I… I couldn’t answer him, you know? It was just too embarrassing. I…”

Yi Yan couldn’t speak any more.

Lao Dao waited a while. “I’m not interested in what happened between you two. All I care about is that you take the letter.”

Yi Yan kept her head down, and then she looked up. “After you go back, can you… help me by not telling him everything?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want him to think that I was just playing with his feelings. I do like him, really. I feel very conflicted.”

“None of this is my concern.”

“Please, I’m begging you… I really do like him.”

Lao Dao was silent for a while.

“But you got married in the end?”

“Wu Wen was very good to me. We’d been together several years. He knew my parents, and we’d been engaged for a long time. Also, I’m three years older than Qin Tian, and I was afraid he wouldn’t like that. Qin Tian thought I was an intern, like him, and I admit that was my fault for not telling him the truth. I don’t know why I said I was an intern at first, and then it became harder and harder to correct him. I never thought he would be serious.”

Slowly, Yi Yan told Lao Dao her story. She was actually an assistant to the bank’s president and had already been working there for two years at the time she met Qin Tian. She had been sent to the UN for training, and was helping out at the symposium. In fact, her husband earned so much money that she didn’t really need to work, but she didn’t like the idea of being at home all day. She worked only half days and took a half–time salary. The rest of the day was hers to do with as she pleased, and she liked learning new things and meeting new people. She really had enjoyed the months she spent training at the UN. She told Lao Dao that there were many wives like her who worked half–time. As a matter of fact, after she got off work at noon, another wealthy wife worked as the president’s assistant in the afternoon. She told Lao Dao that though she had not told Qin Tian the truth, her heart was honest.

“And so”—she spooned a serving of the new hot dish onto Lao Dao’s plate—“can you please not tell him, just temporarily? Please… give me a chance to explain to him myself.”

Lao Dao didn’t pick up his chopsticks. He was very hungry, but he felt that he could not eat this food.

“Then I’d be lying, too,” Lao Dao said.

Yi Yan opened her purse, took out her wallet, and retrieved five 10,000–yuan bills. She pushed them across the table toward Lao Dao. “Please accept this token of my appreciation.”

Lao Dao was stunned. He had never seen bills with such large denominations or needed to use them. Almost subconsciously, he stood up, angry. The way Yi Yan had taken out the money seemed to suggest that she had been anticipating an attempt from him to blackmail her, and he could not accept that. This is what they think of Third Spacers. He felt that if he took her money, he would be selling Qin Tian out. It was true that he really wasn’t Qin Tian’s friend, but he still thought of it as a kind of betrayal. Lao Dao wanted to grab the bills, throw them on the ground, and walk away. But he couldn’t. He looked at the money again: The five thin notes were spread on the table like a broken fan. He could sense the power they had on him. They were baby blue in color, distinct from the brown 1,000–yuan note and the red 100–yuan note. These bills looked deeper, most distant somehow, like a kind of seduction. Several times, he wanted to stop looking at them and leave, but he couldn’t.

She continued to rummage through her purse, taking everything out, until she finally found another fifty thousand yuan from an inner pocket and placed them together with the other bills. “This is all I have. Please take it and help me.” She paused. “Look, the reason I don’t want him to know is because I’m not sure what I’m going to do. It’s possible that someday I’ll have the courage to be with him.”

Lao Dao looked at the ten notes spread out on the table, and then looked up at her. He sensed that she didn’t believe what she was saying. Her voice was hesitant, belying her words. She was just delaying everything to the future so that she wouldn’t be embarrassed now. She was unlikely to ever elope with Qin Tian, but she also didn’t want him to despise her. Thus, she wanted to keep alive the possibility so that she could feel better about herself.

Lao Dao could see that she was lying to herself, but he wanted to lie to himself, too. He told himself, I have no duty to Qin Tian. All he asked was for me to deliver his message to her, and I’ve done that. The money on the table now represents a new commission, a commitment to keep a secret. He waited, and then told himself, Perhaps someday she really will get together with Qin Tian, and in that case I’ll have done a good deed by keeping silent. Besides, I need to think about Tangtang. Why should I get myself all worked up about strangers instead of thinking about Tangtang’s welfare? He felt calmer. He realized that his fingers were already touching the money.

“This is… too much.” He wanted to make himself feel better. “I can’t accept so much.”

“It’s no big deal.” She stuffed the bills into his hand. “I earn this much in a week. Don’t worry.”

