Translated from Ma Boyong — "The Silent City"
And in the naked light I saw ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening.
People writing songs that voices never shared, no one dared disturb the
sound of silence.
— The sound of silence
United States of America, 2015, New York.
When the phone rang, Awadeng was asleep at his computer. The ringing was urgent and sharp, each vibration causing discomfort to his eardrums for a long time. He rubbed his dry eyes and reluctantly got up, feeling his mind was incredibly sluggish.
In fact, his mind had always been sluggish; this feeling was both physiological and psychological. The room he was in was very cramped, the air was not good, and the only two windows were tightly shut—opening them would not help, as the air outside was even more polluted. This was a small room of about thirty square meters, with yellowing wallpaper on the walls starting to peel in several places, and strange shapes formed by water stains on the ceiling; an old military green army bed was placed in the corner, with its legs painted white and numbered; right next to the army bed was a plywood computer desk, on which sat a light-colored computer, with colorful wires tangled behind the case, forming a bizarre knot, sprawling chaotically across the floor and into the corners like ivy.
Awadeng walked to the phone, slowly sat down on the floor, and stared blankly at the phone, his hands not moving. This strange device was an old-fashioned push-button phone, probably from over a decade ago, which Awadeng had bought by chance at a grocery store during a business trip to Philadelphia; after bringing it home and fixing it up a bit, he found it surprisingly still worked, which excited him for a brief moment.
The phone continued to ring, now on its seventh ring. Awadeng realized he had to answer it. So he bent down, picked up the phone with two fingers, and slowly brought it to his ear.
“Please state your network number?” The voice from the receiver was not urgent; in fact, it carried no emotional tone at all, as it was a computer-generated artificial intelligence voice.
“19842015”
Awadeng skillfully recited the string of numbers, while beginning to feel a heavier pressure in his chest. To be honest, he did not like these hollow electronic voices; sometimes he thought how nice it would be if a smooth-voiced woman were calling instead. Awadeng knew this was an unrealistic fantasy, but it provided him with a few seconds of relief.
The voice in the receiver continued.
“Your application for network forum user registration submitted on October 4 has been processed. After review by the relevant department, your qualifications have been confirmed. Please bring your ID, network usage permit, and related documents to complete the registration process within three days, and receive your username and password.”
“Got it, thank you.”
Awadeng carefully chose his words, while trying hard to squeeze out a satisfied smile, as if someone on the other side of the receiver was watching him. After hanging up, Awadeng stared blankly at the phone for about two minutes, then stood up to stretch his wrists, sat back down at the computer, and slowly moved the mouse.
The computer screen lit up with a “pop,” displaying a login interface, along with a line of English: “Please enter your network number and name.” Awadeng typed in the eight-digit number, entered his name, and clicked “Login.” Immediately, the indicator light on the case began to flash frequently, and the entire machine emitted a faint noise.
Every internet user has a network number; without this number, one cannot connect to the internet. Each number is unique, and each person has only one; it is the user's only online identifier, which cannot be modified or canceled. These numbers correspond to the names on the user's ID card, so 19842015 is Awadeng, and Awadeng is 19842015. Awadeng knew that some people with poor memory would print their numbers on the back of their clothes, which looked quite ridiculous and could easily lead to some improper associations.
The relevant department stated that using real-name registration for the internet was to regulate online order for easier management, eliminating a series of major problems and chaos caused by anonymous internet use. Awadeng was not quite clear what those major problems would be; he had never tried to go online under a pseudonym, nor had anyone he knew—indeed, from a technical perspective, he had no way to log on anonymously; without a number, there was no permission to go online, and the number was linked to his detailed profile. In other words, no one could hide themselves online. The relevant department had considered all of this very thoroughly.
“The relevant department,” this is a vague term, yet it carries authority and intimidation. It is both general and specific, encompassing a wide range of meanings. Sometimes it refers to the Federal Network Management Committee that issued Awadeng's network number; sometimes it is the server that sends the latest announcements and regulations to Awadeng's email inbox; and at other times, it is the FBI's Cyber Division monitoring the internet. In short, the relevant department is omnipresent and omnipotent, always appearing at the right time to provide guidance, supervision, or warnings, whether you are online or offline.
It is just like Big Brother, meticulous in every detail.
The computer continued to run, and Awadeng knew it would take some time. This computer was provided to him by the relevant department; he did not know the specific model or configuration, and the case was welded shut, unable to be opened. So he took out a small bottle of menthol ointment, used the nail of his right pinky to scoop out a bit, and applied it to his temples. Then he rummaged through the mountain of clutter at his feet to find a plastic cup, filled half a cup of distilled water from the water dispenser next to the desk, and downed it with a painkiller. The distilled water slid down his throat and narrow esophagus into his stomach, its bland taste making him feel a bit nauseous.
Suddenly, the sound of the American national anthem came from the speakers, and Awadeng put down the cup, redirecting his attention to the computer. This was the sign that he was connected to the internet. The first thing that popped up on the screen was an announcement from the relevant department, in black four-point font on a white background, stating the significance of using the internet and the latest rules and regulations.
“Create a healthy internet, long live America!”
A passionate male voice came from the speakers, and Awadeng reluctantly repeated it aloud. “Create a healthy internet, long live America!”
This chant lasted for thirty seconds before disappearing, replaced by a desktop background with the slogan “Create a healthy internet.” Another window slowly appeared, listing several options: Work, Entertainment, Email, and BBS Forum. The BBS option was grayed out, indicating that this function had not yet been activated.
The entire operating system was simple and clear; this computer's browser did not have an address input bar, only a few unmodifiable website addresses in the favorites. The reason was simple: these websites were all healthy and positive. If other sites were like these, then keeping only these sites would suffice; if other sites were different, then they were unhealthy and of low taste and could not be retained. This was carefully designed by the relevant department for the mental health of citizens, fearing that they would be contaminated by harmful information.
Awadeng first clicked on “Work,” and a list of websites and related software relevant to his job appeared on the computer. Awadeng was a programmer, and his daily work involved writing programs according to his superiors' requirements. This job was boring, but it guaranteed him a stable income. He did not know where his source code would be used, and his superiors had never told him.
He intended to continue yesterday's work, but soon found it difficult to proceed. Awadeng felt more irritable today than before, unable to concentrate, his brain still sluggish, and his chest still heavy. He tried to entertain himself, but found that the “Entertainment” option only included card games and minesweeper, which, according to the relevant department, were two healthy games with no violence, no pornography, and would not incite criminal impulses, nor did they involve any political color. It was said that there were internet sites outside the United States, but he could not connect to them, as the domestic internet was independent and self-sufficient, and ordinary people could not directly connect to foreign sites—there was no address bar in the IE browser, and knowing the address was useless.
“You have a new email.”
The system suddenly popped up a notification, and Awadeng finally found a reason to pause his work. He quickly moved the mouse to the email option and clicked it, and soon a new interface appeared.
“To: 19842015
From: 10045687
Subject: Module, Completed, Current, Project, Start.”
Awadeng sighed slightly, feeling a bit disappointed. Every time he received a new email, he hoped for a fresh stimulus to jolt his increasingly dull nerves, and every time he was disappointed. In fact, he had known this for a long time; he just felt that maintaining expectations could at least provide a few seconds of pleasure. Just like he hoped that the call would come from a smooth, gentle female voice. Without giving himself some vague hope, Awadeng felt he would eventually go crazy.
This email was short but substantial. 19842015 was Awadeng's network number, while 10045687 was the number of one of his colleagues; such work-related emails usually addressed each other by their numbers. The content of the email consisted of several disjointed English words, which was a writing style promoted by the relevant department, as it made it easier for software to check for sensitive vocabulary.
