Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

The next morning, the construction site awoke to its usual hustle and bustle. The concrete mixer trucks rumbled into the pouring area, their massive drums slowly rotating. Old Li, the materials coordinator for the area, took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down, walked over, greeted the driver, offered him a cigarette, and chatted idly for a few moments.

The concrete mixer truck began unloading, and grayish-white concrete slurry gushed out and flowed into the formwork. The workers performed their respective tasks, and the buzzing of the vibrators, the scraping of the shovels, and the loud shouts of the workers intertwined to create a unique symphony on the construction site.

Old Li's hand instinctively reached into his pocket and gripped the black plastic bag tightly. The faint sound of plastic rubbing against his fingertips was amplified into a thunderclap in his ears.

He recalled many things—when he first arrived in Nancheng and was desperate, it was Cang Lifeng who broke the last hard steamed bun in half for him; he recalled collapsing from heatstroke under the scorching sun, and it was Cang Lifeng who carried him for two miles to find a clinic; he recalled his daughter almost dropping out of high school in the county because of tuition fees, and it was Cang Lifeng who, without hesitation, took out the money he had saved for a long time and prepared to send home…

The concrete slurry gleamed wetly and somewhat blindingly in the early summer sun. Old Li stared at the flowing gray-white expanse, his eyes stinging, and tears welled up unexpectedly.

"Uncle Li!" someone called from nearby, "The delivery pipe is a bit clogged here, come and lend a hand!"

"Coming!" Old Li responded, his voice slightly trembling. He loosened his grip on the plastic bag, wiped the cold sweat from his palms on his trousers, and hurried over to help. As he passed the cement mixer, he paused, and as if possessed, lifted his foot and quickly drew a crooked "X" on the cement floor below the feed inlet with the tip of his shoe. He immediately smoothed it out with his foot, his heart pounding.

-

At noon, the television in the construction site canteen was on, broadcasting the midday news. The anchor's clear and articulate voice remained distinct amidst the noisy canteen:

"...Construction quality is crucial to the safety of people's lives and property, and every step must be strictly controlled. Our city will soon launch a special campaign to rectify construction quality issues..."

Old Li was holding his rice bowl, chopsticks raised in mid-air, when the sound pierced his ears like needles. He abruptly put down his bowl and chopsticks, rushed out of the canteen, ran to the sink in the corner, held onto the cold tile edge, and violently dry heaved, but nothing came out, only acid burning his throat.

The pager vibrated. He pulled it out with trembling hands; the screen showed an unfamiliar number. He rushed back to the convenience store and dialed back.

There was static in the receiver at first, then Xiaojun's suppressed, tearful groan, followed by several muffled thuds and a man's crude curses.

"Dad...save me...they're...ah!"

The call was abruptly ended.

Old Li stood frozen like a statue, holding the receiver. The shopkeeper gave him a strange look. The tap wasn't turned off properly, and water droplets pattered against the white porcelain edge of the sink, the sound eerily clear, like the second hand of a countdown, each sound striking his already fragile nerves.

He looked down at his rough hands. These hands had carried bricks, mixed mud, supported his wife in her sickbed, and held his newborn son. Now, they were going to do something that would kill someone.

-

At 1 p.m., the mixer truck finished cleaning and began its second loading.

Old Li stood in the shadow of the tool shed, clutching the black plastic bag in his hand. The sun divided him in two—his upper body was in darkness, while his lower legs and feet were bathed in sunlight, his work pants splattered with dried cement.

He suddenly wondered what would happen if he rushed out now and threw the bag of things at Song Jiawen's face.

The son might be dead. He might go to jail himself. The grass on his wife's grave will never be pulled again.

What about Ke Lifeng? When that batch of concrete was poured, and the building was only half-built, the plaster started to crumble, and the steel bars started to rust. The people who moved in... might have been a newlywed couple who had saved up for half their lives to buy the house; or it might have been a family of three, with their child just learning to run and loving to look out the window at the cars below.

He had seen children like that before. Last summer, when he was helping out at another construction site, a little girl with pigtails handed him a bottle of mineral water through the fence during his lunch break and said, "Uncle, you've worked hard."

The bottle of water cost two yuan, but he couldn't bear to drink it. He kept it with him all afternoon and finally poured it on the straw mats used for concrete curing.

Old Li lowered his head and looked at his hands.

These hands have held their son, supported their wife in her hospital bed, and contributed bricks and tiles to countless buildings. He didn't have much formal education and didn't understand many grand principles, but he knew one thing: the walls you build can't collapse, and the floors you pave can't crack, otherwise you'll be letting down the people who live in them.

But now, he's going to personally add poison to the wall.

He wasn't forced to choose by anyone. He chose it himself.

He chose his son.

This thought was like a dull knife, sawing at his heart again and again; not fatal, but more painful than any torture.

He walked over. His steps were unsteady, as if he were walking on cotton. The driver, dozing in the cab, didn't notice him.

He walked to the edge of the feed inlet and took the black plastic bag out of his pocket.

He suddenly remembered when his son was three years old, just learning to say "Dad," drool dripping from his chin, yet his eyes crinkled into crescent moons with laughter. He happily lifted his son high above his head and spun him around in the cramped rented room until they both fell to the floor, dizzy, yet unable to stop laughing. His wife watched them reproachfully, her eyes also full of amusement…

Old Li closed his eyes. Two streams of murky tears squeezed out from the corners of his tightly closed eyes, rolling down his dusty cheeks.