“What… what do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him that I can’t be with him now, but I truly like him. I’ll write you a note to bring him.” Yi Yan found a notepad in her purse; it had a picture of a peacock on the cover and the edges of the pages were golden. She ripped out a page and began to write. Her handwriting looked like a string of slanted gourds.

As Lao Dao left the restaurant, he glanced back. Yi Yan was sitting in the booth, gazing up at a painting on the wall. She looked so elegant and refined, as though she was never going to leave.

He squeezed the bills in his pocket. He despised himself, but he wanted to hold on to the money.

 4.

Lao Dao left Xidan and returned the way he had come. He felt exhausted. The pedestrian lane was lined with a row of weeping willows on one side and a row of Chinese parasol trees on the other side. It was late spring, and everything was a lush green. The afternoon sun warmed his stiff face, and brightened his empty heart.

He was back at the park from this morning. There were many people in the park now, and the two rows of gingkoes looked stately and luscious. Black cars entered the park from time to time, and most of the people in the park wore either well–fitted western suits made of quality fabric or dark–colored stylish Chinese suits, but everyone gave off a haughty air. There were also some foreigners. Some of the people conversed in small groups; others greeted each other at a distance, and then laughed as they got close enough to shake hands and walk together.

Lao Dao hesitated, trying to decide where to go. There weren’t that many people in the street, and he would draw attention if he just stood here. But he would look out of place in any public area. He wanted to go back into the park, get close to the fissure, and hide in some corner to take a nap. He felt very sleepy, but he dared not sleep on the street.

He noticed that the cars entering the park didn’t seem to need to stop, and so he tried to walk into the park as well. Only when he was close to the park gate did he notice that two robots were patrolling the area. While cars and other pedestrians passed their sentry line with no problems, the robots beeped as soon as Lao Dao approached and turned on their wheels to head for him. In the tranquil afternoon, the noise they made seemed especially loud. The eyes of everyone nearby turned to him. He panicked, uncertain if it was his shabby clothes that alerted the robots. He tried to whisper to the robots, claiming that his suit was left inside the park, but the robots ignored him while they continued to beep and to flash the red lights over their heads. People strolling inside the park stopped and looked at him as though looking at a thief or eccentric person. Soon, three men emerged from a nearby building and ran over. Lao Dao’s heart was in his throat. He wanted to run, but it was too late.

“What’s going on?” the man in the lead asked loudly.

Lao Dao couldn’t think of anything to say, and he rubbed his pants compulsively.

The man in the front was in his thirties. He came up to Lao Dao and scanned him with a silver disk about the size of a button, moving his hand around Lao Dao’s person. He looked at Lao Dao suspiciously, as though trying to pry open his shell with a can opener.

“There’s no record of this man.” The man gestured at the older man behind him. “Bring him in.”

Lao Dao started to run away from the park.

The two robots silently dashed ahead of him and grabbed onto his legs. Their arms were cuffs and locked easily about his ankles. He tripped and almost fell, but the robots held him up. His arms swung through the air helplessly.

“Why are you trying to run?” The younger man stepped up and glared at him. His tone was now severe.

“I…” Lao Dao’s head felt like a droning beehive. He couldn’t think.

The two robots lifted Lao Dao by the legs and deposited his feet onto platforms next to their wheels. Then they drove toward the nearest building in parallel, carrying Lao Dao. Their movements were so steady, so smooth, so synchronized, that from a distance, it appeared as if Lao Dao was skating along on a pair of rollerblades, like Nezha riding on his Wind Fire Wheels.

Lao Dao felt utterly helpless. He was angry with himself for being so careless. How could he think such a crowded place would be without security measures? He berated himself for being so drowsy that he could commit such a stupid mistake. It’s all over now, he thought. Not only am I not going to get my money, I’m also going to jail.

The robots followed a narrow path and reached the backdoor of the building, where they stopped. The three men followed behind. The younger man seemed to be arguing with the older man over what to do with Lao Dao, but they spoke so softly that Lao Dao couldn’t hear the details. After a while, the older man came up and unlocked the robots from Lao Dao’s legs. Then he grabbed him by the arm and took him upstairs.

Lao Dao sighed. He resigned himself to his fate.

The man brought him into a room. It looked like a hotel room, very spacious, bigger even than the living room in Qin Tian’s apartment, and about twice the size of his own rental unit. The room was decorated in a dark shade of golden brown, with a king–sized bed in the middle. The wall at the head of the bed showed abstract patterns of shifting colors. Translucent, white curtains covered the French window, and in front of the window sat a small circular table and two comfortable chairs. Lao Dao was anxious, unsure of who the older man was and what he wanted.

