作者：张致君
编辑：何清风 责任编辑：鲁慧文 翻译：鲁慧文
“有人爱拿算盘当正义，拨得响，便以为天理也该进项；只是到最后，账上盈余，头上却少了几颗。”
城里风声异样。传说国用亏虚，像老屋梁上忽见裂缝，先召木匠，再召鼓手，鼓手负责把锣敲响，叫四邻围观：屋梁要救，人人出力。什么叫出力？就是有人递钉子，有人献肩膀，更精明些的，便把旁人家的门板拆了拿来加固。门板一拆，门后的人就站在风里，衣角被掀起，和贴在墙上的票据似的。
票据会说话：公平稳定。说得越多，越像旧年熟词，贴在每一出整顿的门框上。整顿总要有对象，于是有人开始清点：谁家账面干净，谁家账面油光；谁家最肥，谁家最不易叫喊。清点完毕，纸上画圈，圈里不写名字，只写“某某企业的某某人士”；圈外自然是掌声。掌声与圈，彼此成全。
自古清账与清人，常是一条路上的两口井：一口口沿宽，叫法；一口口沿窄，叫势。先让人低头去看法，看完便顺势跌入势。跌下去的人，不一定有罪，却一定有价，价目贴在另一张账上，名为“没收”。没收是好字，和失而复得一样；只是失的是人，得的是物。旁人若问：为何？答曰：历史有先例。说罢，便把厚厚一本史书翻到几页熟处，指给你看：某年“整风”，某年“公私合营”，某年“三反五反”，某年“运动”，每一页都很整齐，整齐得看不见血。血一旦溅上去，过几日也会被删去，字仍是黑，纸仍是白，只余几处皱折，像被谁攥过。
闲时茶楼有两位先生谈话。一位长衫，一位夹克。长衫沉吟道：“如今讲‘依法依规’，应不至于走老路。”夹克点头如捣葫芦：“自然，自然。”正点得欢，茶博士端来一碟花生，泛着油光，像刚抄完家的清单。夹克忽然压低声音：“只是你听没听说，某地有位‘领衔人物’，忽而‘轻生’。”长衫忙摆手：“嘘，茶楼墙薄。”墙果然薄，薄得能把人心的风声都漏出去。风声绕一圈，又从告示牌上吹回来：正在调查，切勿传谣。于是两位先生不再谈，埋头剥花生，花生壳落在桌上，凋零的如同两封无人敢收的信。
传言多处出，证据总在别处。别处往往是在程序那里。程序是个慈祥的长者，说话慢，步子稳；只是他站台时常背光，你只看见一个黑影，再听见几句熟词，便自觉安心。安心久了，胆子也就小了，眼睛也就近了，只看见脚下那条配合的线：照这线走，谁也不找你麻烦；偏离一步，便有温柔的手搭在你肩上，笑道：还是进去吧。
有一次，我看最高领袖召开 “营商环境推介会”。场上灯光明亮，背景板上写着“护航发展”。“护航”二字写得很宽，像两张手掌，掌心却并不柔软。主持人高声念：优化、升级、共赢、普惠。台下的掌声像潮，潮里却夹着沙。散会时，角落里一位穿西装的伙计悄悄把名片塞给参会的人，名片上印着“专项服务”。他们低声问他何谓专项。他眨眨眼：“你懂的。风向来了，先把帽子戴好；若帽子来不及戴，就把头低下。”要是问那头要低多久。他说看天色——天若阴，低久一点；天若晴，也不要抬太高。说罢，他抬手比划一个高度，刚及胸口。
我忽然想起旧时一条规矩：抬棺不过胸。便觉背脊微凉。
所谓“没收”，也讲究姿势。有的姿势是自愿，有的姿势是依法，还有一种姿势，名叫配合调查。被配合者常常在镜头前点头，说“相信组织、服从安排”，像扭开了机器人的开关。在场的人点头，屏外的人也点头；点头的海洋里，只有几个孩子抬着眼睛，不懂大人们在同意什么。孩子问我：“阿姨，什么是没收？”我想了想，说：“你把心爱的玻璃球借给隔壁一阵子，后来他说那球本在他家祖谱上，写着‘公共’，你便把球留下也不是，还回也不是。”孩子点点头，又问：“那我以后还借吗？”我呐呐不能答，只得把他领到窗边，指着天说：“风在那儿，现在先别玩球。”
有人喜欢把“清欠”写在红纸上贴满街，用来“刮骨疗毒”。毒字可怖，人人避之不及；于是“疗”变得无限正当。只是疗得久了，骨便薄，薄到风一吹就嗦嗦响。响声被解释为“换骨”的征兆，便更要再刮几刀，好让大家听个明白。明白也好，疼也好，都是写进统计里的两列数据：一列叫“治理成效”，一列叫“个案处置”。至于那些空下来的椅子，桌上的相框，半页未签完的合同，统统被擦拭得干干净净，摆进展示柜，配上灯光，题名曰“警示”。灯光很亮，人影却淡，淡得像被水洗过三十遍的真相。
