第16章
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“爸爸，我很奇怪，您并没有像我想象的那样暴跳如雷。”圆圆对父亲说，这时，他们正站在市政府大楼的楼顶看着大泡破裂。
“我一直在思考一件事……圆圆，你认真回答我几个问题。”
“关于大肥皂泡的？”
“是的。我问你，既然泡壁是不透气的，那大泡也能保持住内部的湿润空气了？”
“当然。其实，在飞液的研制即将完成时，我不经意想到了它的一项可能的用途：用大泡作为超大型温室，可以在冬季制造小型气候区，为大片的土地提供适合作物生长的湿度和温度。当然，这还要使大泡更持久些。”
“第二个问题：你能让大泡随风飘很远吗？比如说几千公里？”
“这没问题，阳光的热量在泡内聚集，使其内部空气膨胀，会产生类似于热气球的浮力。至于今天这个大泡的坠落，只是因为它生成的位置太低，风也太小了。”
“第三个问题：你能让大泡在确定的时间破裂吗？”
“这也不难，只需调节飞液内的一种成分，改变其溶液的蒸发速度就行了。”
“最后一个问题：如果有足够的资金，你能够吹出几千万甚至上亿个大泡吗？”
圆圆吃惊地瞪大双眼：“上亿个？天啊，干什么！？”
“想象这样一幅图景：在遥远的海洋上空，形成了无数个大肥皂泡，它们在平流层强风的吹送下，飞越了漫长的路程，来到大西北上空，全部破裂了，把它们在海洋上空包裹起来的潮湿的空气，都播散在我们这片干旱的天空中……是的，肥皂泡能为大西北从海洋上运来潮湿的空气，也就是运来雨水！”
震惊和激动使圆圆一时间说不出话来，只是呆呆地看着父亲。
“圆圆，你送给我一件伟大的生日礼物，说不定，这一天也是大西北的生日！”
这时，外界清凉的风吹过城市，上空那个由烟雾构成的巨大白色半球失去了大膜的限制，在风中缓慢地改变着形状，东方的天空中有一道色彩奇异的彩虹，这是大泡破裂后，构成它的飞液散布到空中形成的。
8
向中国西部空中调水的宏大工程进行了十年。
这十年，在中国南海和孟加拉湾，建成了许多巨大的天网。这些天网是由表面布满小孔的细管构成，每个网眼有几百米甚至上千米的直径，相当于那个十多年前曾吹出超级肥皂泡的大圆环。每张天网有几千个网眼。天网分陆基和空中两种，陆基天网沿海岸线布设，空中天网则由巨型系留气球悬挂在几千米的高空。在南海和孟加拉湾，天网在海岸线和海洋上空连绵两千多公里，被称作“泡泡长城”。
空中调水系统首次启动的那天，构成天网的细管中充满了飞液，并在每个网眼上形成一层液膜。潮湿而强劲的海风在天网上吹出了无数巨型气泡，它们的直径都有几公里，这些气泡相继脱离天网，一群群升上更高的天空，升向平流层，随风而去，同时，更多的气泡从天网上源源不断地被吹出来。大群大群的巨型气泡浩浩荡荡地飘向大陆深处，包裹着海洋的湿气，漂过了喜马拉雅山，飘过了大西南，飘到大西北上空，在南海、孟加拉湾和大西北之间的天空中，形成了两条长达数千公里的气泡长河！
9
在空中调水系统正式启动的两天后，圆圆从孟加拉湾飞到大西北的一座省会城市。当她走下飞机时，看到一轮圆月静静地悬在夜空中，从海上启程的气泡还没有到达。在城市里，月光下挤满了人群，圆圆也在中心广场停下车，挤在人群中，同他们一起热切地等待着。一直到午夜，夜空依旧，人群开始同前两天一样散去，但圆圆没走，她知道气泡在今夜一定会到达这里。她坐在一把长椅上，正在睡意朦胧之际，突然听到有人喊：
“天啊，怎么这么多的月亮！”
圆圆睁开眼，真的在夜空中看到了一条月亮河！那无数个月亮是由无数个巨型气泡映出的，与真月亮不同，它们都是弯月，有上弦的，也有下弦的，每个都是那么晶莹剔透，真正的月亮倒显得平淡无奇了，只有根据其静止状态才能从浩浩荡荡流过长空的月亮河中将它分辨出来。
从此，大西北的天空成了梦的天空。
白天，空中的气泡看不太清楚，只是蓝天上到处出现泡壁的反光，整个天空像阳光下泛起涟漪的湖面，大地上缓缓运行着气泡巨大而清晰的影子。最壮丽的时刻是在清晨和黄昏，当地平线上的朝阳或夕阳将天空中的气泡大河镀上灿烂的金色时。
但这些美景并不会存在很久，空中的气泡相继破裂。虽然有更多的气泡滚滚而来，天空中的云却多了起来，使气泡看不清了。
接着，在这个往年最干旱的时节，天空飘下了绵绵细雨。
圆圆在雨中来到了自己出生的那座城市。经过十年的搬迁，丝路市已成了一座寂静的空城。一座座空荡的高楼在小雨中静静地立着。圆圆注意到，这些建筑并没有真正被抛弃，它们都被保护得很好，窗上的玻璃还都完整，整座城市仿佛在沉睡中，等待着肯定要到来的复活之日。
小雨掩盖了尘埃，空气清新怡人，雨撒在脸上凉丝丝的很舒服。圆圆慢慢地行走在她熟悉的街道上，那些街道，爸爸曾拉着她的小手儿无数次走过，曾撒落过她吹出的无数个肥皂泡，圆圆的心里响起了一支童年的歌。