Awadeng opened the reply page while also opening another window to access a TXT document titled “Healthy Language Vocabulary List.” This was a list of words that every internet user was required to use as mandated by the relevant department. When they wrote emails or used forum services, they had to find suitable nouns, adjectives, adverbs, or verbs from this vocabulary list to express what they wanted to say. Once the filtering software detected that a user had used words outside the list, that word would be automatically blocked, replaced with “Please use healthy language.”
“Blocking” is a technical term; blocked words are not allowed to be used again, whether in writing or verbally. Ironically, the term “blocking” itself is also one of the blocked words.
This list is frequently updated, with several words disappearing from the list each time it is updated, forcing Awadeng to rack his brain to find other words to replace the blocked words. For example, previously, the word “exercise” was permissible, but later the relevant department announced that it was also a sensitive word, so Awadeng had to use “particle displacement” to express the same meaning.
He compared this list and quickly completed an email that matched the writing style of the incoming message—the healthy vocabulary list forced people to use the shortest words to express the most meaning while minimizing unnecessary rhetoric, so these emails were as bland and tasteless as that cup of distilled water. Awadeng sometimes thought he would eventually rot just like that water and those emails, because those emails were written by him, and the water was what he drank.
Next, Awadeng ran a check with the software to ensure he had not inadvertently included any sensitive vocabulary. Once all this was done, he pressed the send button, and the email was sent out.
Awadeng did not keep a backup because his machine had no hard drive, floppy drive, optical drive, or USB port. In this era, broadband technology had developed significantly, and application software could be centralized on a unified server, so personal users would not feel any delay when calling it. Therefore, individuals did not need hard drives or local storage; every document, every piece of code, and even every action they wrote on their computers would be automatically transmitted to the relevant department's public server for management. In other words, the computer Awadeng used only had input and output functions.
After completing this email, Awadeng fell back into a soft, restless state, a normal reaction for a programmer who had been working for three consecutive days. This mood was dangerous, as it made people inefficient and mentally sluggish, with no outlet for release. “Fatigue,” “irritability,” and other negative words were considered dangerous vocabulary; if he wrote to someone complaining, the recipient would receive an email filled with “Please use healthy language.”
This was Awadeng's daily life; today was worse than yesterday, but it should be slightly better than tomorrow. In fact, this narrative was also quite vague, as Awadeng himself was not clear about what “better” and “worse” meant. “Good” and “bad” were two variables, while his life was a constant, with only one constant called “oppression.”
Awadeng pushed the mouse away, leaned his head back, and let out a long breath. (At least the word “breathe” had not been blocked yet.) This was a manifestation of emptiness; he wanted to hum some songs but could not remember any, so he tried to whistle a few notes, but it sounded like a dog with tuberculosis, and he gave up. The relevant department filled the entire room like a ghost, making it impossible for him to stretch out his frustration. It was like a person struggling in a quagmire, and as soon as they opened their mouth, they were filled with mud, unable to cry out for help.
His head turned restlessly a few times, and his gaze occasionally glanced at the old-fashioned phone on the floor; he suddenly remembered that he also needed to apply for a BBS forum browsing permit from the relevant department. So he closed the “Work” and “Email” windows and logged out of the network. Awadeng did these things without hesitation; he was glad to temporarily escape the internet, where he was just a dull string of numbers and a composite of some “healthy vocabulary.”
Awadeng found an old black wool coat, which had been inherited from his father. The cuffs and collar were severely worn, with gray cotton showing in some places, but it was still warm. He put on the coat, donned a pair of dark green goggles, and covered his mouth with a filtering mask. He hesitated for a moment, picked up the “Listener” and clipped it to his ear, then walked out the door.
The streets of New York were sparsely populated. In this era, the internet penetration rate was quite high, and most matters could be resolved online; the relevant department did not encourage too much outdoor activity. Too much outdoor activity could lead to physical contact with others, and what might happen after two people made physical contact was difficult to control.
The “Listener” was designed to prevent such occurrences. It was a portable language filter; when the bearer uttered sensitive vocabulary, it would automatically sound an alarm. Every citizen had to carry this device when going out to review their speech at any time. When people realized the existence of the Listener, they often chose to remain silent; at least Awadeng did. The relevant department was gradually trying to unify the internet and real life, making both “healthy.”
It was November, and the cold wind was biting. The sky was filled with oppressive lead-gray clouds, and the utility poles on both sides of the street looked like bare trees stripped of their leaves. Pedestrians wrapped themselves in black or gray coats, quickly moving like black dots across the empty street. A thin layer of smoke enveloped the entire New York, and breathing in such air without a filtering mask would be quite a challenge.
It had been two months since he last left his home. Awadeng stood under the bus stop sign, feeling a bit sentimental, thinking that everything around looked strange, yellowed, and dry. That was the trace of the last sandstorm. However, the term sandstorm had also been blocked, so Awadeng's mind only flashed for a moment, and his thoughts quickly shifted to other matters.
Next to Awadeng stood a tall man in a blue uniform. He first looked at Awadeng suspiciously, and seeing the latter silently sunk in his black coat, he shifted his feet slowly closer, pretending to be casual as he asked Awadeng:
“Cigarettes, do you have any?”
The man spoke each word clearly, and there was a long enough pause between the words. The “Listener” had not yet been refined enough to fully capture each person's speech rate and tone, so the relevant department required every citizen to maintain this speaking style to facilitate the detection of whether the speaker used words outside the regulations.
Awadeng turned his head to look at him, licked his cracked lips, and replied:
“No.”
The man looked disappointed and reluctantly opened his mouth again.
“Alcohol, do you have any?”
“No.”
Awadeng repeated the word again; he had not received cigarettes or alcohol for a long time, perhaps due to shortages, which was common. However, one thing was strange; the Listener did not sound an alarm this time. From Awadeng's experience, whenever there was a shortage of cigarettes, alcohol, or other necessities, those words would temporarily become sensitive vocabulary until supplies were restored.
The man looked tired, with red and swollen eyes, a common trait among people of this era, a result of spending too much time online. His hair was messy, and he had stubble around his mouth; the collar of his shirt under the uniform emitted a pungent musty smell. It was evident that he had not been out on the street for a long time.
Only then did Awadeng notice that his ears were empty, without the silver-gray little device, the Listener. This was indeed a serious matter. Not carrying the Listener when going out meant that language would no longer be filtered, and some unhealthy thoughts and statements could potentially breed, so the relevant department strictly mandated that citizens must carry the Listener when going out. Yet the man had nothing by his ear. Awadeng was secretly surprised, unsure whether to remind him or pretend not to see. He thought to himself that perhaps reporting to the relevant department would be better.
At this moment, the man leaned a little closer, his gaze becoming eager. Awadeng felt a surge of nervousness and instinctively stepped back. Was this a robbery? Or was he a repressed homosexual? Suddenly, the man grabbed his sleeve, and Awadeng struggled awkwardly but could not break free. To his surprise, the man did not make any further moves but suddenly shouted, speaking at a speed Awadeng was no longer accustomed to. Awadeng was bewildered by this sudden outburst and did not know how to respond.
“I just want to talk to you a bit, just a few sentences, I haven't spoken for a long time. My name is Stork, I'm thirty-two years old, remember, thirty-two. I've always dreamed of having a house by the lake, a fishing rod, and a small boat; I hate the internet, down with the network managers; my wife is a terrible internet addict, she only calls me by my network number; this city is a big insane asylum, where the big madmen control the little madmen and turn everyone who isn't mad into the same kind of madness; sensitive words can go to hell, I’m so sick of it…”
The man's words poured out like a can of carbonated drink that had been shaken for a long time, rapid, explosive, and completely disorganized. Awadeng stared at this suddenly agitated guy in shock, unsure how to react; what was even more frightening was that he found himself feeling a bit of sympathy for him, that kind of “misery loves company” sympathy. The man's words had transformed from rambling into pure cursing, all expressing the most straightforward feelings. Awadeng had not uttered such profanity in five or six years; the last time he heard it was four years ago. The relevant department deemed it detrimental to mental civilization, so it had all been blocked.
