In truth, at this time Rong Jinzhen had yet to realize the gravity of the situation, had yet to think about the seriousness of his predicament. Thinking about what was inside, all he could remember was the return train ticket and the receipt for his lodgings, as well as 200 yuan or more worth of food stamps and an assortment of credentials. Johannes’ book was in there as well; he had put it in there last night before heading to bed. Realizing that he had lost a prized possession sent a pang through his heart. Still, comparing these things to what was still safely locked away in the safety-deposit box made him appreciate his good fortune, to be glad he had just narrowly escaped calamity.
It goes without saying that what the thief had desired to take was the safety-deposit box. That would have been a disaster. Now it seemed as though there was nothing to be worried about: what had happened was regrettable and that’s all; a pity, but not something to dread.
Ten minutes later, the carriage had become peaceful once again. Vasili and the professor had done much to console him and the emotional upheaval of losing his case had gradually receded. He felt calm. However, once he settled back into the dark of his berth, the peace of just minutes ago seemed to be swallowed by the night, shattered by the clacking of the train upon the tracks. It made him sink into a sea of regret.
Regret is a frame of mind; to recollect means to use one’s brain, to mentally exert oneself.
Was there anything else in the leather attaché case?
He turned it over in his mind.
Since all he now had was an imaginary briefcase, he needed to use his imagination to pull open the zipper. But as soon as he began this train of thought, his mind was invaded and harassed by feelings of regret and pity, turning his mind blank, making it impossible to open the zipper. All that was in front of his eyes was a large dizzying expanse of gloom. This was the outside of his leather attaché case, not the inside. Gradually, the feeling of regret began to subside and his thoughts returned to what was inside. His thinking was urgent, focused; much like the forcefulness of water running off melting snow — rising, pooling together, rising again, and again pooling together. Finally, he tore open the zipper and there was a blast of blue light that blazed in front of his eyes. It was as if an assassin’s hand had just flashed before him, making him stumble backwards into his bunk. He screamed, ‘My god, Vasili!’
‘What is it?’ Vasili had jumped up out of his berth; in the dark he could see Rong Jinzhen shivering.
‘My notebook! My notebook!. . ’ Rong Jinzhen’s voice trailed off.
As it turned out, he had put his notebook in his briefcase.[Transcript of the interview with Director Zheng]
Think about it: as a solitary person, a man generally sunk in deep contemplation of something or other, Rong Jinzhen gave the impression that he often heard fantastic, astonishing sounds. These reverberations would seem as if they had drifted in from somewhere far, far away, as if emanating from some spiritual realm. But they would never fully manifest themselves, they wouldn’t wait for him, they would always fall short of what was hoped for, and yet, without warning, he would encounter them on the fringes of perception. They would come uninvited, appear within his dreams, in the dreams within dreams, behind the words in a book he was reading — cryptic, always in new forms, mysterious in nature. What I would like to say is that these sounds — inspirations, really — would seem to spring from somewhere between heaven and earth, but in truth they came from Rong Jinzhen; they were ejected from his soul, they radiated out from his being, flickering once and then disappearing. He had to write them down immediately or they would be lost. As fast as they came, they left, even their shadows vanished. Because of this, Rong Jinzhen had got into the habit of always carrying a notebook on his person, everywhere he went, at all times; the notebook seemed as if it were his shadow, quietly striding alongside him.
I know it was a 64-page blue leather notebook; the title page contained a top-secret number as well as Rong Jinzhen’s personal serial number; inside were his notes and scribblings made over the last few years when he was working on BLACK. Normally, Rong Jinzhen would put the notebook in his top left-hand pocket, but this time, since he had to carrying along any number of official credentials and papers, he decided to bring a leather attaché case with him, placing the notebook in with them. The leather case was one that had been given to him by our director upon his return from a trip overseas. It was made of very fine calf ’s skin, very delicate and lightweight, with a wide elastic strap that you could carry in your hand and hoop around your waist, making it into an extension of your clothes. His notebook was inside. Certainly, Rong Jinzhen never suspected that anything would happen — he didn’t believe he could lose it, he most likely felt as though it would always be there. .
[To be continued]
Over the past few days, Rong Jinzhen had gone through two notebooks.
He used up the first one four days ago. On that day, he had left the conference early and returned to his room feeling rather angry because of a particularly idiotic and dim-witted presentation. Panting with rage he reclined on his bed and stared out the window. From the outset, he noticed that the sky outside was slanted; he blinked, and yet it still spun. He began to realize that his line of sight was becoming blurred: the window, the sky, the city, the setting sun, everything was quietly slipping away, and in its place there emerged a flowing atmosphere and the sound of the setting sun scorching the sky — he saw the firmament as a formless and swirling mass with hot embers drifting through space on into nothingness. The heavens burned and darkness swelled up, eventually engulfing him. At that moment he understood, and he felt his body transform into an electric current. He glimmered, his entire body began to float; he had become some form of energy. Like a blazing flame he began to burn, to swirl, to evaporate, to drift into nothingness. Then at that instant, a clear sound rang out, like the graceful resonance of a butterfly flapping its wings. . this was the sound of his fate, the sound of nature, the flash, the blaze, the spritely imp — he had to record it.
This was the moment he had used up an entire notebook, and later he felt rather pleased about what he had written. It was the wrath he had felt that had ignited him, the ire towards that mindless presentation that had inspired him. The second notebook he had filled out in the wee hours of the previous morning. Whilst dreaming and swaying back and forth in unison with the train’s movements, Rong Jinzhen had dreamt of Professor Johannes. They had spoken at length in his dream, and upon waking, Rong Jinzhen immediately reached for his notebook to record their conversation.
You could say that on the trail to deciphering some secret cipher or other, passing through the narrow passageways of the genius, Rong Jinzhen never cried out in distress, nor did he exert himself praying for assistance. Instead, from beginning to end, he made his way on crutches: one was diligence, the other was solitude. His loneliness hardened his mind and soul, his diligence made it possible for him to reach out to the stars and take hold of good fortune. Luck is crafty: you cannot see it, you cannot touch it, nor can you say for sure what it is. You cannot understand it, nor does it wait for you. If you pray for it, it will not come. Luck is sublime and mysterious, perhaps the most mysterious thing in this world. But Rong Jinzhen’s good fortune was not mysterious, it was very real, it was hidden away between the lines in his notebook. .