突然她发现，这歌真的在响着。这时天已黑了，在整座浸没于夜色中的空城里，只有一扇窗户亮着灯，那是一幢普通住宅楼的二楼，是她的家，歌声就是从那里传出的。
圆圆来到楼前，看到周围收拾得很干净，还有一小片菜地，里面的菜长得很好。地边有一辆小工具车，车上装有大铁桶，显然是用来从远处运水浇地的。即使在朦胧的夜色中，这里也能感觉到一股生活的气息，它在这一片死寂的空城里，像沙漠中的绿洲一样令圆圆向往。
圆圆走上了扫得很干净的楼梯，轻轻地推开家门，看到灯下头发花白的父亲，仰在躺椅上，陶醉地哼着那首童年老歌，他手里拿着那个圆圆在孩提时代装肥皂液的小瓶儿，还有那个小小的塑料吹环，正吹出一串五光十色的肥皂泡。
Ether
[1]
by Zhang Ran，translated by Carmen Yiling Yan and Ken Liu
1
All of a sudden，I’m thinking about an evening from the winter when I was twenty-two.
A pair of pretty twin sisters sat to my right，chattering away；at my left sat a fat boy clutching a soft drink that he kept refilling.My plate contained cold chicken，cheese，and cole slaw.I don’t remember how they tasted，only that I’d reached for the macaroni and dropped some on my brand-new pinstripe trousers.I spent the entire second half of the meal wiping at the crescent-shaped stains on my trousers as the chicken cooled in my plate，untouched.To hide my predicament，I tried to strike up a conversation with the twins，but they didn’t seem very interested in college life，and I wasn’t knowledgeable about pontytail-tying techniques.
The dinner seemed to last forever.There was one toast after another，and I would raise my long-stemmed glass with whomever was standing，and drink my apple juice，perfectly aware that no one was paying attention to what I did.What was the banquet for，anyway？A wedding，a holiday，a bumper crop？I don’t recall.
I sneaked peeks at my father，four tables away.He was busy chatting，drinking and telling dirty jokes with his friends，all his age，with the same thick whiskers and noses red from too much alcohol.He didn’t glance at me until the banquet was over.The fiddler tiredly packed his instrument，the hostess began to collect the dirty dishes and glasses，and my inebriated father finally noticed my presence.He staggered over，his bulky body swaying with every step.“You still here？”he slurred.“Tell your ma to give you a ride.”