His hands trembled violently, and it took him several tries to tear it open. Inside was a fine, grayish-white powder, almost the same color as the cement dust that had accumulated in his fingernails and hair over the years.

A gust of wind blew by, stirring up some powder and sprinkling it onto the rough back of his hands. It felt cool.

With a flick of his wrist, he poured the entire bag of powder into the feed chute that was currently receiving sand and gravel aggregates.

The grayish-white powder mixed into the sand and gravel and disappeared instantly, like a drop of water merging into the ocean, or like a conscience falling into an abyss.

-

He pressed the close button almost numbly. The iron baffle slammed shut. The massive drum of the mixer truck began to rumble and spin, the sound dull and continuous, like some giant beast digesting something, or like a millstone grinding away at conscience.

He leaned against the cold, rough car body and slowly slid down to sit on the ground. The afternoon sun was blazing, baking the ground until it was scorching hot, but he was shivering all over, his teeth chattering. He hugged his knees, curling up into a ball. He subconsciously rubbed his hands repeatedly on his trouser legs, but he felt that the invisible powder was still stuck to his hands, seeping into his fingerprints.

"Uncle Li?"

Old Li froze.

Cang Lifeng approached at some point, carrying an old canvas bag, as if he were about to go out. He squatted down, his gaze falling on Old Li's pale face, his brows furrowed tightly.

"You look so pale, are you suffering from heatstroke?"

"No...it's nothing." Old Li hurriedly wiped his face with the back of his hand, stood up by supporting himself with the cement mixer, his legs swaying from the numbness. He lowered his eyes, not daring to look Cang Lifeng in the eye, his voice dry like sandpaper rubbing against wood.

Cang Lifeng glanced at his old watch: "Then I'm leaving. Please keep an eye on things at the construction site."

"it is good."

Cang Lifeng took a few steps, then stopped and turned back. The setting sun cast a warm golden glow on his profile.

"By the way, Uncle Li, about the question you asked last night—"

"What's the problem?" Old Li asked instinctively, his heart skipping a beat.

"You say no matter what choice you make, it's always wrong." Cang Lifeng scratched his head, revealing a somewhat apologetic but incredibly sincere smile. "I thought about it for a long time last night. I think, when you make a choice, no one knows if it's right or wrong, but once you've made a choice, don't just dwell on regrets. Grit your teeth and move forward step by step. Even if the path is wrong, you have to find a way to make it solid and not let it harm those who come after you. After all, paths are made by people walking on them."

After saying that, he waved his hand, turned around, and strode towards the construction site gate.

-

Cang Lifeng hadn't actually gone far.

He turned the corner and slowed down. Old Li's gaze was off today—not the usual warm, dependent look, but rather evasive, like a child caught doing something wrong. The hunched back of Old Li rubbing his hands by the cement mixer earlier had made him uneasy.

He recalled the question Old Li had asked him last night: "When you're alive, is every choice you make wrong?"

He couldn't answer at the time. Just before leaving, he deliberately went back, squatted down next to Old Li, whose body was stiff, and told him the answer he had thought about all night. Old Li just nodded and hummed in response, never looking up at him.

That was an act of escapism. Cang Lifeng was all too familiar with it—he himself looked like this when he couldn't bear it anymore.

He turned back to the side gate of the construction site and looked into the distance through the neatly stacked steel bars.

Old Li remained standing there, motionless. The setting sun cast a long shadow over his feet.

Cang Lifeng clenched his fist, then slowly relaxed it.

Years of tacit understanding taught him that some things a brother doesn't want to say, and if you keep asking, you're just pushing him into a corner. He only remembered that twilight, and Old Li's back, heavier than cement dust.

Then he turned around and strode toward the bus stop.

-

Old Li stood motionless, gazing in that direction. A gust of wind blew, stirring up cement dust that stung his eyes. Cang Lifeng's words burned into his heart like a red-hot iron—"Don't let it harm those who come after." But who would be harmed by what he had just poured in? The innocent families living in this building? Or Cang Lifeng and his brothers who trusted him?

The cement mixer truck continued to rumble and spin behind him, evenly, continuously, without stopping.

He remembered the tap that hadn't been turned off properly at the entrance of the convenience store that afternoon.

As he held the receiver, the water droplets pattered against the white porcelain, one after another, as if counting down the seconds for him.

Now no one counts for him anymore.

He looked up and glanced at the sky.

The early summer sky was high, a pale blue, and there was nothing there.

He lowered his head again and rubbed his hand on the seam of his pants.

That hand has prayed to Buddha countless times throughout its life. It prayed for its wife to recover from her illness and for its son to be safe and sound.

The Bodhisattva did not respond to any of them.

But he still didn't dare to look up. What if?

Tomorrow, this batch of concrete will begin to harden.

The surface will look flat, solid, and smooth, meeting all acceptance criteria, as if nothing had ever happened.

The hidden dangers deep within, those things that shouldn't exist and were evenly mixed in, will only reveal their hideous cracks many days later, perhaps when the building is topped out, or after the residents move in, or on a stormy night or during a minor earthquake.

Just like the collapse of some people's hearts, or the choices made when people are forced to the brink of despair, the consequences will only be heard when everything is beyond redemption, when people hear that belated, fragmented, and desperate cracking sound.