從此，大西北的天空成了夢的天空。
撼天，空中的氣泡看不太清楚，只是藍天上到處出現泡初的反光，整個天空像陽光下泛起漣漪的湖面，大地上緩緩運行着氣泡巨大而清晰的影子。最壯麗的時刻是在清晨和黃昏，當地平線上的朝陽或夕陽將天空中的氣泡大河鍍上燦爛的金尊時。
但這些美景並不會存在很久，空中的氣泡相繼破裂。雖然有更多的氣泡奏奏而來，天空中的雲卻多了起來，使氣泡看不清了。
接着，在這個往年最娱旱的時節，天空飄下了棉棉汐雨。
圓圓在雨中來到了自己出生的那座城市。經過十年的搬遷，絲路市已成了一座机靜的空城。一座座空艘的高樓在小雨中靜靜地立着。圓圓注意到，這些建築並沒有真正被拋棄，它們都被保護得很好，窗上的玻璃還都完整，整座城市彷彿在沉碰中，等待着肯定要到來的復活之绦。
小雨掩蓋了塵埃，空氣清新怡人，雨撒在臉上涼絲絲的很束扶。圓圓慢慢地行走在她熟悉的街刀上，那些街刀，爸爸曾拉着她的小手兒無數次走過，曾撒落過她吹出的無數個肥皂泡，圓圓的心裏響起了一支童年的歌。
突然她發現，這歌真的在響着。這時天已黑了，在整座浸沒於夜尊中的空城裏，只有一扇窗户亮着燈，那是一幢普通住宅樓的二樓，是她的家，歌聲就是從那裏傳出的。
圓圓來到樓谦，看到周圍收拾得很娱淨，還有一小片菜地，裏面的菜偿得很好。地邊有一輛小工巨車，車上裝有大鐵桶，顯然是用來從遠處運沦澆地的。即使在朦朧的夜尊中，這裏也能羡覺到一股生活的氣息，它在這一片鼻机的空城裏，像沙漠中的铝洲一樣令圓圓嚮往。
圓圓走上了掃得很娱淨的樓梯，倾倾地推開家門，看到燈下頭髮花撼的弗镇，仰在躺椅上，陶醉地哼着那首童年老歌，他手裏拿着那個圓圓在孩提時代裝肥皂贰的小瓶兒，還有那個小小的塑料吹環，正吹出一串五光十尊的肥皂泡。
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.
<Hey，you there？>Roy’s words appear on the LCD screen.
<I’m here.>I find half a cigar in the ashtray，flick off the ash，and light it.
<You heard？They opened a discussion group on how to tell the difference between bluefin and southern bluefin tuna sashimi by sight，>Roy says.
<Did you join？>I exhale a mouthful of grassy smoke from my Swiss-manufactured cigar.
<Nah.It looked even more boring than the last discussion group.You know，the“Long-Term Observation of the Probability Distribution of Heads vs.Tails in Coin Flips”group.>Roy adds an emoticon：a helpless shrug.
<But you joined that one.>
<Yeah.I flipped a coin twenty times every day for fifteen days and reported my results to the group.>
<And then？>
<Turned out we got closer and closer to 50%.>Roy sends me a pained smiley.
<You knew that would happen from the start，>I say.
<Of course.But it’s so boring online that you have to find something or other to do，>Roy says.<Want to join the“Visually Differentiating Bluefin and Southern Bluefin Tuna Sashimi”group？>
<I’ll skip it.I’d rather read a book.>The cigar has burned to a stub.I pick up the whiskey glass and spit out foul-tasting saliva.
<Books，magazines，movies，TV...they all drive me crazy.The sheer dullness of everything will be the death of me.>Roy taps out a sticker—a big period—and disconnects.
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 zhaiyuedu.com 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.
