作者：张致君
编辑：何清风 责任编辑：罗志飞 翻译：吕峰
“人群里并无喉舌，只有被迫的气息；可气息一齐吐出，便比锣鼓更整齐。”
我常想，人群的声音从哪里来？从喉头？从胸腔？都不是。真正的声音，常从禁声处长出来——像石缝里的草，越压越硬，越割越锋利。
那三年里，城在罩子底下，人人学会用“安静”表态。安静久了，嗓子像收了一张欠条，欠条上没有数字，只有一个“随时”。于是人说话之前，先掂量“随时”，说到一半，便打住：小心。但有一种声音不掂量，它从缝里钻出，借谁的口都不重要——重要的是，空气里第一次听见了“人”的回声，而不是告示、通报、喇叭、口号。
起初，声音很小，像针落在棉上。有人在窗口和猫说话，有人在电梯里和镜子说话，有人在核酸队伍里和鞋带说话。说着说着，忽然发现鞋带是聋子，猫是哑巴，镜子只会复述。那晚之后，声音才找到同伴：一张举起来的白纸，响过任何字。
许多人以为人群的声音一定嘈杂，其实不然。那晚，我走在“中路”，人很多，声却不乱。有人低声唱旧歌，不唱到高音；有人念被删掉的句子，不念到句号；有人举起无字的牌子，让风替他读。最吵的其实是路灯和摄像头，它们嗡嗡作响，好像蜂巢被惊动了。蜂巢怕烟，人群怕什么呢？怕的不是警棍，也不是冬夜——怕的是第二天的解释把这一夜解释没了。
解释是一门雄壮的学问，擅长把“看见”改写为“误会”，把“参与”改写为“围观”。它像一辆勤劳的清运车，天不亮就出来，把街上的脚印一并铲走，扫把收尾，水车一浇，天地清白。可是我知道，铲不掉的那一层在鞋底，水冲不掉；更有一层在嗓子眼里，吞不下去。
我在路口看见两个青年，一男一女，像刚下晚自习。他们没有喊，只站在军队的面前。男的手抖，女的眼稳。一个年纪较长的男人路过，皱眉：“别闹。”女孩子点点头：“我们不是闹，我们只是想把声音拿出来晒晒。”男人叹口气，走远。后来我才明白，他不是反对声音，他是怕声音受潮——受潮的声音会发霉，霉里长出麻烦。
不久，果然下雨。雨是公告做的，细、密、勤。它滴在词上，滴在传言上，也滴在真相上。人们把纸收起，放进书里，书又放进抽屉。抽屉一关，里面响了一声很轻的“哑”。从此，许多人改学“点头”，点头不湿，点头也不响。唯有我偶尔把抽屉拉开一指宽，让一条缝透气。缝里有旧夜的气味——冷、醒、干净。
人群的声音不是谁的私产，这点叫管理的人很苦恼。他们爱按片区分配：此片唱赞歌，彼片讲故事；这一段齐步走，那一段齐步站。可声音像水，遇到缝就流，遇到墙就绕，遇到堵死的地方，便往土里渗。渗久了，地皮会湿；地皮一湿，草就要出来。于是有人忙着铺石板，把草根一并压住，再竖一块牌子：此处不宜生长。牌子立得多了，城里绿地反而多起来——全是牌子做的绿。
有一天，广场上出现几叠小小的音符，是谁匆匆写下，没来得及用。它们像迷路的蚂蚁，一会儿排成字，一会儿散成沙。我蹲下看，认出几个旧时的词：发问、讨论、辩驳、批评。它们在风里打颤，像一桌冷掉的饭。我伸手想把它们捧起来，忽然一阵“噤声”的风吹过，音符四散，落在每个人的袖口里。袖口立即严实起来，像给心口加了一道围巾。
人群的声音还有一种，叫“沉默中的同意”。这同意不是投票，是交换：你不说，我也不说；你不看，我也不看；大家都不知道，便等于没发生。久而久之，不说话的人越来越多，说话的人越来越少。少到什么地步呢？少到连“沉默的人”也要找个沉默的人作证，证明他一直沉默。于是出现一种新职业：沉默鉴定师。他站在你旁边，看你三秒钟，便盖章：沉默合格。盖多了章，他的手生起老茧，茧里也有声音——是硬度太高时发出的摩擦。
我问一位朋友：“你那天去了么？”他说：“我在网上围观了。”我又问：“看见什么？”他说：“看见很多人被看见。”
我想了想，这句倒也公道。被看见是人群的第一课，第二课是互相看见，第三课才轮到“听见”。那晚，我们学到第二课；至于第三课，老师尚未到场——或者已经到场，只是不发声。
后来，城恢复“秩序”。秩序是一张整洁的桌布，盖住桌面上潦草的划痕。人群散去，石榴花谢，路灯继续亮。人们相互点头，像从同一部手册里学出来的礼貌：不提问，不追忆，不泼冷水。只是每当夜深，风从街角拐进来，总会碰掉一两句压低了的词，它们滚在路沿边，叮叮当当，像迷你钟。钟不大，却提醒得很准：那晚并非梦。
至于那一夜之后的“人群之声”，有人在档案上给它另取了名字，名字很长，读完要喝水。我懒得背，依旧称之为“声”。声在，不必多说。声若不在，多说也无用。写到这里，我忽然自笑：一篇讲“人群之声”的文字，竟大半时光在讲沉默。可这并不矛盾——真正的声，往往从沉默里出；真正的沉默，也常被声照了一下脸。
我把稿纸翻过来，背页空白。空白上风正好。
我用指腹轻轻一抹，像摸一个孩子的头，摸到了微小的涌动：那不是话，那是气。气在，便有声；声在，便有人。而我不会收笔。
The Pandemic Trilogy (II) — The Clamor of Voices