“Sit, sit!” The older man clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Everything’s fine.”

Lao Dao looked at him suspiciously.

“You’re from Third Space, aren’t you?” The older man pulled him over to the chairs, and gestured for him to sit.

“How do you know that?” Lao Dao couldn’t lie.

“From your pants.” The older man pointed at the waist of his pants. “You never even cut off the label. This brand is only sold in Third Space; I remember my mother buying them for my father when I was little.”

“Sir, you’re…?”

“You don’t need to ‘Sir’ me. I don’t think I’m much older than you are. How old are you? I’m fifty–two.”

“Forty–eight.”

“See, just older by four years.” He paused, and then added, “My name is Ge Daping. Why don’t you just call me Lao Ge?”

Lao Dao relaxed a little. Lao Ge took off his jacket and moved his arms about to stretch out the stiff muscles. Then he filled a glass with hot water from a spigot in the wall and handed it to Lao Dao. He had a long face, and the corners of his eyes, the ends of his eyebrows, and his cheeks drooped. Even his glasses seemed about to fall off the end of his nose. His hair was naturally a bit curly and piled loosely on top of his head. As he spoke, his eyebrows bounced up and down comically. He made some tea for himself and asked Lao Dao if he wanted any. Lao Dao shook his head.

“I was originally from Third Space as well,” said Lao Ge. “We’re practically from the same hometown! So, you don’t need to be so careful with me. I still have a bit of authority, and I won’t give you up.”

Lao Dao let out a long sigh, congratulating himself silently for his good luck. He recounted for Lao Ge his experiencing of going to Second Space and then coming to First Space, but omitted the details of what Yi Yan had said. He simply told Lao Ge that he had successfully delivered the message and was just waiting for the Change to head home.

Lao Ge also shared his own story with Lao Dao. He had grown up in Third Space, and his parents had worked as deliverymen. When he was fifteen, he entered a military school, and then joined the army. He worked as a radar technician in the army, and because he worked hard, demonstrated good technical skills, and had some good opportunities, he was eventually promoted to an administrative position in the radar department with the rank of brigadier general. Since he didn’t come from a prominent family, that rank was about as high as he could go in the army. He then retired from the army and joined an agency in First Space responsible for logistical support for government enterprises, organizing meetings, arranging travel, and coordinating various social events. The job was blue collar in nature, but since his work involved government officials and he had to coordinate and manage, he was allowed to live in First Space. There were a considerable number of people in First Space like him—chefs, doctors, secretaries, housekeepers—skilled blue–collar workers needed to support the lifestyle of First Space. His agency had run many important social events and functions, and Lao Ge was its director.

Lao Ge might have been self–deprecating in describing himself as a “blue collar,” but Lao Dao understood that anyone who could work and live in First Space had extraordinary skills. Even a chef here was likely a master of his art. Lao Ge must be very talented to have risen here from Third Space after a technical career in the army.

“You might as well take a nap,” Lao Ge said. “I’ll take you to get something to eat this evening.”

Lao Dao still couldn’t believe his good luck, and he felt a bit uneasy. However, he couldn’t resist the call of the white sheets and stuffed pillows, and he fell asleep almost right away.

When he woke up, it was dark outside. Lao Ge was combing his hair in front of the mirror. He showed Lao Dao a suit lying on the sofa and told him to change. Then he pinned a tiny badge with a faint red glow to Lao Dao’s lapel—a new identity.

The large open lobby downstairs was crowded. Some kind of presentation seemed to have just finished, and attendees conversed in small groups. At one end of the lobby were the open doors leading to the banquet hall; the thick doors were lined with burgundy leather. The lobby was filled with small standing tables. Each table was covered by a white tablecloth tied around the bottom with a golden bow, and the vase in the middle of each table held a lily. Crackers and dried fruits were set out next to the vases for snacking, and a long table to the side offered wine and coffee. Guests mingled and conversed among the tables while small robots holding serving trays shuttled between their legs, collecting empty glasses.

Forcing himself to be calm, Lao Dao followed Lao Ge and walked through the convivial scene into the banquet hall. He saw a large hanging banner: The Folding City at Fifty.

“What is this?” Lao Dao asked.

“A celebration!” Lao Ge was walking about and examining the set up. “Xiao Zhao, come here a minute. I want you to check the table signs one more time. I don’t trust robots for things like this. Sometimes they don’t know how to be flexible.”

