作者：张致君
编辑：何清风 责任编辑：罗志飞 翻译:何兴强
“堵水以防蚊，正如捂耳以止鸣；于是耳朵静了，蚊却在心里飞。”
今年城里忽然多了个新名词，叫“基孔肯雅热”。名字绕口，像一条打结的绳。绳子一打结，许多脑袋便舒坦了：有了名词，就有对策；有了对策，就有公文；有了公文，就有成绩。成绩要上墙，上墙之前，先把城里的下水道一律装上纱网。纱网雪白，像给井口盖上了被子——盖得很孝顺。
纱网的用处，公文说得极详：可阻蚊、可断链、可护民。只是雨来了，雨不识字，冲到纱网上，犹豫了一下，便站成一汪汪积水。积水里蚊子生得更勤，像遇到了公费的产房。于是有人建议再加一层更密的网，以杜后患。网越密，水越闷；水越闷，蚊越壮。壮到黄昏时分，黑云一抖，城便响成一锅。
我在街角看见几个小吏捧着卷尺，蹲在井边丈量“网孔标准”。他们一丝不苟，像在选拔孔雀的羽。丈量完了，便抬头望天：今日任务饱满。饱满是个好词，像刚煮开的馒头；只是馒头若闷在笼里，久之也会落水。落水的馒头不易咽，但仍可统计为“发放完毕”。
对策不止一条。为了“源头斩断”，城里又想到了菜园。说菜园滋水，水滋虫，虫滋病。于是派人去封，水泥推成白浪，一浪浪扑到青菜上。青菜来不及喊，便直挺挺站成了纪念碑。纪念碑的题名叫“环境整治”。整治之后，蚊子仍在；只是菜不在了。没有菜，便少了积水；少了菜，也少了人心——人心向来怕见水泥。
有个老夫妇守了一角方寸的土，种的是葱与蒜。蒜不怕味重，葱不怕天冷。小吏来时，他们把锄头立在脚边，问：“这也封？”小吏笑，笑得像公事包的扣：“封一点，放心。”于是水泥从葱蒜根部缓缓爬上来，像一层殷勤的霜。老头沉默，老太太问：“那蚊子呢？”小吏更笑：“我们还要全民抽血呢！”老太太一怔，像被门把磕了额头。
抽血是更科学的法子。科学这两字一出，人人肃然。队伍像旧年核酸时那样排起来，袖子挽上去，血管一根一根报到。管子收满了，放在银亮的托盘里，像一排不容争辩的红逗号。逗号多了，句子就长；句子一长，意义便由上面解释。解释里自然免不了几个好听的词：监测、预警、筛查、呵护。呵护是好词，尤其对流动的血说起，显得极为体贴——仿佛血是国家的，共有的，暂住在你体内，随叫随到。
抽完血的手臂上贴一张小方片，像兵营里的号牌。有人问：“我并不病，为何抽？”答曰：“大局需要。”大局是个无形的胃，饿的时候，会把零碎的日子一并吞下。吞下之后，过几日又说饿；于是再抽。抽血的好处，在于看得见：袋里鲜红，统计报表也鲜红。至于井里积水、天上蚊云、菜地水泥，那些颜色不太入账。
我在报上见到一则图解，标题写：“从源头到末端，织密防蚊网。”图上箭头四方八面，像四个队长同时指挥操练。操练需要队列，队列需要口号，口号需要响亮。于是街道有了喇叭，喇叭里有了“请立即处理自家积水容器”的慈声；又有“如发现阳性滋生地，立即报告”的威声。慈威交替，像老旧钟楼撞了晴天。钟楼从不去井边看一眼，它只负责数点。
人间也有“看一眼”的人。他们蹲在井边，翻起纱网的角，想让水顺一顺。水顺了一小会，蚊也跟着顺。顺到一个拐角，又被另一层网截回。便像旧年防疫时，门洞贴着黄条，黄条贴得比风还疾：此巷通而不通，此路开而不开。老母去买药，绕了三道封条，回家药晾成了纪念品。那会儿城里学过一门绝技，叫“静默”。静默时，蚊子也静默；等一声令下，蚊子复活，人还要排队学习复活。
如今这门学问又翻出来。小吏戴着红袖标，会看网，会找水，会训话，也会合影。合影时，他们竖起大拇指，背景是刚封完的菜地。菜地不言，泥里渗出一点汁，像一张擦得太勤的脸。旁边贴了一张告示：“此处整改到位。感谢配合。”配合这词再度回归。它像一把万能扳手，套在谁身上都刚好。只是常被套的那批人，肩膀渐渐低了半寸。低半寸，才合群。
蚊子的学问，不在诗里，在水里。下水不畅，蚊便畅。纱网盖住了洞，没盖住逻辑。逻辑是个怪物，最恨“为你好”的好心。好心若走到极端，便成了一种熟悉的姿势：先堵，再看；先封，再讲；先采，再说。说来都为众生，做去却沿着表格。表格像方格纸，落在城上，把生人都画成了工整的字。字里有笔画，笔画里有小小的倒刺，扎在谁身上，谁就负责“理解”。