我想起旧年见闻。老会计做账一辈子，识得钱的冷暖。世上的钱有两种，一种走在账上，一种走在人身上。走在账上的，总要对得平衡；走在人身上的，多半没有凭据。我问他如今是哪一种多。他叹道：“如今钱走在说辞上。”说辞是软的，钱是硬的；硬物一旦被软物包住，便不再有响声。没有响声，便没有人看它走到哪里去了。等到要用的时候，便说“亏虚”。亏虚也好，是个正经病名；接下来就要配药。药名一个比一个雅：整顿、净化、规范、提质。吃药的人，常常不是生病的人；生病的人，反倒坐在桌前敲碗：再来一剂。
我知道几家做生意的，忽然学会了沉默。昔日谈笑，今朝谨慎，话到嘴边，先用眼睛度量一下四周：是否安全。安全这个词，在这些年里越长越大，几乎占满了门面。门面里的人把安全当拐杖，拄着走，走久了，忘了脚本可以用来自行。脚一旦忘了，就需要被带路；带路的人自有地图，地图上每一块空白都写着待开发。于是路越走越直，直到尽头，出现一道门：配合、承诺、共享、交割。门后还有门，门后的人皆笑，说欢迎回到大家庭。大家庭的饭菜热气腾腾，只是上桌之前先要缴纳。缴纳的名目多：心意、责任、政治、信任。名目越多，胃口越小；最后人人只剩一口汤，端着碗，谢恩。
生意人追问：为何屡见不鲜？我只好指给他看一条旧时的河。河边立着一块碑，上刻：某年公私合营。再往下游，是某年专项运动；再下游，是某年“严打”；再远些，是若干轮“整肃”。河从碑旁绕过，浑而不止。每到拐弯处，河水总要掀一层浪，把岸上的摊子打翻几个。摊主多半不懂水文，只会收拾残局，换地再摆。摆了几回，耳聪些的，学会了看天色；看久了，眼神便像旧镜，光亮里夹着裂纹。
开会的领袖下文说：“这都是谣言。”我笑而不答。谣言这物事，在历史上与真相常作邻居；隔着一道薄墙，墙薄到风可过。风若从谣间吹来，真相的烛火就摇；从真间吹去，谣言的尘土就飞。执烛的人于是愤怒，要把风抓住。风抓不住，便抓人。抓到的是衣角、影子、姓名、章程；抓不到的是那只捏在暗处的手：是谁在拨算盘？算盘打得正，事情便也正；打得响，事情便也响。只是算盘再会打，终究算不出一件事：人的胆寒。胆寒一来，市井无语，坊间失笑，灯火早早关门。关门之后，谁还敢为一纸契据去撑天？
我愿意给未来的事留一行字：做账要清，做事要清，做人更要清。只是“清”这个字，落在不同的手上，就有不同的温度。落在铁手上，叫清算；落在纸手上，叫清理；落在温手上，才是清明。清明远了，清算近了；近得像那张忽然递来的纸：配合。配合之后，门可开；再配合，窗可关。窗一关，屋里只剩一盏灯，灯下只照见账本。账本翻了一页又一页，页页有章，章章有痕。痕迹像鱼骨，卡在喉咙，咳不出，咽不下。
写到这里，想起街口的那家铺子。掌柜原先爱把算盘挂在门梁下，日头一晒，珠子透亮；如今算盘不见了，门梁却更低，低得进门要弯腰。弯腰久了，人会忘记直立。忘记直立的人，最合适和功绩合影。合影上人人端正，背景板写着：风清气正、法治保障、稳中向好。我也站在那合影里，学着把笑挂在嘴边。摄影师喊三声，我在第三声里听见一点细碎的回响，是旧年的木头被拧紧的呻吟。那声音极小，小到只够我自己听。听完，我不自觉地把头又低了一寸。
头低了，我就能从狗洞里钻出去。我也确实钻了出去，经年累月的，腰又直不起来。
我去寻医：可有良方治我的驼背？
寻来寻去就只得到两句话：第一把账本摊在阳光下，第二把帽子从人头上摘下来。
阳光能照见数目，帽子也许能保住人。
若还要第三句，便是：让人先安，国用自会慢慢安；切莫反过来，把“安”先写在账上，再去找人头去补缺。
但这些都由不得从狗洞里爬出来的人做主。我的驼背，又什么时候能治好？
“A Ruler’s Words Are No Jest” — Of Ledgers and Heads
Summary:
I watched as the supreme leader convened a “Business Environment Promotion Conference.” The lights on stage were bright, the backdrop read “Safeguard Development.” I know several businessmen who, all of a sudden, had learned the art of silence. Where once there was laughter, now there was caution. Before a word is spoken, eyes first scan the surroundings: is it safe?