“No，I’m leaving on my own.”I stood，staring at the ground.I scrubbed at the stain on my trousers until my fingers were numb.
“Whatever you want.Did you have a good time talking with your little friends？”He looked around for them.
I said nothing but clenched my fists，feeling the blood rush to my head.They weren’t my friends.They were just kids，eleven or twelve years old，and I was about to graduate from college.In the city，I had my friends and my accomplishments.No one treated me like a little boy there，seating me at the children’s table，pouring apple juice into my long-stemmed glass in the place of white wine.When I walked into restaurants，a server would promptly take my jacket and call me Mister；if I dropped macaroni on my trousers，my dining companion would wet a napkin and gently wipe it clean.I was an adult，and I wanted people to talk to me like one，not treat me like a grade schooler at some village banquet.
“Fuck off！”I said at last，and walked off without looking back.
I was twenty-two that year.
I open my eyes with effort.The sky is completely dark now，and the neon lights of the strip club across the street fill the room with gauzy colors.The computer screen flashes.I rub my temples and slowly sit up on the sofa.I down the half glass of bourbon resting on the coffee table.How many times have I fallen asleep on the sofa this week？I ought to go online and look it up：what does holing up at home in front of a computer and falling into dreams of bygone youth mean for the health of a 45-year-old single man？But the headache tells me I don’t need a search engine to know the answer.This aimless way of life is murder on my brain cells.
I close the chat window and sign into a few literary and social network sites，hoping for something interesting to read.But just as my online friend said，everything seems to grow duller by the day.When I was young，the Internet was full of opinion，thought，and passion.Exuberant youths filled the virtual world with furious Socratic debate，while the brilliant but misanthropic waxed lyrical about their dreams of a new social order.I could sit unmoving in front of a computer screen until dawn as hyperlinks took my soul on whirlwind journeys.Now，I sift through front pages and notifications and never find a single topic worth clicking on.
The feeling is at once sickening and familiar.
On a social media site I frequent log in，I click the top news article，“Citizens gather at city hall to protest hobbyist fishermen’s inhumane treatment of earthworms.”A video window pops out：a gaggle of young people in garish shirts，beers in their left hands and crooked signs in their right，standing in the city square.The signs read“Say NO To Earthworm Abuse，”“Your Bait Is My Neighbor，”“Earthworms Feel Pain Just Like Your Dog.”
Did they have nothing else to do？If they really wanted to march and protest，couldn’t they have found an issue actually worth fighting for？My headache is returning in force，so I turn off the monitor.I flop onto the worn brown couch and tiredly shut my eyes.
2
In the scheme of an enormous aggregation of resources like this city，a low-income，45-year-old bachelor is utterly insignificant.I work three days a week，four hours a day，and my main duty is to read welfare petitions that meet basic requirements and pick the ones I empathize with most.In an age where computers have squeezed people out of most employment opportunities，using my“emotional intuition”to approve or reject government welfare requests is practically the perfect job，no training or background knowledge required.The Department of Social Welfare thought some measure of empathy was needed beyond the rigid rules and regulations to select the few lucky welfare recipients（from petitions that had already passed the automated preliminary checks，of course），and therefore invited individuals from all strata of society—including failures like me—to participate in the process.On Monday，Wednesday，and Friday mornings，I take the subway from my rented apartment to the little office I share with three coworkers in the Social Welfare Building.I sit in front of the computer and stamp my e-seal on petitions I take a liking to the quota varies day to day，but my work typically ends after thirty stamps.I use the remainder of the time to chat，drink coffee，and eat bagels until the end-of-shift bell rings.