Lao Dao saw that the banquet hall was filled with large round tables with fresh flower centerpieces.

The scene seemed unreal to him. He stood in a corner and gazed up at the giant chandelier as though some dazzling reality was hanging over him, and he was but an insignificant presence at its periphery. There was a lectern set up on the dais at the front, and, behind it, the background was an ever–shifting series of images of Beijing. The photographs were perhaps taken from an airplane and captured the entirety of the city: The soft light of dawn and dusk; the dark purple and deep blue sky; clouds racing across the sky; the moon rising from a corner; the sun setting behind a roof. The aerial shots revealed the magnificence of Beijing’s ancient symmetry; the modern expanse of brick courtyards and large green parks that had extended to the Sixth Ring Road; Chinese style theatres; Japanese style museums; minimalist concert halls. And then there were shots of the city as a whole, shots that included both faces of the city during the Change: The earth flipping, revealing the other side studded with skyscrapers with sharp, straight contours; men and women energetically rushing to work; neon signs lighting up the night, blotting out the stars; towering apartment buildings, cinemas, nightclubs full of beautiful people.

But there were no shots of where Lao Dao worked.

He stared at the screen intently, uncertain if they might show pictures during the construction of the folding city. He hoped to get a glimpse of his father’s era. When he was little, his father had often pointed to buildings outside the window and told him stories that started with “Back then, we…” An old photograph had hung on the wall of their cramped home, and in the picture his father was laying bricks, a task his father had performed thousands, or perhaps hundreds of thousands of times. He had seen that picture so many times that he thought he was sick of it, and yet, at this moment, he hoped to see a scene of workers laying bricks, even if for just a few seconds.

He was lost in his thoughts. This was also the first time he had seen what the Change looked like from a distance. He didn’t remember sitting down, and he didn’t know when others had sat down next to him. A man began to speak at the lectern, but Lao Dao wasn’t even listening for the first few minutes.

“… advantageous for the development of the service sector. The service economy is dependent on population size and density. Currently, the service industry of our city is responsible for more than 85 percent of our GDP, in line with the general characteristics of world–class metropolises. The other important sectors are the green economy and the recycling economy.” Lao Dao was paying full attention now. “Green economy” and “recycling economy” were often mentioned at the waste processing station, and the phrases were painted on the walls in characters taller than a man. He looked closer at the speaker on the dais: An old man with silvery hair, though he appeared hale and energetic. “… all trash is now sorted and processed, and we’ve achieved our goals for energy conservation and pollution reduction ahead of schedule. We’ve developed a systematic, large–scale recycling economy in which all the rare–earth and precious metals extracted from e–waste are reused in manufacturing, and even the plastics recycling rate exceeds eighty percent. The recycling stations are directly connected to the reprocessing plants…”

Lao Dao knew of a distant relative who worked at a reprocessing plant in the technopark far from the city. The technopark was just acres and acres of industrial buildings, and he heard that all the plants over there were very similar: The machines pretty much ran on their own, and there were very few workers. At night, when the workers got together, they felt like the last survivors of some dwindling tribe in a desolate wilderness.

He drifted off again. Only the wild applause at the end of the speech pulled him out of his chaotic thoughts and back to reality. He also applauded, though he didn’t know what for. He watched the speaker descend the dais and return to his place of honor at the head table. Everyone’s eyes were on him.

Lao Dao saw Wu Wen, Yi Yan’s husband.

Wu Wen was at the table next to the head table. As the old man who had given the speech sat down, Wu Wen walked over to offer a toast, and then he seemed to say something that got the old man’s attention. The old man got up and walked with Wu Wen out of the banquet hall. Almost subconsciously, a curious Lao Dao also got up and followed them. He didn’t know where Lao Ge had gone. Robots emerged to serve the dishes for the banquet.

Lao Dao emerged from the banquet hall and was back in the reception lobby. He eavesdropped on the other two from a distance and only caught snippets of conversation.

“… there are many advantages to this proposal,” said Wu Wen. “Yes, I’ve seen their equipment… automatic waste processing… they use a chemical solvent to dissolve and digest everything and then extract reusable materials in bulk… clean, and very economical… would you please give it some consideration?”

Wu Wen kept his voice low, but Lao Dao clearly heard “waste processing.” He moved closer.

The old man with the silvery hair had a complex expression. Even after Wu Wen was finished, he waited a while before speaking, “You’re certain that the solvent is safe? No toxic pollution?”