And now this man was loudly cursing in public, seemingly ready to unleash all the blocked sensitive vocabulary in one breath. His gaze and gestures did not target anyone, not even Awadeng, but seemed more like a monologue. Awadeng's eardrums seemed unaccustomed to this decibel level and began to ache slightly; he covered his ears, unsure whether to simply escape or... At that moment, two police cars appeared down the street, flashing their lights and heading straight for the bus stop.
As the police cars reached the platform, the man was still cursing. The police car doors opened, and five or six fully armed federal officers rushed out. They pounced on the man, pinning him to the ground and beating him with batons. The man struggled with his legs, and the speed of his speech increased, the curses becoming more and more vulgar. One of the officers pulled out a roll of tape, and with a “snap,” tore off a strip to stick over the man's mouth. Just before the tape sealed his lips, the man suddenly raised his voice and shouted at the police with great satisfaction: “FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH!” Awadeng saw his expression shift from madness to enjoyment, smiling as if he were completely immersed in the supreme pleasure and relief brought by that one phrase.
The federal officers hurriedly stuffed the man into the police car, and at that moment, one of the officers approached Awadeng.
“Is he your friend?”
“I don't know him.”
The officer stared at him for a moment, removed the Listener from his ear to check the records, and found that he had not mentioned any sensitive vocabulary, so he put it back on him, warning him that everything the man said was extremely reactionary vocabulary and instructed him to forget it immediately, then turned and escorted the man away.
Awadeng let out a sigh of relief; in fact, just a moment ago, he had a fleeting impulse to shout “FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH” on this empty street, thinking it would be quite refreshing, because the man's expression when he said that was so enjoyable. However, he also knew that this was a kind of delusion; the cold feeling of the Listener pressed tightly against his ear constantly reminded him.
The street quickly returned to its quiet state. Ten minutes later, a bus slowly pulled into the station, the rusty door creaking open, and an electronic female voice echoed throughout the empty bus: “Please passengers pay attention to civil language, strictly speak according to healthy vocabulary.”
Awadeng shrank into his coat, suppressing his unusual excitement, and decided to remain silent.
About an hour later, the bus arrived at its destination. The cold wind blowing in through the broken window made a layer of dark gray frost appear on Awadeng's face, and the wind's sand and coal dust scraped painfully against his skin. He heard the electronic female voice announce the station name, stood up, shook off the dirt like a dog, and got off the bus.
Across from the bus station was the place Awadeng was heading to, the network department responsible for processing BBS forum applications. It was a five-story building, square, made of concrete, with a gray exterior. Without those few windows, its appearance would be indistinguishable from a concrete block: rigid, lifeless, making mosquitoes and bats retreat.
BBS forums were a peculiar thing; theoretically, they were completely redundant, as the functions of BBS could be replaced by email news groups, which were easier to manage and review. Moreover, applying for BBS forum usage was not an easy task; applicants had to go through several procedures and a lengthy review process to gain browsing rights, and even posting in designated forums would only be allowed after three months of browsing rights were granted, while starting one's own BBS was almost impossible.
Thus, very few people were genuinely interested in BBS. The reason Awadeng decided to apply for BBS forum rights was purely due to his vague yet stubborn sense of nostalgia, just like the old phone he bought from the grocery store. He did not know why he was seeking trouble; perhaps it was to bring some excitement to his life or to emphasize his slight connection to the old era, or maybe both.
Awadeng vaguely remembered that when he was younger, the internet was not quite the same as it is now. Not in terms of technology, but in a sense of culture. He hoped that by using the BBS forum, he could recall some things from back then.
Awadeng entered the network department's building, which was as cold and eerie inside as it was outside. The hallway had no lights, and the blue and white walls were plastered with uniform network regulations and slogans, the cold air making Awadeng shiver. Only a small door at the end of the hallway let in a sliver of light, with a sign above it reading “Network Department BBS Forum Section.”
As soon as he entered the room, Awadeng immediately felt a wave of warmth. The heating (or air conditioning) was cranked up high, making Awadeng's frozen hands, feet, and face tingle and itch, and he couldn't help but want to scratch.
“Citizen, please stand still and do not move.”
An electronic female voice suddenly came from the speaker on the ceiling, and Awadeng, startled, put his hand down and respectfully stood still. Taking this opportunity, he observed the room. It was accurately described as a narrow hall, with a large marble counter dividing the room into two parts, the counter adorned with a row of silver cylindrical barriers reaching up to the ceiling. The room had no decorations, no ornamental plants, no plastic flowers, and not even benches or a water dispenser.
“Create a healthy internet, long live America.”
Awadeng repeated the phrase after the voice.
“Please proceed to window number eight.”
The electronic female voice flowed smoothly, as it was produced by a computer, thus free from sensitive vocabulary restrictions.
Awadeng turned and saw the number eight displayed on the LCD screen on the marble counter not far to his right. He walked over, straining to look up, as the counter was too high for him to see over the edge, but he could hear someone sitting down on the other side, flipping through papers and typing on a keyboard.
“Please place the documents in the box.”
The speaker on the counter issued the command. Unexpectedly, this time the voice in the speaker changed. Although still cold and monotonous, Awadeng could distinguish it from the electronic female voice—this was a real woman's voice. He looked up in surprise but could see nothing; the counter was too high.
“Please place the documents in the box.”
The voice repeated, this time with a hint of irritation, as if dissatisfied with Awadeng's slowness.
“Yes, this is a real woman's voice…” Awadeng thought, as the electronic voice was always polite and devoid of any emotional tone. He placed his electronic ID, network permit, network number, and sensitive vocabulary criminal record, along with a series of personal information cards, into a small metal box outside the counter, then slid the box into a matching slot on the counter and closed the door. Soon he heard a “whoosh,” and he guessed this was the sound of the person on the other side—perhaps a woman—pulling the box away.
“What is the purpose of your application for BBS services?”
The voice behind the speaker was filled with pure transactional tone.
“To, improve, internet, work efficiency, to, create, a, healthy, network, environment, and better, contribute, to, the, motherland.”
Awadeng answered word by word, knowing in his heart that this was just an official procedure, and he only needed to respond according to the standard.
There was silence on the other side for a while, and about fifteen minutes later, the speaker sounded again.
“Final procedure confirmation, you have been granted browsing rights to the BBS forum.”
“Thank you.”
With a “bang,” the metal box popped out from the counter, and besides Awadeng's documents, there were also five small-sized discs.
“These are the unified username and password for the BBS forum issued to you by the relevant department, the BBS forum list, the internet BBS forum usage guide and corresponding regulations, and the latest healthy network vocabulary list.”
Awadeng stepped forward, taking all these items out of the box and stuffing them into the large pocket of his coat. Those items could actually all fit on one disc, but the relevant department believed that having each document on a separate disc would help users understand the seriousness and importance of these documents and instill a sense of reverence.
He hoped the speaker would say a few more words. To his disappointment, the sound from the other side was that of someone getting up and leaving; judging by the rhythm of the footsteps, Awadeng increasingly believed it was a woman.
“The procedure is complete; please leave the network department and return to your work position.”
The sweet, hollow electronic female voice came from the ceiling, and Awadeng wrinkled his nose in disgust, rubbed it with his hand, turned, and left the warm hall, re-entering the cold hallway.
On the way home, Awadeng curled up in the bus, motionless. Successfully applying for BBS usage rights made him feel a bit ethereal with excitement. He closed his eyes, finding a suitable angle to avoid the cold wind coming through the broken window, and kept rubbing the series of discs in his pocket, reminiscing about that mysterious female voice.
