The Wall

Lao Zhang, Zhang Fushun, a man nearing fifty, had recently been feeling like there was a wall in front of him. Not made of brick, nor of cement, but rather as if condensed from the suffocating summer heat of a late evening – transparent, yet tangibly obstructing him, impossible to push through or circumvent.

Back in the day, Lao Zhang was a well-regarded figure in the hutong. Not because of any high office or vast wealth, but for his steadfastness. He'd worked diligently at the non-staple food store for the better part of his life, saving up 400,000 yuan. This 400,000 was the foundation for the latter half of his life, the capital his wife kept mentioning for a bigger refrigerator, for a washing machine with a dryer function, and his own dream of carrying a birdcage, drinking tea, and listening to opera after retirement. The Beijing sun, in his eyes, had once been warm and golden.

"Fushun, ah, these days, leaving money in the bank, that's just foolish!" Old Wang from next door, sporting a fashionable perm of tight curls, said with spittle flying, "Let me tell you, my nephew's got a project, a sure win! One month's interest is more than you'd get from the bank in a year!"

Lao Zhang was skeptical at first. He was a man who had never taken shortcuts in his life, believing in "you reap what you sow." But he couldn't withstand Old Wang's daily persuasion, and his wife was also tempted, calculating how comfortable the high interest would make their lives. The human heart, it's vulnerable when its ticklish spots are scratched. After some back and forth, Lao Zhang's "steadfastness" began to waver. He thought, "He's a neighbor, after all. He wouldn't cheat us, would he?"

And so, the 400,000, along with some odds and ends to make it a round sum, was invested. When he signed the papers, the young man calling himself "Manager Wang," dressed in a suit and tie, with slicked-back hair and a smooth face, smiled sweeter than honey: "Uncle Zhang, just you wait! By the end of the year, I guarantee your money will double!"

For the first two months, the interest indeed arrived on time, exactly as promised. The stone in Lao Zhang's heart finally dropped, and a touch of pride appeared on his face. His wife was all smiles too, starting to plan buying imported milk powder for their grandson and a new electric scooter for their daughter. During those days, the air at home was sweet.

But good times don't last, like a grasshopper in late autumn, its days are numbered. The third month, the interest didn't arrive. Lao Zhang's heart skipped a beat. He went to find Old Wang. Old Wang was also in a panic, saying he couldn't reach his nephew by phone. When he went to find the "investment company"—whoa!—the doors were locked tight, the place deserted! An A4 paper was posted on the wall, reading "Under Renovation, Temporarily Closed." The handwriting was crooked, betraying a sense of panic.

Lao Zhang was dumbfounded then and there, his legs went weak, and he almost collapsed onto the ground. Four hundred thousand—that was his lifeline!

The days that followed were like falling into an ice cellar. Reporting to the police, registering, filling out forms, trip after trip, but the money, like a clay ox entering the sea, vanished without a trace. Worse still, to make up that round sum, Lao Zhang had borrowed some short-term loans from a few unreliable relatives, planning to repay them as soon as the interest came in. Now, not only was the principal gone and the interest stopped, but he was saddled with a mountain of debt. All told, his external debts amounted to some 300,000 yuan.

From 400,000 in savings to 700,000 in debt (principal plus new debt)—the fall was devastatingly hard.

Lao Zhang was no longer the steady Lao Zhang of before. He started walking with his head down, his gaze evasive, terrified of running into acquaintances. The gossip in the hutong pricked his heart like needles. Their once lively home was now often deathly quiet. His wife washed her face with tears daily, blaming him, and blaming herself. The refrigerator wasn't replaced, the washing machine was out of the question; even grocery shopping meant picking the cheapest items.

He began to suffer from insomnia, lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling. On the ceiling, it seemed that invisible wall was also pressing down. He felt like a fly caught in a spiderweb; the more he struggled, the tighter it constricted. Sometimes, he even thought of just jumping from the building, to end it all. But the thought of his daughter, of his little grandson whom he'd barely seen, brutally extinguished that nascent suicidal thought. Dying is easy, but what about those left behind?

The way the neighbors looked at him also changed. The former respect and envy turned to pity, even a hint of contempt. As if Zhang Fushun had, overnight, transformed from a respectable man into a joke, a pathetic creature. He began to wonder, what had become of this world? How could those well-dressed people, with their fine words, swindle others of their hard-earned money with such peace of mind? What about the law? Justice? These words, once so resonant, so substantial, now felt hollow when he thought of them, like a broken windowpane swept by an autumn wind.

One day, Lao Zhang went to the park for a walk, hoping to clear his mind. He saw a group of old men playing chess, deep in a fierce game. An old man with glasses, holding a "rook" piece, hesitated before the board, muttering, "This move is tough... one wrong step, and the whole game is lost..." Hearing this, Lao Zhang's heart trembled. Wasn't his life like this game of chess? One wrong move, and there was no chance of recovery.

He walked away silently, but the words kept replaying in his mind. Yes, the whole game lost. But was it really over just because he'd lost? He remembered his younger days at the non-staple food store. One winter, heavy snow blocked the roads, and deliveries couldn't get through; the store was about to run out of supplies. It was he who had led the workers, trudging through deep snow, to haul goods from a warehouse dozens of li away using handcarts. How difficult it had been then, but hadn't they pulled through?

That wall still pressed heavily on his heart. But Lao Zhang suddenly felt that perhaps, on the other side of the wall, there wasn't only despair. He had to live, for his family, and for his own unwillingness to accept defeat. He had to find a way, even if it meant sweeping streets or collecting scrap, he had to pay back this debt bit by bit. Life had to go on, didn't it?

The setting sun cast Lao Zhang's shadow long and drawn out. He walked home slowly, his steps a little steadier than before. He thought, tomorrow, perhaps he could go check out the labor market. This game of life, as long as one is still alive, the game isn't over. That wall, perhaps it wasn't there to block people, but to force them to find a new path. It was just that this path, he feared, would be much rougher, and much lonelier, than the one before. And those onlookers, they would probably just crane their necks, watching to see how this drama of his would end. At this thought, a bitter smile, accompanied by a sigh, melted into the twilight of the Beijing evening.