Wu Wen hesitated. “The current version still generates a bit of pollution but I’m sure they can reduce it to the minimum very quickly.”

Lao Dao got even closer.

The old man shook his head, staring at Wu Wen. “Things aren’t that simple. If I approve your project and it’s implemented, there will be major consequences. Your process won’t need workers, so what are you going to do with the tens of millions of people who will lose their jobs?”

The old man turned away and returned to the banquet hall. Wu Wen remained in place, stunned. A man who had been by the old man’s side—a secretary perhaps—came up to Wu Wen and said sympathetically, “You might as well go back and enjoy the meal. I’m sure you understand how this works. Employment is the number one concern. Do you really think no one has suggested similar technology in the past?”

Lao Dao understood vaguely that what they were talking about had to do with him, but he wasn’t sure whether it was good news or bad. Wu Wen’s expression shifted through confusion, annoyance, and then resignation. Lao Dao suddenly felt some sympathy for him: He had his moments of weakness, as well.

The secretary suddenly noticed Lao Dao.

“Are you new here?” he asked.

Lao Dao was startled. “Ah? Um…”

“What’s your name? How come I wasn’t informed about a new member of the staff?”

Lao Dao’s heart beat wildly. He didn’t know what to say. He pointed to the badge on his lapel, as though hoping the badge would speak or otherwise help him out. But the badge displayed nothing. His palms sweated. The secretary stared at him, his look growing more suspicious by the second. He grabbed another worker in the lobby, and the worker said he didn’t know who Lao Dao was.

The secretary’s face was now severe and dark. He grabbed Lao Dao with one hand and punched the keys on his communicator with the other hand.

Lao Dao’s heart threatened to jump out of his throat, but just then, he saw Lao Ge.

Lao Ge rushed over and with a smooth gesture, hung up the secretary’s communicator. Smiling, he greeted the secretary and bowed deeply. He explained that he was shorthanded for the occasion and had to ask for a colleague from another department to help out tonight. The secretary seemed to believe Lao Ge and returned to the banquet hall. Lao Ge brought Lao Dao back to his own room to avoid any further risks. If anyone really bothered to look into Lao Dao’s identity, they’d discover the truth, and even Lao Ge wouldn’t be able to protect him.

“I guess you’re not fated to enjoy the banquet.” Lao Ge laughed. “Just wait here. I’ll get you some food later.”

Lao Dao lay down on the bed and fell asleep again. He replayed the conversation between Wu Wen and the old man in his head. Automatic waste processing. What would that look like? Would that be a good thing or bad?

The next time he woke up, he smelled something delicious. Lao Ge had set out a few dishes on the small circular table, and was taking the last plate out of the warming oven on the wall. Lao Ge also brought over a half bottle of baijiu and filled two glasses.

“There was a table where they had only two people, and they left early so most of the dishes weren’t even touched. I brought some back. It’s not much, but maybe you’ll enjoy the taste. Hopefully you won’t hold it against me that I’m offering you leftovers.”

“Not at all,” Lao Dao said. “I’m grateful that I get to eat at all. These look wonderful! They must be very expensive, right?”

“The food at the banquet is prepared by the kitchen here and not for sale, so I don’t know how much they’d cost in a restaurant.” Lao Ge already started to eat. “They’re nothing special. If I had to guess, maybe ten thousand, twenty thousand? A couple might cost thirty, forty thousand. Not more than that.”

After a couple of bites, Lao Dao realized how hungry he was. He was used to skipping meals, and sometimes he could last a whole day without eating. His body would shake uncontrollably then, but he had learned to endure it. But now, the hunger was overwhelming. He wanted to chew quicker because his teeth couldn’t seem to catch up to the demands of his empty stomach. He tried to wash the food down with baijiu, which was very fragrant and didn’t sting his throat at all.

Lao Ge ate leisurely, and smiled as he watched Lao Dao eat.

“Oh.” Now that the pangs of hunger had finally been dulled a bit, Lao Dao remembered the earlier conversation. “Who was the man giving the speech? He seemed a bit familiar.”

“He’s always on TV,” Lao Ge said. “That’s my boss. He’s a man with real power—in charge of everything having to do with city operations.”

“They were talking about automatic waste processing earlier. Do you think they’ll really do it?”

“Hard to say.” Lao Ge sipped the baijiu and let out a burp. “I suspect not. You have to understand why they went with manual processing in the first place. Back then, the situation here was similar to Europe at the end of the twentieth century. The economy was growing, but so was unemployment. Printing money didn’t solve the problem. The economy refused to obey the Phillips curve.”