Today’s a Monday like any other.I finish my four hours of work and swipe my card to leave.I walk toward the subway station，not far away，the grey granite edifice of the Social Welfare Building behind me.The performer is there at the subway entrance as usual，a one-man band whose repertoire consists of ear-splitting trumpeting accompanied by a monotonous drumbeat.As always，he glares at me balefully as I approach，perhaps because I haven’t given him a cent these few years.It makes me uncomfortable.The trumpet begins，the sound of a cat scratching at a glass pane.My lingering headache from yesterday begins to stir.I decide to turn away and catch the subway one station up.
The ground is still wet from the drizzle earlier this morning.Ponytailed youths whiz by me on skateboards.Two pigeons perch on a coffeeshop sign，cooing.The storefront windows reflect me：a thin，balding middle-aged man in a yellow windbreaker that used to be fashionable，with a brandy nose just like my father’s.I rub my nose and can’t help but think of the father I haven’t seen for so long.More precisely，I haven’t seen him since the banquet when I was twenty-two.My mother sometimes mentions him in her calls：I know that he still lives at the farm，that he’s raising cows，that he’s kept a few apple trees to brew hard cider，even though alcohol had destroyed his liver，and the doctors say that he’ll never drink again till science can cure his liver cancer.
To be honest，I don’t feel a bit of sorrow for him.Although my red nose and big-framed body are all inherited from him，I’ve spent my adult years trying to escape his shadow，trying to prevent myself from turning into a fat，selfish，bigoted old drunkard like him.Today，however，I find that the only thing I’ve successfully avoided is the fat.The greatest achievement of his life was marrying my mother.I don’t even have anything close to that.
“Stop right there！”A shout cuts short my self-pity.Several figures in black hoodies are sprinting my way，dodging and weaving through traffic.Two cops waving police batons stumble past braking cars in hot pursuit.One blows his whistle；the other is shouting.
The drivers’curses and the blaring of horns fill the air.I press myself against the coffee shop window.[Keep out of trouble.]In my mind’s eye，I see my father’s cigar-yellowed teeth flash amidst his whiskers.
The people in black hoodies knock over the trash bin by the street.They run past me—one，two，…a total of four people.I pretend I don’t see them，but I notice that they’re all wearing canvas shoes.They’re all young.Who hasn’t worn dirty canvas shoes in their youth？I look down at my own feet，encased in dull brown leather lace-ups.The surface of my shoes is covered in creases from long wear，like the wrinkles on my forehead I try valiantly to ignore when I look in the mirror.
Suddenly，someone’s hand blocks my view of my feet.He’s reaching into the pocket of my windbreaker，pulling out my right hand.I feel strange tickling sensations—he’s drawing something on my palm with his finger.Surprised，I raise my head.In front of me is the fourth person in black，small and thin，his eyes covered by his hoodie.He rapidly sketches something out on my palm，then pats my hand.“Do you understand？”
“Hurry！”the other three people in hoodies are hollering.The fourth person tosses a glance back at the steadily nearing police and leaves me to run after his friends.The cops are right behind，puffing and panting.“Stop right there！”one of them shouts hoarsely.The other has his whistle in his mouth，blowing raggedly.I’m certain they turn and look at me as they pass by，but they don’t say anything，only run into the distance，waving their batons.
The pursuers and the pursued turn the corner at the flower shop and leave my sight.On the damp street，the cars begin to move again，the pedestrians weaving among them as if nothing has happened.But the warmth of a stranger’s fingertip still lingers on my right hand.
3
“The usual？”the waitress in the diner below my apartment asks me.Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Yeah—”I say automatically—“wait，add smoked salmon to the order.”The waitress，who already turned and started walking，makes an OK sign over her shoulder.
“Did something happen？You changed your order.”Slim is a coworker at the Social Welfare Building，and my only acquaintance close enough to call a friend.He has the ability to sniff out the pheromones other people give off without fail.In the five minutes since he’s sat down，he’s identified a middle-aged virgin，a pair of gay paramours，an aging housewife desperate enough to bed the pizza boy，a debauched teenager buying beer with his big brother’s ID card，and a sexually fulfilled paraplegic.
