I was quite startled by the phone call, mostly because he was rather rude. All he asked was whether or not I had received a letter he had sent. I told him that I hadn’t, and he started to hang up. I thought perhaps it was inconvenient for him to call from wherever he was, so before he let the receiver fall I asked for the telephone number there – so I could call him instead. He said there was no need, and that he would contact me again tomorrow, and then he hung up. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone very wrong. What was this letter he spoke of? It was all very peculiar and a bit out of the blue. The truth is, even though I was fairly close to his father and his family, I don’t know much about this young man. He was reared by his maternal grandmother in the city and didn’t often come out to the mountains (the first valley compound). After he began studying at university, I would occasionally see him during the winter and summer holidays, usually on the volleyball court. He was fairly tall and he could jump exceptionally well. His prowess on the court always attracted attention. Because of my relationship with his father, when we met it was generally quite cordial; we’d even exchange small talk from time to time. He had quite a way with words – he was very entertaining, and his words were always accompanied by gestures: his hands would move this way and that, his shoulders would shrug up and down; he reminded me somehow of a foreigner. He’d also always lean to one side, putting most of his weight on one foot – he gave the impression of someone without a care in the world. From his words and how he said them I could discern a key difference between father and son: Sibing had a carefree demeanour, he was talkative and optimistic – a young man full of life; his father, on the other hand, was usually silent and reticent – he had a cold and hard demeanour, and was a solitary figure. At first I was quite surprised by this difference between them, but later, as I considered it some more, it didn’t seem all that strange – there are plenty of sons who aren’t a bit like their fathers. Nonetheless, I didn’t know Sibing all that well. I didn’t even know his actual name: everyone just seemed to call him Ah-bing. This was of course a nickname, and it was only today that I discovered that his real name was Chen Sibing.

What is this letter he has sent me? I’ve told myself not to think of it now, but rather wait until it arrives.

26 March

Office. Night. Still raining.