He saw that Lao Dao looked completely lost, and laughed. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand these things anyway.”

He clinked glasses with Lao Dao and the two drained their baijiu and refilled the glasses.

“I’ll just stick to unemployment. I’m sure you understand the concept,” Lao Ge continued. “As the cost of labor goes up and the cost of machinery goes down, at some point, it’ll be cheaper to use machines than people. With the increase in productivity, the GDP goes up, but so does unemployment. What do you do? Enact policies to protect the workers? Better welfare? The more you try to protect workers, the more you increase the cost of labor and make it less attractive for employers to hire people. If you go outside the city now to the industrial districts, there’s almost no one working in those factories. It’s the same thing with farming. Large commercial farms contain thousands and thousands of acres of land, and everything is automated so there’s no need for people. This kind of automation is absolutely necessary if you want to grow your economy—that was how we caught up to Europe and America, remember? Scaling! The problem is: Now you’ve gotten the people off the land and out of the factories, what are you going to do with them? In Europe, they went with the path of forcefully reducing everyone’s working hours and thus increasing employment opportunities. But this saps the vitality of the economy, you understand?

“The best way is to reduce the time a certain portion of the population spends living, and then find ways to keep them busy. Do you get it? Right, shove them into the night. There’s another advantage to this approach: The effects of inflation almost can’t be felt at the bottom of the social pyramid. Those who can get loans and afford the interest spend all the money you print. The GDP goes up, but the cost of basic necessities does not. And most of the people won’t even be aware of it.”

Lao Dao listened, only half grasping what was being said. But he could detect something cold and cruel in Lao Ge’s speech. Lao Ge’s manner was still jovial, but he could tell Lao Ge’s joking tone was just an attempt to dull the edge of his words and not hurt him. Not too much.

“Yes, it sounds a bit cold,” Lao Ge admitted. “But it’s the truth. I’m not trying to defend this place just because I live here. But after so many years, you grow a bit numb. There are many things in life we can’t change, and all we can do is to accept and endure.”

Lao Dao was finally beginning to understand Lao Ge, but he didn’t know what to say.

Both became a bit drunk. They began to reminisce about the past: The foods they ate as children, schoolyard fights. Lao Ge had loved hot and sour rice noodles and stinky tofu. These were not available in First Space, and he missed them dearly. Lao Ge talked about his parents, who still lived in Third Space. He couldn’t visit them often because each trip required him to apply and obtain special approval, which was very burdensome. He mentioned that there were some officially sanctioned ways to go between Third Space and First Space, and a few select people did make the trip often. He hoped that Lao Dao could bring a few things back to his parents because he felt regret and sorrow over his inability to be by their side and care for them.

Lao Dao talked about his lonely childhood. In the dim lamplight, he recalled his childhood spent alone wandering at the edge of the landfill.

It was now late night. Lao Ge had to go check up on the event downstairs, and he took Lao Dao with him. The dance party downstairs was about to be over, and tired–looking men and women emerged in twos and threes. Lao Ge said that entrepreneurs seemed to have the most energy, and often danced until the morning. The deserted banquet hall after the party looked messy and grubby, like a woman who took off her makeup after a long, tiring day. Lao Ge watched the robots trying to clean up the mess and laughed. “This is the only moment when First Space shows its true face.”

Lao Dao checked the time: Three hours until the Change. He sorted his thoughts: It’s time to leave.

 5.

The silver–haired speaker returned to his office after the banquet to deal with some paperwork, and then got on a video call with Europe. At midnight, he felt tired. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was finally time to go home. He worked till midnight on most days.

The phone rang. He picked up. It was his secretary.

The research group for the conference had reported something troubling. Someone had discovered an error with one of the figures used in the pre–printed conference declaration, and the research group wanted to know if they should re–print the declaration. The old man immediately approved the request. This was very important, and they had to get it right. He asked who was responsible for this, and the secretary told him that it was Director Wu Wen.

The old man sat down on his sofa and took a nap. Around four in the morning, the phone rang again. The printing was going a bit slower than expected, and they estimated it would take another hour.

He got up and looked outside the window. All was silent. He could see Orion’s bright stars twinkling against the dark sky.

The stars of Orion were reflected in the mirror–like surface of the lake. Lao Dao was sitting on the shore of the lake, waiting for the Change.