How wonderful it would be to hear it again! He could not suppress this thought, while gently rubbing the discs with the tip of his thumb, fantasizing that these discs had once been touched by her hands. He was so excited that he almost wanted to shout “FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH.” It was strange; the man's curse was deeply rooted in his memory and occasionally slipped to his lips unconsciously.
Suddenly, he felt an unusual sensation on the discs with his fingers. Awadeng instinctively looked around, confirming that there were no other passengers nearby, and carefully took out the discs, examining them closely in the light from outside.
Awadeng quickly noticed that on the back of the disc containing the BBS forum list, someone had lightly scratched a line with their fingernail. This scratch was very light; if Awadeng had not carefully stroked the disc, it would have been hard to notice. The scratch was peculiar, a straight line, and not far from the end of this line was another very short scratch, seemingly intended to curve into a dot. Overall, it looked like an exclamation mark, or upside down, like the letter “i.”
Soon he found similar scratches on the other four discs; they all had different shapes but seemed to represent some kind of symbol. Awadeng recalled that the last sentence from the speaker mentioned the order of the documents, so he arranged these five discs according to the order of the BBS forum unified username and password, BBS forum list, internet BBS forum usage guide, corresponding regulations, and the latest healthy network vocabulary list, then traced those five scratches onto the bus window with his finger. Soon those scratches formed an English word:
title
Title? What does this mean?
Awadeng looked at this word in confusion. Was this purely an accidental mark, or was someone doing it intentionally? If someone did it intentionally, what was their purpose?
At this moment, the bus stopped, and a few more passengers got on. Awadeng shifted his body to prevent them from seeing the letters he had written on the window, then pretended to yawn, raising his sleeve to gently wipe away the five letters.
Awadeng secretly rejoiced; if he had not discovered these marks on the discs now, he would never have had the chance to find them later. According to regulations, personal computers were not allowed to use any storage devices, so Awadeng's computer did not have an optical drive. His next step was to submit these discs to the district's network security department, where they would log the data from the discs onto the server and then forward it to Awadeng. This was to prevent individuals from privately creating, reading, or disseminating pornographic or reactionary information at home; the network security department explained it this way. Federal network police often raided personal homes for random checks to see if users illegally possessed information storage devices. Awadeng had witnessed a neighbor being taken away by the police simply for secretly hiding a disc at home—he had only intended to use it as a coaster. That neighbor never returned.
Regardless of what these symbols represented, they were a brand new experience, which excited Awadeng. Nostalgia and a desire for novelty were the two pillars of his spirit living in this era; otherwise, he would become as rigid as this city and suffocate to death.
He first went to the network security division and handed the discs to the person in charge there. The person in charge repeatedly checked the discs and Awadeng's expression, as if all BBS forum users were untrustworthy. Finally, the person in charge could not find any flaws, so he accepted the discs, then raised his right hand, and Awadeng shouted “Create a healthy internet” together with him. This was the only sentence allowed to be spoken coherently.
Back home, Awadeng took off his coat, removed the filtering mask, tossed the Listener onto the army bed, and then collapsed into the pillow. Every time he went outside, it left him exhausted; partly because his frail body was no longer suited for outdoor activities, and partly because he had to expend a lot of energy dealing with the Listener.
Forty minutes later, he finally woke up slowly, his head still aching as usual, and his chest still heavy as ever. After eating a little something haphazardly, Awadeng crawled to the computer desk, turned on the computer, and habitually checked his inbox first.
There were seven or eight new emails in the inbox, two of which were business emails from colleagues. The other five were sent to him by the network security department, containing information about the discs he had submitted.
Awadeng opened the two emails containing the BBS forum username, password, and BBS forum list. He saw that his forum username was 19842015, exactly the same as his network number, which made him a bit disappointed. He vaguely remembered that when he was younger, BBS forum usernames could be chosen by oneself, and each forum could be different; a person online was not just a dull string of numbers.
Childhood memories often mixed with fairy tales and fantasies, not necessarily aligning with reality. In reality, one could only use the username and password designated by the relevant department, and the reason was simple: the username and password could also contain sensitive vocabulary.
Awadeng then opened the BBS list, which contained only official forums set up by the relevant department, with no personal ones—indeed, from a technical perspective, individuals could not legally hold computer equipment capable of setting up new BBS forums—these forums had different focuses, but were basically centered around how to better respond to national calls and create a healthy internet. For example, one computer technology forum's theme was how to better block sensitive vocabulary.
Surprisingly, one of these forums was about games. It discussed a network game that helped others use healthy vocabulary, where players could control a little boy to scout the streets for anyone using sensitive vocabulary; the more people caught, the higher the boy's rewards.
Awadeng casually opened a few forums, and the people inside were all polite, speaking very “healthily,” just like those pedestrians on the street. No, to be precise, the atmosphere was even more oppressive than on the street. People on the street might still have a chance to retain some small actions; for instance, Awadeng had just secretly written the word TITLE on the bus; whereas in online forums, the last bit of privacy was completely exposed, and the relevant department could monitor all your actions at any time, with no way to hide. This was the progress brought about by the development of science and technology.
A wave of disappointment washed over Awadeng; he closed his eyes, tossed the mouse aside, and leaned back heavily. He had naively thought that the BBS forum might be a bit more relaxed, but now it seemed even more suffocating than reality. He felt as if he had sunk into a sluggish electronic quagmire, struggling to breathe. “FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH” surged to his lips once again, intensely, and he had to exert great effort to control it.
Suddenly, he thought of that mysterious title; what did it mean? Perhaps something was hidden within those five discs? Maybe it was related to the title?
With this thought, Awadeng turned his gaze back to the computer screen, carefully examining the title sections of the five emails sent by the network security department. Each of the five discs hid a letter, and when combined, they formed the word title; following this logic, the titles of the five emails combined into a sentence: “Go to the User Learning Forum.”
Another mystery, Awadeng thought. But this only strengthened his confidence that there must be some hidden secrets. The discs, emails, and BBS forums had all provided hints through the initial word group combination, which was no coincidence.
Who would hide such information in the official documents of the relevant department? What would happen on the fifth floor of the Efficiency Building every Sunday?
Awadeng finally found the long-lost excitement, the novelty of the unknown stimulating his long-numbed nerves. More importantly, this playful wordplay in the official documents of the relevant department gave him a sense of breath, as if a few small holes had opened in an airtight iron mask.
Creating a healthy internet.
FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH.
Awadeng stared at the desktop background on the screen, mouthing the curse word and raising his middle finger.
In the following days, Awadeng remained in a state of latent excitement, like a child with an innocent expression hiding candy in his mouth, revealing a sly smile once the adult turned away, fully enjoying the pleasure of keeping a secret.
Days passed, and the healthy vocabulary list lost a few more words; the air outside became even more polluted, which had already become the norm in life. Awadeng had started using the healthy vocabulary list as a calendar, crossing off three words to signify three days had passed, and crossing off seven to signify a week had passed, until Sunday finally arrived.
Awadeng arrived at the Efficiency Building around noon; the hint sentence did not specify a time, and he thought it would be acceptable to go before noon. When he arrived at the entrance of the Efficiency Building, wearing a dark green military coat and with the Listener clipped to his ear, his heart began to beat anxiously. He had imagined countless possible scenarios over the past week, and now the mystery was about to be revealed. No matter what happened in the Efficiency Building on Sunday, it could not be worse than his current life, Awadeng thought, so he was not too afraid.
He entered the building and found that there were very few people inside; the empty hallway echoed only with the sound of his footsteps. An old elevator had an advertisement saying “Create a Beautiful Network Home” and a poster of a righteous-looking male figure against a backdrop of the stars and stripes, pointing at the viewer with his right index finger, with a line above reading, “Citizen, please use healthy vocabulary.” Awadeng turned away in disgust, only to find that the other side had the same poster, with no way to avoid it.