Author: Zhang Zhijun
Editor: He Qingfeng Executive Editor: Lu Huiwen Translator: Lu Huiwen
“Some love to treat the abacus as justice; the louder the beads click, the more they believe heaven’s principle must also be accounted for. Yet in the end, the surplus shows up on the ledger, while a few heads go missing.”
The city feels uneasy. Rumor says the state finances are in deficit—like spotting a crack on an old roof beam. First they summon the carpenter, then the drummer; the drummer’s task is to bang the gong, draw in the neighbors: the beam must be saved, everyone must help. What is help? Some hand over nails, some lend their shoulders; the shrewder ones dismantle someone else’s door panel for reinforcement. Once the panel is gone, those behind the door are left in the draft, their hems fluttering like unpaid bills pasted to a wall.
The bills speak: fairness, stability. The more often these words appear, the more they sound like stock phrases from years past, posted on the frames of every new “rectification.” And rectification always needs a target. So counting begins: whose books are clean, whose books shine with grease; who is fattest, who will cry the least. When the tally is done, circles are drawn. Inside, no names, only “so-and-so from such-and-such enterprise.” Outside, naturally, there is applause. Applause and circles, each sustaining the other.
From of old, settling accounts and settling people have been like two wells along the same road: one wide-mouthed, called Law; the other narrow, called Power. First people are made to lower their heads to look into the Law; when done, they fall straight into Power. Those who fall may not be guilty, but they are surely of value—the price tag posted on another ledger, called “Confiscation.” Confiscation sounds righteous, like something regained; only what is lost are people, what is gained are things. If others ask why, the answer is: history provides precedent. A thick history book is flipped to familiar pages: this year “Rectification,” that year “Public-Private Partnership,” another year the “Three-Anti, Five-Anti,” another the “Movements.” Each page looks neat—so neat you cannot see the blood. When blood does splash, a few days later it is erased. The words remain black, the paper white, only a few wrinkles left, as if clenched in someone’s fist.
In idle hours, two gentlemen converse at a teahouse. One in a long gown, the other in a jacket. The gown muses: “Now that they speak of ‘ruling according to law,’ surely we won’t tread the old path.” The jacket nods furiously: “Of course, of course.” Just then, the teahouse boy brings peanuts, their oily sheen like a freshly seized household inventory. The jacket suddenly lowers his voice: “But have you heard? Somewhere, a ‘leading figure’ suddenly ‘took his own life.’” The gown quickly waves his hand: “Hush, the teahouse walls are thin.” And thin they are—thin enough for whispers of the heart to slip out, then circle back on the bulletin board: “Under investigation, do not spread rumors.” So the two gentlemen talk no more, burying themselves in peanuts. Shells fall on the table like two letters no one dares to receive.
Rumors sprout in one place, proof lies elsewhere—most often in procedure. Procedure is a kindly elder, speaking slowly, stepping steadily. Yet when on stage he always stands against the light; you see only a shadow, hear only familiar phrases, and feel at ease.
Ease long enough breeds timidity; timidity narrows the gaze until one sees only the line of compliance at one’s feet: follow it, no one troubles you; stray a step, and a gentle hand lands on your shoulder, smiling: better come inside.
Once, I watched the supreme leader at the “Business Environment Promotion Conference.” The lights were bright, the backdrop read “Safeguard Development.” The word “safeguard” was written wide, like two palms, but the palms were not soft. The host intoned: optimization, upgrading, win-win, inclusivity. Applause surged like tides, yet within the tide was sand. At dispersal, a man in a suit quietly slipped business cards into hands: “Special Services.” They asked softly what that meant. He blinked: “You know. When the wind shifts, wear the hat; if you cannot in time, lower your head.” And how long must the head stay down? He said it depends on the sky—longer if overcast, shorter if clear, but never too high. He raised his hand, indicating chest height.
I suddenly recalled an old rule: coffins must not be lifted above the chest. A chill ran down my spine.
So-called confiscation also has its poses. Some voluntary, some “by law,” others called “cooperating with investigation.” The “cooperating” often nod on camera, declaring “faith in the organization, obedience to arrangements”—like a robot switch being flicked on. Those present nod; those behind screens nod; an ocean of nods, while only a few children look up, not understanding what the adults are agreeing to. A child asked me: “Auntie, what is confiscation?” I thought and said: “You lent your favorite marble to the neighbor, and later he claims it’s in his family’s genealogy marked ‘public.’ You cannot keep it, nor return it.” The child nodded, then asked: “So should I lend again?” Tongue-tied, I led him to the window: “Look at the wind there—best not to play marbles for now.”