He gazed at the park at night, realizing that this was perhaps the last time he would see a sight such as this. He wasn’t sad or nostalgic. This was a beautiful, peaceful place, but it had nothing to do with him. He wasn’t envious or resentful. He just wanted to remember this experience. There were few lights at night here, nothing like the flashing neon that turned the streets of Third Space bright as day. The buildings of the city seemed to be asleep, breathing evenly and calmly.

At five in the morning, the secretary called again to say that the declaration had been re–printed and bound, but the documents were still in the print shop, and they wanted to know if they should delay the scheduled Change.

The old man made the decision right away. Of course they had to delay it.

At forty minutes past the hour, the printed declarations were brought to the conference site, but they still had to be stuffed into about three thousand individual folders.

Lao Dao saw the faint light of dawn. At this time during the year, the sun wouldn’t have risen by six, but it was possible to see the sky brightening near the horizon.

He was prepared. He looked at his phone: only a couple more minutes until six. But strangely, there were no signs of the Change. Maybe in First Space, even the Change happens more smoothly and steadily.

At ten after six, the last copy of the declaration was stuffed into its folder.

The old man let out a held breath. He gave the order to initiate the Change.

Lao Dao noticed that the earth was finally moving. He stood up and shook the numbness out of his limbs. Carefully, he stepped up to the edge of the widening fissure. As the earth on both sides of the crack lifted up, he clambered over the edge, tested for purchase with his feet, and climbed down. The ground began to turn.

At twenty after six, the secretary called again with an emergency. Director Wu Wen had carelessly left a data key with important documents behind at the banquet hall. He was worried that the cleaning robots might remove it, and he had to go retrieve it right away.

The old man was annoyed, but he gave the order to stop the Change and reverse course.

Lao Dao was climbing slowly over the cross section of the earth when everything stopped with a jolt. After a moment, the earth started moving again, but now in reverse. The fissure was closing up. Terrified, he climbed up as fast as he dared. Scrabbling over the soil with hands and feet, he had to be careful with his movements.

The seam closed faster than he had expected. Just as he reached the top, the two sides of the crack came together. One of his lower legs was caught. Although the soil gave enough to not crush his leg or break his bones, it held him fast and he couldn’t extricate himself despite several attempts. Sweat beaded on his forehead from terror and pain. Has he been discovered?

Lao Dao lay prostrate on the ground, listening. He seemed to hear steps hurrying toward him. He imagined that soon the police would arrive and catch him. They might cut off his leg and toss him in jail with the stump. He couldn’t tell when his identity had been revealed. As he lay on the grass, he felt the chill of morning dew. The damp air seeped through collar and cuffs, keeping him alert and making him shiver. He silently counted the seconds, hoping against hope that this was but a technical malfunction. He tried to plan for what to say if he was caught. Maybe he should mention how honestly and diligently he had toiled for twenty–eight years and try to buy a bit of sympathy. He didn’t know if he would be prosecuted in court. Fate loomed before his eyes.

Fate now pressed into his chest. Of everything he had experienced during the last forty–eight hours, the episode that had made the deepest impression was the conversation with Lao Ge at dinner. He felt that he had approached some aspect of truth, and perhaps that was why he could catch a glimpse of the outline of fate. But the outline was too distant, too cold, too out of reach. He didn’t know what was the point of knowing the truth. If he could see some things clearly but was still powerless to change them, what good did that do? In his case, he couldn’t even see clearly. Fate was like a cloud that momentarily took on some recognizable shape, and by the time he tried to get a closer look, the shape was gone. He knew that he was nothing more than a figure. He was but an ordinary person, one out of 51,280,000 others just like him. And if they didn’t need that much precision and spoke of only 50 million, he was but a rounding error, the same as if he had never existed. He wasn’t even as significant as dust. He grabbed onto the grass.

At six thirty, Wu Wen retrieved his data key. At six forty, Wu Wen was back in his home.

At six forty–five, the white–haired old man finally lay down on the small bed in his office, exhausted. The order had been issued, and the wheels of the world began to turn slowly. Transparent covers extended over the coffee table and the desk, securing everything in place. The bed released a cloud of soporific gas and extended rails on all sides; then it rose into the air. As the ground and everything on the ground turned, the bed would remain level, like a floating cradle.

The Change had started again.