Abstract:There is a kind of sound in crowds called “consent in silence.” This consent is not a vote but an exchange: you don’t speak, I don’t speak; you don’t look, I don’t look; if nobody knows, it’s as if nothing ever happened. Over time, fewer and fewer people speak, and more and more remain silent.
By Zhang ZhijunEdited by He Qingfeng · Responsible Editor: Luo Zhifei Translator：Lyu Feng
“There is no mouthpiece in the crowd, only forced breath; but when breath is exhaled together, it is louder than drums.”
I often wonder: where does the sound of the crowd come from? The throat? The chest cavity? Neither. True sound grows from silence — like grass in cracks of stone, the more pressed, the harder it grows; the more cut, the sharper it becomes.
During those three years, the city was trapped under a cover, and everyone learned to use “quiet” as expression. Silence, after long practice, felt like a debt slip pressed into the throat — no number written on it, only the word “anytime.” So before speaking, one weighed that anytime, and halfway through words, cut them off: be careful. Yet some voices never weighed, slipping out through cracks. Whose mouth they borrowed didn’t matter — what mattered was that for the first time, the air carried the echo of people, not notices, broadcasts, or slogans.
At first, the voices were small, like a needle falling on cotton. Someone whispered to a cat at the window, someone talked to a mirror in the elevator, someone muttered to shoelaces in the testing queue. But shoelaces are deaf, cats are mute, mirrors only repeat. Only that night did voices find companions: a sheet of blank white paper, louder than any printed word.
Many imagine the sound of crowds must be noisy. In fact, it isn’t. That night, I walked on “Central Road.” There were many people, yet no chaos. Someone softly sang an old song, never reaching the high note; someone recited deleted lines, never reaching the full stop; someone lifted a wordless placard, letting the wind read it. The loudest things were the streetlights and cameras, buzzing like disturbed hives. Smoke frightens bees. What frightens the crowd? Not batons, nor winter nights — but the next day’s explanations erasing the night before.