Fortunately, the fifth floor arrived quickly. As the elevator doors opened, a sign reading “B Unit” was prominently displayed on the opposite door. The door was a peeling green, with a few drops of ink on the frame, and a simple electronic doorbell hung in the upper right corner.
Awadeng took a deep breath and reached to press the button.
The doorbell rang, and soon footsteps could be heard from inside. Awadeng felt that the rhythm of the footsteps was familiar, as if he had seen it somewhere before. The door opened halfway with a “click,” and a young woman held the handle with one hand, leaning forward to look at Awadeng, warily asking:
“Who are you looking for?”
The woman asked in confusion. Awadeng immediately recognized her voice; it was the same woman behind the counter in the BBS forum section of the network department. She was beautiful, wearing a dark green sweater, with her hair styled in the short cut popular in this era, her skin particularly pale, with only a hint of color on her lips.
Looking into the woman's eyes, Awadeng momentarily did not know what to say. After hesitating for a moment, he raised his right hand and softly replied, “title.”
Awadeng did not know if this sentence would work, nor did he know if he had really come to the right place, but it was the only response he could think of. He nervously watched the woman; if she suddenly called the police, he would be taken away for a thorough interrogation about why he had randomly come to a stranger's home. “Trespassing” was only slightly less severe than “using sensitive vocabulary.”
Upon hearing him, the woman remained expressionless, only slightly nodding her head and cautiously making a “come in” gesture with her right hand. Awadeng was about to speak, but the woman shot him a stern look, causing him to swallow his words and obediently follow her inside.
Once inside, the first thing the woman did was close the door tightly, then pulled up a lead-gray curtain to block the entrance. Awadeng blinked nervously, taking the opportunity to glance around. The room was a standard two-bedroom apartment, furnished with a double sofa and a coffee table, which surprisingly had a few bunches of red and purple plastic flowers on it. Against the wall were a computer desk and a computer, and a regular white calendar hung on the wall, but it was edged with pink paper, giving it a cozy feel. A bulky fluorescent light hung from the ceiling, with a few green wires dangling from it like a prank, resembling a grapevine. Awadeng noticed that there were four pairs of shoes on the shoe rack at the entrance, of different sizes, indicating that there were other guests today.
Awadeng was hesitating when the woman suddenly tapped him on the shoulder from behind, signaling him to move further inside. So the two of them passed through a short corridor on the other side of the living room to one of the bedrooms. The bedroom had the same lead-gray curtains, and the woman reached up to lift the curtain and opened the door. Awadeng stepped inside, and the first thing that caught his eye was three smiling humans and a room decorated with real flowers. The room was filled with many old items from his memories, such as an Impressionist oil painting, a Ugandan wooden sculpture, and even a silver candlestick, but there was no computer.
He hesitated, and the woman also entered the room. She carefully closed the curtain and took off the Listener from her ear, turning back to Awadeng with a melodious voice and said:
“Welcome to the Speaking Club!”
“Speaking Club?”
Out of habit, Awadeng did not say these three words aloud, as he was unsure if it was “healthy,” but expressed his confusion with his eyes.
“Here you can speak freely; this damn thing won't work.” The woman shook her Listener, which seemed dead, ignoring the two sensitive words “freely” and “damn” in her sentence.
Awadeng suddenly thought of the crazy man he encountered last week at the bus stop; if he took off the Listener, would he also end up in the same situation? The woman noticed his hesitation and pointed to the lead-gray curtain at the entrance, saying, “Don't worry; this place can block the Listener's signal, and no one will notice.”
“You, what, are, you, who, is, this, place?”
Awadeng asked softly while taking off the Listener from his ear, still unable to change his speaking style mandated by the relevant department.
“This is the Speaking Club, a completely free space where you can speak your mind without any reservations.”
Another person stood up and said to him; he was a tall, thin middle-aged man with very thick glasses on his nose.
Awadeng stammered, unable to find the focus of his speech, feeling embarrassed under the gaze of the four people, his face turning red. The woman looked at him sympathetically: “Poor guy, don't be too nervous; every newcomer here is like this. You'll get used to it.”
She placed her hand on Awadeng's shoulder: “Actually, we've met before; of course, I've seen you, but you haven't seen me.” As she spoke, she let down her hair, revealing a head of shoulder-length black hair, and in that moment, Awadeng thought she was truly beautiful.
“I... I remember you, your voice.” Awadeng finally managed to say a complete sentence, though not very fluently.
“Really? That's great.” The woman smiled, took his hand, and led him to sit on the sofa, handing him a cup of water. Awadeng noticed that this was an old-fashioned teacup with a floral pattern, and the water inside had a rich fragrance. He took a sip, and the sweet taste was particularly stimulating to his tongue, which was used to pure water, making him feel invigorated.
“It’s not easy to get this; we can't drink it every week.” The woman sat beside him, her dark eyes gazing at him, “How did you find out about this gathering?”
Awadeng recounted the process of discovering the hints on the discs, and the other four nodded approvingly. “Indeed, a smart person, your mind hasn't been corroded by stale air.” A plump man in his thirties praised him, his voice booming. The middle-aged man with glasses crossed his hands, indicating his agreement.
“This is a natural member of the Speaking Club, intelligent, perceptive, and unwilling to succumb to silence.”
“Well then,” the plump man suggested, “let's applaud to welcome the new member of the Speaking Club.”
So the four of them clapped, and the small room echoed with applause. Awadeng shyly raised his cup in response, still not quite accustomed to such a scene. When the applause subsided, he timidly asked:
“Can I ask a question? What exactly is the Speaking Club?”
The woman who brought him in extended her index finger, pointing just two centimeters in front of his nose, explaining:
“The Speaking Club is a gathering where you can speak freely. Here, you don't have to worry about anything; you can say whatever you want. There are no sensitive words, and no healthy internet. This is an absolutely free space where you can fully release your soul and stretch your body, with no restrictions or constraints.” As she spoke, her voice became high-pitched and passionate, filled with many words that had long been blocked, and Awadeng had not heard such smooth and coherent speech in a long time.
“Our purpose is simple: to speak, just that.” The middle-aged man adjusted his glasses and added.
“But what should we talk about?” Awadeng asked again.
“Anything, anything you want to say.” The middle-aged man smiled warmly, “Especially those thoughts restricted by the American government.”
This was indeed a bold gathering; it was clearly a crime, Awadeng thought, but he found himself slowly drawn to this crime.
“Of course, there is one thing we will clarify in advance. The Speaking Club is dangerous; every member risks being arrested by the relevant department. Federal law enforcement officers may burst in at any time, arresting us for illegal assembly and illegal use of prohibited vocabulary. You have the right to refuse to join and leave now.”
Upon hearing the woman's warning, Awadeng hesitated for a moment. But when he thought about leaving now, he would have to return to that suffocating quagmire of life, and he found it hard to suppress his frustration. For the first time, Awadeng realized that “speaking” was a deadly temptation for him; he had not known how much he longed to speak.
“I won't leave; I want to join you and speak.”
“That's great. Well then, why don't we start with self-introductions?” The woman said happily, standing up and placing her right hand on her chest. “I'll start. My name is Artemis; as for my network number and ID number, let them go to hell! Who cares about that! I have my own name; I am not a number.”
Her words made everyone, including Awadeng, laugh. She continued, “But actually, this is just a pseudonym; it’s the name of a goddess from Greek mythology.”
“A pseudonym?”
“Yes, it’s different from the name on my ID.”
“But why?”
“Don't you get tired of the name in your file? I thought of a name I like, and even if it’s just once, I want to call myself whatever I want. Everyone here in the Speaking Club has a name they like, and we call each other by that.”
Awadeng nodded thoughtfully; he understood Artemis's idea very well. In fact, when he used the internet forums, he also hoped to choose a name he liked instead of being assigned a username.