红卫兵式的小傻也不难见：冲锋，喊口号，抬着喷雾机，一路驱赶人影和良心。良心跑不过制度，回头一看，自己已戴上红袖标——原来良心也能被征用。征用之后，良心学会了审核：谁家的桶没倒，谁家的窗没关，谁家的狗碗积了水，谁家小孩笑得太响。笑得太响，容易招蚊；于是笑也得抽查。抽查久了，人便学会了“安静生活”，像旧年的“安静小区”：出门凭证，进门扫码，咳嗽报备，呼吸限频。
我在心里替这些词排了一个家谱：封控生封条，封条生关卡，关卡生告示，告示生口号，口号生合影，合影生总结，总结再生封控。至于蚊？蚊是旁系，见缝插针，逢雨成灾。灾与封控互相倚仗，彼此成全，像两条握在一起的手：一条冷，一条热，最终都伸向了你的手臂——抽血那一刻，针头入皮，谁也不问你愿不愿意，谁也不问井底的水愿不愿意。
有人说：这不过是一阵子；过阵子雨停，蚊散，网烂，泥干，一切复旧。复旧这词很安慰，像给病人说“明日就退烧”。只是城里有一种热，不是热度，是热心——热心铺出来的路，直通封控的旧仓库。仓库很大，里面堆着“三年所学”：封、卡、扫、查、报、贴、剪、封。每个字都练得极熟，像随时要上阵。上阵从来不缺号角，缺的是回头。回头一望，井盖下的水黑而静，静得像一个不肯再被打扰的夜；再望，水面之上，纱网正轻轻抖动，像一张没合上的嘴。
忽想起一位老友，旧年给我说：瘟疫教会人两件事，一是如何不去看，二是如何只看表面。表面是干净的证件，合格的栏杆，标准的网孔，热心的合影。至于井里翻腾的那点浑，最好不谈。谈多了，会被蚊叮：你传播负能量。负能量这四字像蚊香，绕你三匝，叫你昏睡。昏睡的人不会去翻网角，不会去拔水泥；昏睡的人最体面，适合合影。
雨点打在纱窗上，像数不清的小问号。我想去路口看看积水，撑伞下楼。楼下的井口戴着新网，网目细得像强迫症；旁边的菜畦是一整块新水泥，水泥上画了一个笑脸，似乎在安慰谁。我忽然起了一个坏心思，伸手把网角掀起一指；水在下面挪了挪腰，喘了一口气。那一口气里，似乎有去年冬天压下的叹息。我又把网放回原处，像把刀悄悄插回鞘。插得轻，才不会惊动什么“整治小组”。
回到屋里，我把这篇文字放在桌上，像一块没凝固的水泥。它若干了，会裂；裂纹里要长草。草长出来，蚊也会来。到那时，或许又有人提议：再加一层更密的网。网格如棋，棋子的去路便少了一半。至于城，照样会出通告、排队、抽血、合影；照样会把“为你好”印成红字，贴在每一道我们必须经过的墙上。墙越来越白，心越来越黑，蚊越来越肥，水越来越闷。只有雨，还是那样落下——落在网的正中，发出轻轻的一声：噗。
倘有人问：如何防蚊？
我答：先让水走路，再教网做人；若还不成，先学会把门从里头打开，而不是从外头封死。至于抽血，且把针拔慢一点，慢到能听见那一小点良心“咔嗒”入位的声。
The Pandemic Trilogy (Epilogue) — Chronicle of the Mosquito City
Abstract: This year, a new term suddenly appeared in the city—“chikungunya fever.” Yet the city knows of another kind of fever, not heat, but fervor—the fervor that paves a road straight into the old locked-up warehouse. The warehouse is vast, and inside are piled “three years of lessons”: How to prevent mosquitoes?
Author: Zhang Zhijun
Editor: He Qingfeng
Chief Editor: Luo Zhifei
Translation: He Xingqiang
“Blocking water to prevent mosquitoes is like covering one’s ears to stop a ringing sound; the ears may fall silent, but the mosquitoes still buzz inside the heart.”
