Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 185

The Sweetest Sound in the World
Island School, Zheng, Grace - 13
I
n my younger years, China was going through a strenuous period of time with Japan. When I was
twenty, I left home to attend military camp with other healthy young men. It was everyone’s hope that
one day we’d be able to represent China and fight for our country. Many of us were torn and brought
far away from home. Our training took us west, and sometimes we travelled for days. Inevitably, we missed
our hometown –the emotions were hard to hide, but we were taught that it was an honor to be able to
attend. We swallowed the tears and found distractions elsewhere, while our family prayed for our safety. It
was in the military camp where I met Chen. Chen was in charge of handing out badges on the first day, and
we shared a dorm. In first impressions, he didn’t stand out. After all, he wasn’t particularly tall, or particularly
short. He wasn’t particularly weak, or particularly strong. His eyes like most were a deep rich brown, and his
simple, plain features blended him into the crowd. He didn’t talk much, and I viewed him as another by
passer in my life.
However, as the days passed, I noticed something quite odd about him. Every night, he would take out a
tiny sound recorder from under his pillow. Then, he plugged his headphones in, tucked the pods snugly into
his ear and hit play. For those moments, the world seemed to freeze around him. It was like someone
pressed the pause button on an infinitely long film - he no longer heard the furious yells of the commander,
or the ‘brrrringggg’ made by the dinner bell, or even the thuds made by boots marching into the darkness.
He was truly alone, lonely, but content. At times this would go on for hours. We would all ask him what he
was listening to; was it a beautiful love story? A song his beloved one sang? Or maybe a piece of Beijing
opera?
Regardless of what we’d say, he always shook his head and laid back down.
Life in the camp continued as usual, with strict military routines, and small food portions, we barely had
enough food to eat. It was the memories of our hometown that kept us going. Every month or so, we
received a letter from our family back at home. These letters were more than just a note from our loved
ones – they brought joy and warmth to those who were in the frontline, and at times of danger, it brought
hope. However, only a small handful of people could send messages back, and fights erupted easily between
soldiers. Whenever it was our turn to send a letter, we would write as small as possible so that words crawled
across the page like an army of ants. Strangely, Chen never received any. But when his turn came to send
one, he wrote no words. Instead, he would ask the kitchen for drops of cooking oil. The oil was fragrant,
but tasted dreadful as the chefs would use the same oil to cook, but then not change it for weeks. He would
smear the oil across the page, taking special care that every corner was covered. He later told me he sealed
every envelope with a prayer.
Some mocked him and called him a fool, while others thought he could not read or write. I looked at the
name on my badge that he wrote on the first day. Clean and crisp, those characters were clearly the work of
a scholar. This incident only led me to question his identity even more, and from day to night my curiosity
grew and grew. They all say curiosity killed the cat. I don’t know about the cat, but curiosity certainly got
the better of me. One day when he was on night guard duty, I took his recorder from his pillow. Eagerly, I
hit the play button - but what greets me isn’t a tale, a song or a play. Instead, there’s no sound. Just silence,
silence that deafens my ears and tears me into utter confusion. As if to worsen the moment, Chen walks in
and looks at me. Our eyes meet, but we don’t say a single word.
Finally, I gather up courage and walk towards him. I didn’t know what to expect. Fear? Anger? My hands
tremble ever so slightly as I hand the recorder to him. His face was pale; his expression dim. But he doesn’t
show any signs of infuriation. Instead, we sit down and he tells us about his family.
There’s three people in his family. His father, his mother and him. They used to farm for a living, but now
they live in the suburbs of Chongqing and own a small local business, selling freshly steamed buns. His