Through the introductions, Awadeng learned that Artemis was a staff member in the BBS forum management section of the network department, twenty-three years old, unmarried, hated cockroaches and spiders, and enjoyed sewing and gardening; the flowers in the room were secretly picked from the outskirts of the city.
Next was the middle-aged man, who introduced himself as Lancelot, forty-one years old, an engineer at the city power plant; the name Lancelot came from the legend of King Arthur in Britain, a loyal knight. He had a wife and two children, one boy and one girl; the boy was three years old, and the girl was four years old, and their favorite treat was lemon-flavored fruit candy. At this point, Lancelot expressed his hope to bring his children next time, as they were at the age of learning to speak, and he wanted to teach them how to truly speak.
The plump man in his thirties was a network administrator in the network department, named Wagner. This identity surprised Awadeng; in his impression, network administrators were cold, expressionless beings, but Wagner before him was round and shiny, with two little mustaches at the corners of his mouth, looking quite spirited. He enjoyed cigars and opera, and it was not difficult to obtain these two items using his privileges as a network administrator.
“This curtain that can block signals was made by him,” Artemis added, and Wagner made a “happy to serve you” gesture to her, then lit a cigar and put it in his mouth, quickly filling the room with a thin haze of smoke.
The fourth member of the Speaking Club was a woman in a black uniform, just turned thirty. Her name was Duras, an editor for the City Daily (the newspaper of that era had all been digitized); she was even thinner than Artemis, with high cheekbones and sunken eye sockets, and her thin lips rarely parted even when she spoke, revealing no teeth. Her hobbies included raising dogs and cats, although she did not have any.
“Well then, it’s your turn,” Artemis said to Awadeng. Awadeng thought for a moment and stammered through his situation; when it came to his hobbies, he suddenly could not think of what he liked, as if he had nothing at all. Before this, he had never even thought about it.
“So, what do you most want to do?” Artemis placed her hand on his shoulder again, prompting him to ask.
“Anything is fine?”
“Anything is fine; there are no restrictions here.”
Awadeng felt he had finally found an opportunity; he cleared his throat, scratched his head, and blurted out a loud shout: “FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH!”
In an instant, the four people present were shocked by his words. Wagner was the first to react; he quickly put down his cigar, applauded vigorously, then took the cigar out of his mouth and exclaimed loudly, “Awesome, refreshing, this is simply the perfect initiation oath.”
“I’d rather hear this kind of profanity ten times than deal with that boring electronic female voice again,” Lancelot said, looking intoxicated, not hiding his disdain for the electronic female voice. Meanwhile, Artemis and Duras both giggled, and Duras noticed that her smile had widened a bit, covering her mouth in embarrassment. Awadeng felt that they were not so much intrigued as they were enjoying the contempt and challenge to the system brought by that curse.
“So what name do you want to be called?” Artemis tilted her head and asked.
“Well... Wang Er.” Awadeng pondered for a moment and replied. This was a Chinese name; he had a Chinese friend who liked to tell stories, and the protagonist in those stories was always named Wang Er.
The atmosphere in the room became completely harmonious; everyone began to talk about more natural topics, each person settling into their most comfortable posture. Artemis occasionally picked up the teapot to refill everyone's cups. Awadeng's tense mood gradually relaxed, and he felt his mind becoming unusually light.
“You know,” Artemis poured him another cup of sweet water, “we always want to keep the Speaking Club at a certain scale; it’s impossible to speak freely on normal days; we need space. The trouble is, we can’t publicly recruit members, nor can we directly seek them through physical contact; the risk is too great. So Lancelot designed a hint system, and only those who discover these hints can know of our existence.”
“This system considers more than just safety issues.” Lancelot took off his glasses to wipe them carefully, proudly saying, “This is actually a membership qualification verification. Members accepted into the Speaking Club must be intelligent, perceptive, have a desire for passion, and yearn for freedom.”
Wagner pinched the cigar between two fingers, tapping the ash into a prepared ashtray, and said loudly, “In my experience, most people applying for BBS forum services are nostalgic or seeking something fresh; such people often harbor passion, believing that BBS forums might provide them with something different from reality—of course, in fact, this is not the case; the American government’s management of BBS forums is even stricter than that of emails—this suggests that they yearn for liberation from constraints. Therefore, we hid the hints in the BBS forum application discs, and only those with wisdom and keen observation would discover these hints and successfully interpret them to find this place.”
“Ultimately, the Speaking Club is just a secret little group of people yearning for the freedom to speak.” Lancelot chuckled.
“You are the second person to find the Speaking Club; the first is Miss Duras.”
Artemis told Awadeng. Awadeng looked at Duras with admiration, and the latter replied lightly, “It’s nothing; it’s my job; my job is to manipulate words.”
Awadeng thought of the crazy man he encountered at the bus stop last week and shared this incident with the other members. After hearing it, Lancelot shook his head, letting out a sigh from his lips:
“I’ve seen such things before; one of my colleagues was like that. So the existence of the Speaking Club is necessary; it serves as a pressure relief valve. Long-term restrictions on sensitive vocabulary can drive people mad, as they cannot think or express themselves.”
“This is precisely what the relevant department hopes to see; only fools can survive in a society full of fools, which is stable.” Wagner shifted his hefty body slightly, speaking disdainfully.
“You are also part of the relevant department, Mr. Wagner.” Artemis, while refilling the teacups, looked up and said softly.
“Miss Artemis, I’m just an ordinary person who can use a few more sensitive words than the average person.”
Everyone laughed. Awadeng had never seen so many people talking so much; it was an unprecedented wonderful experience. He was surprised to find that he quickly blended into this small circle, and the barriers and sense of strangeness quickly disappeared; along with them, the habitual ailments of chest tightness and dizziness also vanished.
Soon the topic expanded from the Speaking Club itself to broader and more casual subjects. Artemis sang a song, Lancelot told a few jokes, Duras shared stories about the customs of the southern states of America; Wagner even sang a segment of an opera. Although Awadeng did not understand a word, he did not hold back his applause. In some blocked corner of this city, five unwillingly silent people were enjoying something considered a luxury in this era—speaking.
“Wang Er, have you ever read ‘1984’?”
Artemis suddenly asked, sitting down next to Awadeng. Awadeng shook his head and asked back, “Is this a segment of the network number?”
“It’s the title of a book.”
“Book?” Upon hearing this term, Awadeng shook his head even more vigorously. This was an old term; in this era of advanced computer technology, the internet could carry all information, and anyone could find an electronic version in the online library; thus, the relevant department deemed physical books a waste that no longer needed to exist, and physical books gradually disappeared. Wagner commented on this, “It’s understandable that the relevant department prefers e-books; with e-books, all unhealthy vocabulary can be eliminated with just two commands: FIND and REPLACE, disinfecting a book; while proofreading and revising physical books is a time-consuming task.”
“It’s a great book, a prophecy from the philosophers of the old world about our era.” Artemis said seriously. “It foresaw the bondage and liberation of flesh, the bondage and liberation of spirit, which is the cornerstone of the Speaking Club.”
Awadeng was somewhat surprised to find that his network number began with the same digits as the title of this book: 19842015.
“So how can we see it?” Awadeng asked, staring into Artemis's dark eyes.
“We can’t find a physical copy; the online library cannot possibly have such a book.” Lancelot shook his head, then smiled again, gesturing to Duras with his left hand, “But our Miss Duras should be proud of her memory; she had the fortune to read these two books long ago and can remember most of the text inside.”
“Great, then she wrote it down, right?”
“That’s too dangerous; possessing physical books is a serious crime in this era, and it can easily expose the Speaking Club. We only ask Miss Duras to recite for us during each gathering. Since it’s the Speaking Club, isn’t it more fitting to tell these two stories?”