This year, a new term suddenly appeared in the city: chikungunya fever. The name is knotty, like a twisted rope. Once the rope is tied, many minds feel at ease: with a new term comes a countermeasure; with a countermeasure comes an official document; with a document comes an achievement. Achievements must be displayed on walls, but before that, all the city’s drains are covered with mesh screens. The mesh is snowy white, like a quilt tucked over the mouths of wells—so pious, so “filial.”
The utility of the mesh is written in detail in the official documents: it blocks mosquitoes, severs transmission, protects the people. But rain does not read. When it pours down onto the mesh, it hesitates for a moment, then gathers into stagnant pools. In the stagnant water, mosquitoes breed with renewed vigor, as if they had stumbled into a government-funded maternity ward. Someone then proposes adding another, denser layer of mesh to prevent further harm. The denser the mesh, the more suffocated the water; the more suffocated the water, the stronger the mosquitoes. By dusk, when dark clouds shudder, the city rings like a cauldron at full boil.
At a street corner, I saw a few minor clerks holding measuring tapes, squatting by the drains, meticulously gauging “mesh standards.” They worked as carefully as if selecting peacock feathers. Once measured, they looked up at the sky, content: today’s task fulfilled. Fulfilled is a fine word, like a freshly steamed bun; but if left too long in the steamer, the bun becomes soggy. Soggy buns don’t swallow easily, yet still count toward “distribution completed.”
Countermeasures never stop at one. In the name of “cutting off at the source,” the city turned its attention to vegetable gardens. They said gardens breed water, water breeds insects, insects breed disease. And so people were dispatched to seal them off—cement poured in waves of white, crashing upon the greens. The vegetables had no time to cry out before standing stiff as monuments. The title carved upon the monument: Environmental Rectification. After rectification, mosquitoes remained; only the vegetables were gone. Without vegetables, there was less standing water; without vegetables, there were also fewer hearts at peace—for human hearts fear cement more than pests.
An old couple guarded a small patch of earth, planted with scallions and garlic. Garlic fears no strong odor; scallions no cold. When the clerks arrived, the couple stood with their hoes at their feet and asked, “Seal this too?” The clerks smiled—the smile of a briefcase clasp: “Just a little. Don’t worry.” So the cement crept slowly up the roots of the scallions and garlic, like an eager frost. The old man stayed silent; the old woman asked, “And the mosquitoes?” The clerks smiled wider: “We’ll be drawing blood from everyone soon!” The old woman froze, as if her forehead had struck a doorknob.
Blood draws are a more scientific method. Once the word science is uttered, everyone stands solemn. The queues stretched long, just as in the days of mass PCR testing—sleeves rolled up, veins reporting one by one. Tubes filled with blood lined the silver trays, like rows of indisputable red commas. Commas multiplied, sentences lengthened, and meanings were then explained from above. The explanations never failed to include pleasant words: monitoring, early warning, screening, protection. Protection is a beautiful word, especially when spoken of flowing blood—it makes the blood seem national, communal, merely lodging in your body temporarily, ready to answer the call.
On each arm, after the draw, a square sticker was affixed, like an army tag. Someone asked: “But I am not sick—why draw my blood?” The answer: “For the greater good.” The greater good is an invisible stomach; when hungry, it swallows even the smallest scraps of daily life. After a few days, it hungers again—so more blood must be drawn. The benefit of blood draws is visible: the bags are red, and the reports are red. As for the stagnant drains, the mosquito swarms, the cemented gardens—those hues rarely enter the record.
In the newspaper, I saw an infographic titled: From Source to Endpoint, Weave a Dense Mosquito Net. Arrows shot in all directions, like four commanders drilling troops at once. Drills require formations, formations require slogans, slogans require volume. And so loudspeakers echoed in the streets: “Please promptly dispose of standing water containers at home” spoke the gentle voice; “Report any positive breeding grounds immediately” barked the stern one. Kindness and severity alternated, like an old clocktower tolling in bright weather. The clocktower never once looked down a drain; its sole duty was to count.
Yet there are still people who do look. They squat by the drains, lifting the corners of the mesh to let the water slip through. For a brief moment the water flows, and the mosquitoes along with it—until another mesh blocks the way. Just like the previous epidemic years, when yellow seals plastered doorways faster than the wind: streets open yet not open, paths free yet not free. An old mother fetching medicine circled three checkpoints, only to bring home pills turned into relics. Back then, the city had learned a strange art called “silence.” In silence, mosquitoes too were silent; until a command revived them, and people lined up once more to rehearse revival.