After thirty minutes spent in despair, Lao Dao saw a trace of hope again. The ground was moving. He pulled his leg out as soon as the fissure opened, and then returned to the arduous climb over the cross–section as soon as the opening was wide enough. He moved with even more care than before. As circulation returned to his numb leg, his calf itched and ached as though he was being bitten by thousands of ants. Several times, he almost fell. The pain was intolerable, and he had to bite his fist to stop from screaming. He fell; he got up; he fell again; he got up again. He struggled with all his strength and skill to maintain his footing over the rotating earth.

He couldn’t even remember how he had climbed up the stairs. He only remembered fainting as soon as Qin Tian opened the door to his apartment.

Lao Dao slept for ten hours in Second Space. Qin Tian found a classmate in medical school to help dress his wound. He suffered massive damage to his muscles and soft tissue, but luckily, no bones were broken. However, he was going to have some difficulty walking for a while.

After waking up, Lao Dao handed Yi Yan’s letter to Qin Tian. He watched as Qin Tian read the letter, his face filling up with happiness as well as loss. He said nothing. He knew that Qin Tian would be immersed in this remote hope for a long time.

Returning to Third Space, Lao Dao felt as though he had been traveling for a month. The city was waking up slowly. Most of the residents had slept soundly, and now they picked up their lives from where they had left off the previous cycle. No one would notice that Lao Dao had been away.

As soon as the vendors along the pedestrian lane opened shop, he sat down at a plastic table and ordered a bowl of chow mein. For the first time in his life, Lao Dao asked for shredded pork to be added to the noodles. Just one time, he thought. A reward.

Then he went to Lao Ge’s home and delivered the two boxes of medicine Lao Ge had bought for his parents. The two elders were no longer mobile, and a young woman with a dull demeanor lived with them as a caretaker.

Limping, he slowly returned to his own rental unit. The hallway was noisy and chaotic, filled with the commotion of a typical morning: brushing teeth, flushing toilets, arguing families. All around him were disheveled hair and half–dressed bodies.

He had to wait a while for the elevator. As soon as he got off at his floor he heard loud arguing noises. It was the two girls who lived next door, Lan Lan and Ah Bei, arguing with the old lady who collected rent. All the units in the building were public housing, but the residential district had an agent who collected rent, and each building, even each floor, had a subagent. The old lady was a long–term resident. She was thin, shriveled, and lived by herself—her son had left and nobody knew where he was. She always kept her door shut and didn’t interact much with the other residents. Lan Lan and Ah Bei had moved in recently, and they worked at a clothing store. Ah Bei was shouting while Lan Lan was trying to hold her back. Ah Bei turned and shouted at Lan Lan; Lan Lan began to cry.

“We all have to follow the lease, don’t we?” The old lady pointed at the scrolling text on the screen mounted on the wall. “Don’t you dare accuse me of lying! Do you understand what a lease is? It’s right here in black and white: In autumn and winter, there’s a ten percent surcharge for heat.”

“Ha!” Ah Bei lifted her chin at the old lady while combing her hair forcefully. “Do you think we are going to be fooled by such a basic trick? When we’re at work, you turn off the heat. Then you charge us for the electricity we haven’t been using so you can keep the extra for yourself. Do you think we were born yesterday? Every day, when we get home after work, the place is cold as an ice cellar. Just because we’re new, you think you can take advantage of us?”

Ah Bei’s voice was sharp and brittle, and it cut through the air like a knife. Lao Dao looked at Ah Bei, at her young, determined, angry face, and thought she was very beautiful. Ah Bei and Lan Lan often helped him by taking care of Tangtang when he wasn’t home, and sometimes even made porridge for him. He wanted Ah Bei to stop shouting, to forget these trivial things and stop arguing. He wanted to tell her that a girl should sit elegantly and quietly, cover her knees with her skirt, and smile so that her pretty teeth showed. That was how you got others to love you. But he knew that that was not what Ah Bei and Lan Lan needed.

He took out a 10,000–yuan bill from his inner pocket and handed it to the old lady. His hand trembled from weakness. The old lady was stunned, and so were Ah Bei and Lan Lan. He didn’t want to explain. He waved at them and returned to his home.

Tangtang was just waking up in her crib, and she rubbed her sleepy eyes. He gazed into Tangtang’s face, and his exhausted heart softened. He remembered how he had found Tangtang at first in front of the waste processing station, and her dirty, tear–stained face. He had never regretted picking her up that day. She laughed, and smacked her lips. He thought that he was fortunate. Although he was injured, he hadn’t been caught and managed to bring back money. He didn’t know how long it would take Tangtang to learn to dance and sing, and become an elegant young lady.

He checked the time. It was time to go to work.

              刀郎       去伊犁的路上