Everyone fell silent, and Duras stood up, walking to the center of the room, while the other four sat nearby watching her. Awadeng casually draped his arm over Artemis's shoulder, and she leaned slightly toward him, the faint fragrance of her hair brushing past his nose, causing his heart to flutter. The room was very warm, and he could not tell if it was the scent of flowers or Artemis's fragrance.
Duras's voice was not loud, but it was clear and powerful; her memory was indeed astonishing, as she not only remembered the plot but could also recite some details and sentences. Duras spoke of Julia pretending to fall and secretly handing Winston a note that said “I love you,” vividly, captivating the audience, especially Artemis, who listened intently, not even noticing that Awadeng had been staring at her.
“George Orwell foresaw the progress of totalitarianism but did not foresee the progress of technology.” Wagner commented when Duras paused to drink water, and Awadeng felt that he was a very insightful technocrat, not quite matching his appearance.
“In Oceania, people could still secretly express their thoughts by passing notes, but now it’s different. The American government has pushed us all online, and in today’s advanced network technology, even if we want to send a text message, it will be clearly seen by the system or the network administrator, with no way to hide. In reality, there’s still the Listener.” Wagner tapped the end of his cigar against his leg, “In short, technology is neutral, but technological progress makes a free world freer and a centralized world more centralized.”
“That sounds very philosophical.” Artemis winked at Wagner, taking out a pack of cookies and distributing them to everyone.
“Just like how some people can write tool software with 0s and 1s, while others can create malicious viruses with it?”
Awadeng thought of a similar analogy, and Wagner snapped his fingers in satisfaction upon hearing it.
“Very good analogy, Wang Er, exactly; you truly are a programmer.”
The conversation continued for an unknown amount of time, and Duras glanced at the clock on the wall, hurriedly reminding the four engrossed in conversation that time was running out. The Speaking Club could not last too long; the longer the Listener was blocked, the greater the risk of exposure.
“Well then, let’s make the most of the last half hour to complete today’s activities.”
As Artemis spoke, she began to clear away the empty cups from the table. Lancelot and Wagner also stood up to stretch their sore shoulders and backs, while Duras remained seated.
“Activities? What other activities are there?”
Awadeng asked in surprise; was there something else besides speaking in the Speaking Club?
“Well, yes, we have other activities.” Artemis flicked her hair back and smiled seductively at him, “We will also fully communicate with each other.”
“Fully communicate?”
“Intercourse.”
“………………” Awadeng's face suddenly turned pale, and his breathing quickened, as if thirty-degree below zero cold air had been poured into his stomach; he could hardly believe his ears.
“The Speaking Club has the freedom to speak, and the freedom to choose who to sleep with.” Artemis said without any shyness, “We talk to each other and then choose a suitable person to make love with, just like we choose the words we like to speak.”
Seeing Awadeng's embarrassment, Lancelot walked over and patted him on the shoulder, saying slowly, “Of course, we won’t force anyone; this is entirely voluntary. Today I have to go home early to take care of the kids; your numbers are just right.”
Awadeng's face flushed, hot as if it were summer and his computer's CPU was overheating; he did not even dare to look at Artemis again. He had fantasized about women for a long time, but this was the first time he was so close.
After saying goodbye to everyone, Lancelot left first to take care of his children, and Artemis led the anxious Awadeng to another room. This was clearly Artemis's bedroom; the room was simple but very clean, with a handmade doll placed beside the pillow on the bed, and the sheets and curtains were pink.
Initially, it was Artemis who took the initiative, and Awadeng, caught off guard, could only passively let her take charge. After several rounds of teasing, Awadeng gradually relaxed, allowing the primal desires hidden in his heart to flow out. That youthful longing to hear a smooth female voice had originally been a fantasy of his troubled life, but today it was doubled. Soon, this longing merged with the frustration he had been repressing in reality, transforming into a fierce impulse, causing him to merge with Artemis time and again. Awadeng did not know how this impulse differed from his urge to loudly shout “FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH,” but now was not the time to consider that; all he thought about was to release his passion freely and without restraint, with no limitations whatsoever.
Intense stimulation surged through his excitement center, and ultimately, a wave of pleasure rose violently, reaching a peak. In that moment, Awadeng felt an unprecedented freedom, a lightness like never before, along with the joy and fatigue born from that freedom. Covered in sweat, he gasped and collapsed onto Artemis, a wave of pleasant fatigue flooding over his body...
...When he woke up, he found Artemis lying beside him, her naked body resembling a white jade statue, her sleeping posture serene and tranquil. He turned to his side, lazily yawning, and then Artemis opened her eyes.
“Very comfortable, right?” she asked.
“Yes...” Awadeng did not know what to say; he paused and hesitantly asked, “Have you... uh, been with Lancelot, Wagner, and the others like that before?”
“Yes.” Artemis replied gently, propping herself up on one elbow, her long hair cascading from her shoulder to her chest. Her frankness left Awadeng somewhat at a loss. There was a moment of silence in the room, and then Artemis suddenly asked:
“Do you remember the story Duras told today? The female lead secretly handed the male lead a note that said ‘I love you.’”
“Um, I remember.” Awadeng replied, glad to finally escape from that awkward topic.
“There’s no word for love in the relevant department's healthy internet vocabulary list. In our era, ‘I love you’ is also a sensitive phrase that has been blocked.” Artemis's gaze seemed to carry a sense of nostalgia and perhaps loss.
“I love you.” Awadeng blurted out, knowing that in this room, he could say anything he wanted without hesitation.
“Thank you.”
Artemis smiled upon hearing this, got up to put on her clothes, and urged Awadeng that it was almost time. Awadeng felt a bit disappointed, as she did not respond with the enthusiasm he had expected, as if what he had just said was somewhat trivial.
At this moment, Duras and Wagner had already left, leaving only the two of them in the room. Artemis escorted him to the door, handed him the Listener, and reminded him, “Remember, never mention anything about the Speaking Club or anyone outside; we are completely strangers outside the Speaking Club.”
“I remember.” Awadeng replied, then turned to leave.
“Wang Er.”
Artemis suddenly called out, and Awadeng quickly turned around. Before he could react, her soft, warm lips suddenly pressed against his, followed by a delicate voice whispering in his ear: “Thank you, I love you.”
Awadeng felt his eyes moisten. He put on the Listener, pushed open the door, and stepped back into that suffocating world, but he was now in a very different state of mind than when he had come.
After that, Awadeng's mental state noticeably improved. He cautiously enjoyed the pleasure of this secret gathering and found joy in it. Every week or two, the five of them would secretly hold Speaking Club activities on Sundays, chatting, singing, or listening to Duras tell the story of 1984. Awadeng had “fully communicated” with Artemis a few more times, and occasionally he would also “communicate” with Duras. He had two identities: one was the Awadeng in reality and online, numbered 19842015, and the other was Wang Er in the Speaking Club. He enjoyed this name, feeling that it represented another life of his.
During one gathering, they discussed the issue of sensitive vocabulary. Awadeng vaguely remembered that in the early days—his memory of this was a bit hazy—the relevant department provided a list of sensitive vocabulary, which the internal management personnel used as a reference in secret. He was puzzled about how it had evolved into the current situation. That day, Wagner brought a bottle of wine and was in high spirits, so he decided to share the history of “blocking” with them; as a network administrator, he often had access to this information.
Initially, the American government simply blocked sensitive vocabulary, but they soon realized that this measure was ineffective. Many people would use symbols or numbers mixed into phrases to bypass system checks; thus, the relevant department had to block these similar sensitive vocabulary as well. However, it was well known that the combinations of numbers and symbols were nearly infinite; as long as one had imagination, it was entirely possible to create a new phrase without losing its original meaning. For example, the word “politic” could be expressed in countless ways, such as “politi/c,” “政 polit/ic,” “pol/itic,” and so on.