Now that art has returned. Clerks, red armbands bright, know how to inspect nets, identify water, lecture, and pose for group photos. In photos, they raise thumbs against the backdrop of freshly sealed vegetable plots. The plots say nothing, but from the soil seeps a thin juice, like a face rubbed too hard. Beside it hangs a notice: Rectification Completed. Thank You for Your Cooperation. Cooperation—that word returns again. It is a universal wrench, fitting snugly on anyone. Yet for those constantly tightened, their shoulders sink, half an inch lower. Lower, to blend in.
The study of mosquitoes lies not in poems, but in water. Where water stagnates, mosquitoes thrive. The mesh covers holes, but not logic. Logic is a beast, most resentful of “kindness for your own good.” Pushed to the extreme, such kindness takes on a familiar stance: seal first, see later; block first, explain later; take first, justify later. Always for the people, yet always along the form. Forms are graph paper laid over the city, reducing living beings to tidy characters. Within each stroke are tiny barbs, pricking whoever must “understand.”
The city is never short of little Red Guard types: charging forward, shouting slogans, wielding fog machines, chasing away shadows and conscience alike. Conscience cannot outrun the system. Turning back, it finds itself wearing a red armband too—so conscience, too, is conscripted. Once conscripted, conscience learns to inspect: whose bucket wasn’t emptied, whose window wasn’t shut, whose dog bowl had water, whose child laughed too loud. Laughter too loud attracts mosquitoes; therefore laughter, too, must be checked. Inspections prolonged teach people how to live “quiet lives,” like the “quiet communities” of old: entry by pass, exit by scan, coughs reported, breathing regulated.
In my mind, I draft a genealogy of these terms: lockdown begets seals, seals beget checkpoints, checkpoints beget notices, notices beget slogans, slogans beget photos, photos beget reports, reports beget lockdowns again. And the mosquitoes? They run collateral, slipping through cracks, thriving after rains. Disaster and lockdown rely on each other, complete each other, like two clasped hands: one cold, one hot, both reaching eventually for your arm. At the moment the needle pierces skin, no one asks if you consent; no one asks if the water in the drains consents.
Some say: it is only for a while. When the rains stop, the mosquitoes scatter, the nets rot, the cement dries, all will return to normal. Normal—such a soothing word, like telling a fevered patient, “Tomorrow the fever will break.” Yet the city harbors another fever—not temperature, but fervor—the fervor that paves a road straight into the old warehouse of lockdown. The warehouse is vast, crammed with “three years of lessons”: sealing, checking, scanning, reporting, pasting, cutting, sealing again. Each word drilled into muscle memory, ready for the front lines. Battle is never short of trumpets; only of a backward glance. Glance back, and the water beneath the manhole is black and still, like a night refusing interruption; look again, and the mesh trembles gently, like a mouth left half-open.
I recall an old friend, who once told me: Plagues teach two lessons—first, how not to look; second, how to look only at the surface. The surface is clean permits, qualified railings, standard mesh, enthusiastic group photos. As for the murky churn beneath the drain, best not spoken of. Speak too much, and the mosquitoes bite: You are spreading negativity. Negativity is like mosquito incense, circling you thrice, lulling you to sleep. The sleeping do not lift mesh corners, nor pry up cement; the sleeping are the most presentable—for photos.
Raindrops patter on the mesh window, like uncountable little question marks. I wish to see the standing water at the corner, so I take my umbrella downstairs. The drains below wear fresh nets, mesh so fine it looks compulsive. Beside them, the garden patch is a slab of new cement, with a smiley face drawn on top, as if to console someone. A mischievous thought comes to me: I slip a finger beneath the net and lift. The water shifts its waist, sighs once. In that sigh lingers the stifled breath of last winter. I lower the net back gently, like sliding a blade back into its sheath. Softly, so as not to startle any “rectification team.”
Back upstairs, I set these words on the desk, like a block of unset cement. Once hardened, it will crack; in the cracks, grass will grow. Where grass grows, mosquitoes will come. And then, someone will surely propose: another, denser net. Nets like chessboards, and half the moves erased. The city, unchanged, will still post notices, demand queues, draw blood, pose for photos. Still stamp for your good in red, pasting it upon every wall we must pass. Walls ever whiter, hearts ever darker, mosquitoes ever fatter, water ever more stagnant. Only the rain remains the same—falling, striking the mesh with a soft sound: puff.
And if someone asks: How should we prevent mosquitoes?
I answer: First, let the water find its way; then, teach the net to be human. If that still fails, learn to open the door from the inside, not seal it from the outside. As for drawing blood, withdraw the needle more slowly—slow enough to hear that faint click of conscience falling back into place.
