Cocoon by Zhang Yueran

Author:Zhang Yueran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: World Editions
Published: 2022-03-24T14:22:20+00:00

Cheng Gong

“Granddad? Hello? It’s me, Little Gong.”

I stayed in Room 317 past midnight that day, till the walkie-talkie batteries went dead. No response. Or rather, there must have been a response, I just wasn’t able to hear it.

I couldn’t deny that the experiment had failed. But that’s normal, isn’t it, to fail on the first attempt? Some of the world’s greatest inventions only succeeded after thousands of tries. That’s how I comforted myself, though I still felt despair.

The problem was the radio—it was so old that it only received a few local stations. Even broadcasts from the next city were beyond it. How could it possibly detect the voice of a soul? I needed a more up-to-date, sensitive model that could pick up the faintest electromagnetic waves.

I spent a few days feeling dejected, then pulled myself together and went in search of a better radio. The trash collector told me everyone had stereos these days, all these old-style radios had been sold off or tossed out. He suggested I try the flea market.

That Sunday morning, I got the number 11 bus to the end of the line, on the westernmost side of the city, where there was a huge independent marketplace. The flea market was tiny, in the north-east corner. I walked around the stalls looking carefully, and though there were a few radio sets, they were all about the same as the one in Room 317. Battered, worn out, oozing damp and bygone time. I hated them. They reminded me of Mom and those beautiful, soiled clothes.

Then I spotted a second-hand German radio set that didn’t have this stench. Even from a distance, I already thought it looked special. I headed straight for the corner stall, not looking away for even a second in case it suddenly vanished. It was very old, but in a dignified way. Like an ageing dandy in a spiffy suit, still full of spirit. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the speaker mesh or the slender screws of its longish exterior, the aerial wasn’t rusty at all, and the tea-colored plastic shell gleamed warmly. The top and sides were covered with switches and knobs whose uses were unclear, and a row of white letters on the bottom right corner were so scuffed, even someone who knew German might have struggled to make them out. This only added to its mystique, like a secret code. This was it! There was a small electrical blockage, but the stallholder swore than when this was fixed, it would even be able to pick up signals from Korea. It had been confiscated more than twenty years ago from some capitalist’s home. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to sell it—it was his most valuable item.

After a round of the market, I ended up back at this stall, picking up the radio for a closer look. The stallholder squinted at me, a shriveled cigarette butt drooping from his lips. “Yours for four hundred yuan.”

I gave him a quick smile and walked out.

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