Some like to plaster “Debt Clearance” on red paper all over town, a “bone-scraping cure.” The word “poison” terrifies, so everyone accepts the “cure” as just. But prolonged cure thins the bones, until the slightest breeze makes them rattle. The rattling is explained as a sign of “rebirth,” requiring still more scraping, so all may hear. Clarity or pain, all logged in statistics: one column “results of governance,” another “individual cases handled.” The empty chairs, half-signed contracts, photos scrubbed clean and placed under glass with bright lights—titled “Warning.” The lights shine bright, but the shadows faint, like truth washed thirty times in water.
I recall an old accountant’s words. After a lifetime with ledgers, he knew money’s chill and warmth. There are two kinds of money, he said: one runs on ledgers, the other on people. Ledger money must balance; people-money seldom leaves receipts. Which kind prevails now? He sighed: “Now money runs on words.” Words are soft, money is hard; once the hard is wrapped in the soft, no sound remains. Without sound, none can trace where it flows. When the time comes to use it, they say “deficit.” Deficit sounds like a proper diagnosis; next comes the prescription. The medicines bear elegant names: rectification, purification, standardization, quality improvement. Yet those forced to take them are often not the sick; the sick, instead, sit at the table banging their bowls: another dose!
I know businessmen who, suddenly, learned silence. Where once they laughed, now they measure safety with their eyes. Safety has grown so large these years, filling the whole shopfront. Inside, people walk with safety as a crutch; long enough, they forget feet can walk on their own. Forgetting feet, they need a guide; the guide has his map, each blank space marked “to be developed.” The path grows straighter until at its end stands a door: cooperation, commitment, sharing, delivery. Behind it, more doors, and people smiling: welcome back to the family. The meals steam hot, but before sitting you must pay. Payment names are many: goodwill, responsibility, politics, trust.
The more names, the smaller the appetite; in the end, each is left with only a mouthful of soup, bowl in hand, giving thanks.
Businessmen ask: why so often? I point them to an old river. A stele by its bank reads: such year, Public-Private Partnership. Downstream: such year, Special Campaign. Further: such year, “Strike Hard.” Further still: rounds of “Rectification.” The river curves past the stele, turbid and unceasing. At each bend, the waves topple stalls ashore. Stallkeepers, ignorant of hydrology, only gather what remains and set up again. After several times, the sharper ones learn to watch the sky; long enough, their eyes become like old mirrors—gleaming yet cracked.
At the close of the conference, the leader declared: “All this is rumor.” I smiled without reply. Rumor and truth have long been neighbors in history, separated by a thin wall. Thin enough for wind to pass. If wind blows from rumor, truth’s flame flickers; if from truth, rumor’s dust stirs. The candle-bearer, angered, tries to catch the wind. Wind cannot be caught, so people are caught instead—grabbing hems, shadows, names, regulations. What cannot be caught is the hand flicking the abacus in the dark. If the abacus beats in tune, matters are said to be in order; if it beats loudly, matters are declared sound. Yet no abacus, however deft, can calculate one thing: human dread. With dread, the marketplace falls silent, jokes vanish, lights are doused early. Afterward, who dares uphold the sky for a contract?
For the future, I wish to leave this line: books must be kept clean, deeds must be kept clean, above all, people must be kept clean. Yet the word “clean” changes temperature by whose hand it falls into. In iron hands, it is “settlement”; in paper hands, “tidying”; in warm hands, true “clarity.” Clarity drifts far, settlement comes near; as near as that paper suddenly handed over: cooperation. Cooperate, the door opens; cooperate again, the window shuts. Once shut, only a lamp remains, its light falling on ledgers. Pages turn, stamped and marked. The traces like fishbones, stuck in the throat—neither coughed out nor swallowed down.
I think of a shop I once saw. Its owner used to hang an abacus on the door beam, beads glowing in the sun. Now the abacus is gone, and the beam lower—so low one must bow to enter. Bow long enough, one forgets to stand straight. Those who forget to stand are best suited for merit photos. In the photo, everyone sits proper, backdrop reading: Integrity, Rule of Law, Steady Progress. I too stand in the photo, practicing a smile. At the count of three, I hear on the third beat a faint echo—the creak of old wood being tightened. The sound is faint, enough only for me to hear. On hearing it, I lower my head another inch.
Lowering it, I find I can crawl out through the doghole. And crawl I did, but years bent, my back cannot straighten.
I sought a doctor: is there a cure for my hunch?
After much searching, only two prescriptions: first, lay the ledger open under sunlight; second, remove the hat from people’s heads. Sunlight can reveal the numbers; the hat, perhaps, can save the head.
If there must be a third, it is this: let the people rest first, and the state accounts will settle in time. Do not reverse it, writing “peace” first into the books, then seeking heads to make up the shortfall.
But such choices are not made by those crawling from dogholes.
When will my bent back ever be healed?