“For real，though，how would someone in a wheelchair have a fulfilling sex life？”I pick up my beer glass and take a sip.
“The higher the paralysis goes，the more likely he’s impotent.”Slim gestures at his own spine with a long，crooked arm.“Anyway，what about you？You’ve met the one，haven’t you？She’s a blonde，right？”His greyish eyes gleam with the pleasure of prodding at my privacy.
“Stop kidding.I ran into some demonstrators this afternoon.You know，the sort of hooligans you see crying out on the news for earthworms’rights.”I shake my head.“Thanks，”I say，taking the plate from the waitress.A meatball sandwich with pickles on the side—my dinner，forever and always.
“Kids with too much time.”Slim shakes his head.“Speaking of which，did you know...the word‘potato’comes from the Arawak language of Jamaica.”
Dimly，I think his voice sounded strange just then，when he was saying the second half of his sentence，as if something got stuck in his throat or the cold beer caused a relapse of my tinnitus.“No，I didn’t know.Not that I’m interested in some language no one speaks anymore.”I stick a slice of pickle in my mouth.
Slim widens his eyes in surprise.“You don’t care about this？”
His voice is back to normal.It was tinnitus，then.I should go see a doctor，if I haven’t reached my health insurance coverage limit this year.“I don’t give a damn，”I say with my mouth full.
“Fine，then.”He lowers his head and toys with his beer glass.The waitress brings his dinner to the table，and passes me my smoked salmon as well.
“Seriously，you two should go out and have some fun.Go to the strip club or something.”The waitress looks at our expressions，frowns，and leaves.
Slim and I wordlessly turn our heads toward the gaudy club front across the street.I take two fries from his plate and stuff them into my mouth，then push my smoked salmon toward him.“Have you felt that we haven’t had any interesting topics to talk about lately？”I say.
“You’re feeling it too？”Slim exclaims.“Beyond the sex lives I’ve sniffed out，I can barely find anything to talk about.I’ve found conversations so boring these last few years.”
“Maybe we’re just getting old？”I unhappily retrieve my right hand from the plate of fries.There’s a noticeable age spot on the back of my hand.It appeared just recently，awkward like the stain on my trousers the year I was twenty-two.
“I’m only forty-two！Jimenez was forty-one when he won the Welsh Open！”Slim cried，waving a French fry wildly.“The drudgery of work is making us this way.It’ll all be different once we retire.Don’t you agree，old buddy？”
“I sure hope so，”I answer distractedly.
4
I drink two more bottles of cold beer tonight.Waves of dizziness assault me once I’m through my apartment door.I make for my bedroom and collapse on the bed without bothering to shower.
The sheets smell strangely earthy.I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t changed them in so long，but on the bright side，the smell makes me think of the farm when I was little—not the farm that reeked of my father’s animal stench，but from before he started drinking，before he started abusing my mother.I’m thinking of the tranquil，peaceful farm where my mother，my sister，and I lived.
I remember my older sister and me playing in the newly-built granary，airy and filled with the clean fragrance of earth and fresh-cut wood.Sunlight spilled in through the little loft window，accompanying the smell of the cookies my mother baked.
When we got tired from running，we sat down with our backs against the wall.My sister pulled my right hand over.“Close your eyes，”she told me.I obediently shut my eyes，the sunlight glowing dusky red on the inside of my eyelids.My palm tickled.I giggled and tried to pull my hand back.“Guess what word I’m writing.”My sister was laughing too，her finger scratching around on my palm.
I thought a bit.“I don’t know.Write slower！”I complained.My sister wrote the word again，more slowly.
“Horse？”I slowly answered，looking at her.
“That’s right！”My sister laughed and ruffled my hair.“Let’s play again！If you can get five words right，I’ll let you ride my pony for two days.”
“Really？”I excitedly closed my eyes.
My palm started to tickle again.I barely held back my giggles.“It’s...‘crow’this time？”
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