Explanation is a grand discipline, skilled at rewriting “I saw” into “I misunderstood,” and “I joined” into “I merely watched.” Like a tireless sanitation truck, it came out before dawn, sweeping away footprints, rinsing streets into spotless blankness. Yet I knew some layers could not be scraped away — they stuck to soles, they lodged in throats, impossible to swallow.
At an intersection I saw two youths, a boy and a girl, as if just out from evening study. They didn’t shout, only stood before the military line. The boy’s hand trembled, the girl’s eyes were steady. An older man passed by, frowned: “Don’t make trouble.” The girl nodded: “We’re not making trouble, we just want to let our voices out to dry.” The man sighed and walked away. Later I understood: he wasn’t against voices — he feared they’d grow damp. Damp voices mildew, and mildew breeds trouble.
Not long after, it rained. Rain made of announcements — fine, dense, persistent. It fell on words, on rumors, on truths. People folded up their papers, tucked them in books, hid the books in drawers. When the drawers closed, there was a faint “mute” inside. From then on, many switched to nodding. Nods don’t get wet, nor make sound. Only I sometimes left my drawer a crack open, letting in a breath of old night — cold, sober, clean.
The sound of the crowd is not anyone’s private property — which vexes those in charge. They prefer allocation: this district sings praises, that one tells stories; this block marches, that one stands still. But sound is like water: it flows through cracks, bends around walls, and seeps into soil if blocked. Long enough, the ground grows damp, and grass pushes out. So some hurry to lay slabs, pressing roots flat, erecting signs: No Growth Here. With so many signs, the city grows strangely green — green made of warnings.
One day, I saw stacks of tiny musical notes scattered in the square. Someone had written them hastily, left them unused. They crawled like lost ants, sometimes forming words, sometimes dissolving into dust. I bent down and recognized old terms: questioning, debating, criticizing. They shivered in the wind, like a table of cold leftovers. I reached to gather them, when a gust of silence blew, scattering them into every cuff. Sleeves immediately tightened, wrapping the chest like an extra scarf.
There is another sound of the crowd, called “consent in silence.” This consent is not voting, but exchange: you don’t speak, I don’t speak; you don’t look, I don’t look; if none of us knows, it equals never happening. Over time, fewer and fewer speak, more and more remain silent. Until what degree? Until even the “silent ones” must find another silent one to certify that they have always been silent. Thus emerged a new profession: certified silence inspector. He stood by you, watched three seconds, stamped: Silence qualified. Stamp enough times, and calluses formed on his palm — and even the callus had a voice, the friction of too much hardness.
I asked a friend: “Were you there that day?”He replied: “I watched online.”I asked: “What did you see?”He said: “I saw many people being seen.”
I thought, that was fair. To be seen is the first lesson of crowds; the second is to see each other; the third is to hear. That night, we learned the second lesson. As for the third, the teacher had not yet arrived — or perhaps had arrived, only chose silence.
Later, the city “returned to order.” Order is a neat tablecloth, covering messy scratches beneath. The crowd dispersed, pomegranate blossoms fell, streetlights stayed on. People nodded at each other, like manners copied from the same manual: no questions, no memories, no cold water. Only at night, when wind turned a corner, it would knock loose a word or two, rolling along the curb, clinking like a tiny clock. A small clock, but precise: that night was no dream.
As for the “voice of the crowd” after that night, some renamed it in archives, a title so long it needed water to finish reading. I can’t be bothered to memorize. I still call it “voice.” If voice exists, little more needs saying. If it doesn’t, saying more is useless. Writing this, I laughed at myself: a piece on the voice of the crowd spent half its time on silence. But that is no contradiction — true voice often grows out of silence; true silence is often lit briefly by voice.
I turned the manuscript over. The back was blank. The wind passed just right. I brushed it with my fingertip, like stroking a child’s head, and felt a tiny stirring: it wasn’t words, it was breath. Where breath is, there is voice; where voice is, there are people. And I will not put down the pen.