When the relevant department realized this problem, they adopted a new strategy. Since they could not identify phrases, they would block individual words. This measure was effective at first, significantly reducing the number of people engaging in prohibited conversations, but soon people discovered they could continue to express dangerous thoughts using homophones or puns. Even if the relevant department blocked all homophones of sensitive vocabulary, it was futile; imaginative Americans fully utilized their creativity, employing metaphors, substitutions, analogies, extensions, and other rhetorical methods, or replacing a sensitive word with several non-sensitive words. Human thinking was much broader than computers. If a computer blocked one path, there would always be more paths to choose from.
This underwater struggle seemed to indicate that the American public was achieving victory. At this point, a person with reverse thinking appeared. His identity was unknown. Some said he was a supervisor from the relevant department; others said he was a dangerous individual arrested for excessive use of sensitive vocabulary. Regardless of who he was, the situation was turned around. He suggested to the relevant department that instead of telling the public what they could not say, they should specify what they could say and how to say it. The relevant department quickly understood and formulated new regulations: the sensitive vocabulary list was abolished, replaced by the healthy language list for the internet, and this measure was extended to the language blocking system in daily life.
This time, the public was finally at a disadvantage. In the past, they had played hide-and-seek with the relevant department online and offline, but now they were being choked by the relevant department. This way, the relevant department could efficiently control speech, as the entire framework of language was thoroughly controlled. Within the limited space, the public had almost no options left.
Nevertheless, the public persevered, continuing this war—or game—by selecting legal words from the healthy vocabulary list to express illegal meanings: two consecutive “stable” meant “oppose,” while “stable” plus “prosperity” implied “block.” The American government had to remain vigilant about this trend, deleting more words from the healthy vocabulary list day by day, prohibiting the public from using them.
“Of course, this war will continue. As long as there are two different words or phrases in the world, free communication can continue—you know Morse code, right?”
Wagner said this while finishing his cup of tea, satisfied, and burping.
“But the cost of this war is the loss of language. The ability to express will become increasingly impoverished and bland, and people will tend to remain silent, which is actually good for the relevant department.” Lancelot put on a worried expression, rhythmically tapping his knuckles on the table, “In this way, isn’t it equivalent to the public's consciousness of freedom pushing language to the brink of death? How ironic. According to this trend, the relevant department will not lose; they will laugh last.”
“No, no, they will not understand the emotion of laughter.” Wagner replied lightly.
“I think America has always been in a state of fear, afraid that people will master too many words, express too many thoughts, and become unmanageable.” After saying this, Artemis put on a cold, expressionless face, mimicking the stiff tone of voice she used during work, shouting, “Create a healthy internet, long live America!”
Duras, Lancelot, and Wagner all laughed heartily, while Wang Er (Awadeng) was the only one who did not laugh. He remained troubled by Lancelot's earlier statement: the public's confrontation with the relevant department would ultimately lead to the demise of language. Thus, the fate of the Speaking Club was merely closing the curtains on a train heading toward a cliff, enjoying the last tranquility before the crash.
However, he did not voice this thought, as it would be too disheartening. Awadeng did not want to ruin the atmosphere of the Speaking Club; it was very important to him.
After returning home from the Speaking Club, Awadeng lay on the army bed, hands behind his head, lost in thought. Since joining the Speaking Club, he had become more prone to contemplation than before. Sometimes he thought about the absurdities existing in this society, this internet, or this city; sometimes he thought about his life; and at other times, he thought about Artemis. He did not know if it was in an oppressive world that people's emotions became particularly intense, but he was now deeply infatuated with Artemis. Awadeng had envied Winston in the book Duras had recounted, who had a small room where he could be alone with Julia, a small world that belonged only to the two of them.
He had once revealed his feelings while “fully communicating” with Artemis, but she did not respond directly, instead indicating that the relationship between the two of them could not go any further than the Speaking Club—maintaining the current state was already the limit of personal behavior, and the relevant department would not always be dozing off. “We can only compress our emotional lives into the weekly Speaking Club activities; that is already quite a luxury.” She told him, gently stroking his chest. “Only in the Speaking Club are we Artemis and Wang Er. At all other times, you are 19842015, and I am 19387465.”
To this, Awadeng could only let out a soft sigh; indeed, he should not expect more.
Besides emotions, the internet had also changed. Since joining the Speaking Club, Awadeng gradually discovered some things hidden beneath the surface of the internet. Just as Wagner pointed out during one of the activities, the war between the public and the relevant department had never ended; thoughts and speech would always seep out from the cracks of strict control. Awadeng found that within the completely formulaic emails and internet forums, there were actually many intriguing details hidden, just like that title, containing various codes and hidden meanings. These things came from different people, with different styles and methods of deciphering, and Awadeng did not know what content was hidden behind those codes. However, one thing was certain: the Speaking Club was not the only underground gathering; Wagner was right; there were always people trying to express “unhealthy” thoughts using “healthy” vocabulary.
Ironically, what struck Awadeng the most was the control of the relevant department. In the past, he had only vaguely felt himself being bound; now he could clearly see the context of this bondage and oppression, as well as the various means imposed upon him. The freedom he enjoyed in the small Speaking Club made him feel even more acutely the discomfort in the broader reality.
“FUXKYOU, YOUSONOFBITCH!”
At every gathering, the three men would disdainfully shout this curse together. They knew it would not bring any adverse effects to the relevant department, but it was indeed refreshing.
This week, Awadeng was particularly busy; his colleague had been blocked for unknown reasons, leaving the entire project on his shoulders. This project was to design software for the relevant department to control the energy distribution of high-power active “Listeners.” The software was complex, and he had to work for over ten hours a day in front of the computer, only stopping to eat a little something when his body could no longer hold up, drinking a sip of pure water, and lying down on the army bed next to him for a nap before getting up to continue working. The room was filled with the murky smell of smoke and the sour odor of dirty socks and clothes, and Awadeng was typing away at the keyboard in this environment, disheveled, occasionally rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
Just at this time, the heating in the room broke down. The gray heating radiator had turned cold since yesterday, with no hot water flowing through it. Awadeng checked and found it was not a pipe problem, and the neighbors were experiencing the same issue, indicating that there was a problem with the heating system. The positive effect of this change was that it slightly diluted the sour smell in the room, while the negative effect was that the entire room became like an ice cellar. The tightly shut windows and doors could block the cold wind but not the chill; the low temperature made the already shabby room even more frosty. Neither the wooden chair nor the army bed felt anything but cold, and the only thing still warm in the room was the computer. Awadeng had to put on all his warm clothing, curling up in bed with the computer's heat vent directed at himself.
The relevant department announced that “heating” and “warmth” had temporarily been added to the list of sensitive vocabulary, so Awadeng could not write to the heating department to inquire, and could only wait quietly, trying to keep his body as still as possible, except for his fingers tapping the keyboard. On the fourth day after the heating stopped, the radiator finally made a “clattering” sound, and hot water began to flow, restoring warmth to the room; “heating” and “warmth” could be used again. Consequently, the emails and forums were filled with posts celebrating the relevant department's restoration of heating, urgently addressing the people's needs.
However, it was too late for Awadeng; he had fallen ill, with a cold, and a severe one at that. His complexion was pale, his body weak, and his head felt as if a dum-dum bullet had been shot into it; he could only lie in bed waiting for the doctor. The doctor came to his house, gave him two or three IV drips, fed him some unidentifiable pills, and told him to rest. This illness lasted for several days, forcing him to give up attending the Speaking Club this week, as his condition was simply too poor; Awadeng even suspected he might die from it.
Lying in bed, Awadeng felt deep regret; the Speaking Club was his only joy, and now he could not attend. He buried his head under the blanket, lost in thought, wondering what special things Wagner would bring this time. Would Lancelot bring his two children? And what about Artemis? If she did not attend,