作者：张致君
编辑：李堃 责任编辑：罗志飞 翻译：吕峰
有件大好事，人人谈得热闹：“国库要补窟窿了。”
窟窿倒不是城墙下的那个洞，而是深不可测的铜盆，只不过盆里原来是满的，后来变空了。空了便响，引来了新的规矩。
规矩很匠气：凡欲入学者，先缴一张“保单”。保单的名字很雅，叫“社保”。谁也不反对“保”，只是这保单一摊出来，便像一道门槛，门槛上写着字：不交者，不得入学。孩子夹在门槛里，脚尖搁着明亮的地砖，后脚跟还踏在家门口的泥土。家长便轮流递钱，像轮流给孩子喂药；药苦，则大家皱眉，笑着吞下。
发行者说这是为孩子长远着想。长远着想的词听来好听，实是新冠的词。长远往往在未来，这未来既远又空。于是人们把现在的饼，都先往未来送，仿佛未来会做饼给现在吃。只是以前的饼也被收了，说是“国用”；现在的饼再被收了，理由仍旧是“国用”。收得越多，国用却越显得空旷，如同一个被掏了心的库房，回声反而大。
当局发了条通告，通告里有图表，有箭头，也有笑脸。笑脸下写：“为公平、为未来、为稳定，请配合缴纳。”配合是个好词，谁不愿配合？配合像跳舞：跳不好会被说是“反动”，跳得好会被拍照登报。于是大家都学着配合，配合成了一种新的美德。只要配合，便能踩着节拍走路；不配合的，脚下一滑，连孩子的铅笔盒也掉进沟里去。
我去街上看一个卖豆腐的老太太，年纪不小，可手底下还带着青草味。她把豆腐摆在摊上，豆腐白得像雪。小孩跑来要买一块，用的是小攒的钱。老太太正要找零，忽听得隔壁告示牌里响起：“缴纳社保，方可登记学籍。”那小孩的眼睛一瞬变圆，像被摁在泥里的镜子。老太太叹了口气，把钱退了又退，最终把豆腐递给了孩子。豆腐吃了，肚子饱了；学籍却像那告示，站在门口，毫不动情。
城里有位先生，自称读过书，笔下有几篇热闹的文章。他在报上写：“社保是良方，人人同缴，天下太平。”文字里有几个大字，像旗帜飘扬。旗帜下面有条注脚，写着：“对于困难群众，设有减免；但需依程序申请。”程序是个好朋友，朋友的作用就是把人推来推去，热得像炉子，推得像球。球越推越小，终于有人喊：球被踢进沟了。于是又有另一通告说要“强化落地措施”，落地原是好事，只是落得太多，地面都被踩得泥泞。泥泞里躲着许多小名词：补贴、减免、缓交，这些词像救生圈，个个空心，一圈又一圈，却都没有水。
更有一处叫做“白条窗口”的地方，专门受理“不交者的申诉”。窗口排队的人很多，队像一条睡着的蛇，头在窗前，尾巴在街角。窗口的小姐穿着制服，笑容很稳，像柿子皮。她说话有礼，动作有章，终于叫到一个家庭来申诉：老父携着证件，女儿眼睛里有昨夜的泪水。小姐翻阅证件、敲击键盘，语气平和地报告：“您可申请分期缴纳。”老父听了，像被拐了一圈的老钟，顿时不再转动。分期是个甜词，甜在遥远，咽下后味儿苦。
我问一个孩子：“若不给社保，孩子真不能上学么？”孩子眨眼，用力点了点头。他的点头里没有热度，只有一种被规定的命令感。于是家长们想了各种法子：借、卖、租、喊远房亲戚帮忙。借的是明天，卖的是今天，租的是老房子，喊来的是空城的回声。有人把家里的老手表卖了，换得了几张申领单；有人把祖传的镜子拿到当铺，镜子被磨平了花纹，映出来的是别人的面孔。
城里最荒唐的是，有个“学籍审查室”，门口贴着红纸，上面写着：“未纳社保者，暂停学籍。”红纸在灯光下像血，但又不像血，更像是被涂了光泽的宣纸。审查室里有几位老师穿着制服，他们的眼里有一种专业的冷，冷得像铁锅。他们问的问题很体面：家庭收入、缴费凭证、减免资质。回答完了，他们会合上本子，点点头，说：“按程序处理。”程序之外的东西，他们称之为“个案”，而个案里往往藏着一个人的一生。
偶有新闻把这些个案搬上荧屏，主持人挥舞着笑脸，说着“为全民福利打基础”的套话。镜头里有孩子的背影，背影越小，音乐越庄重。音乐里混着几部门的名字，像菜肴里放了太多调味料，吃到嘴里就只剩味道，不见真菜。真菜被收去分配，分得太细，最后剩下一根骨头在碗里。骨头也有人夸“营养足”，夸的人把骨头当成礼物，送给视线不够远的人。
有个街坊在夜里给我讲：他听说国库有个“黑洞”，洞里装的是去年的几个项目、几个面子工程、几个口号的结余。洞口被覆盖过无数次，都撒上了厚厚的说明。说明里写着：财政稳健、稳中有进。但稳得像那张灰布，把下面的窟窿盖得平整，摸上去不着痕迹。于是有人就想：把那窟窿的账目，换成每家每户口袋里的几张票子也好。票子少的人便愁，票子多的人则笑。笑的人笑得高声，声音里有“国家”二字，像是牌匾敲得响。愁的人愁得低，低到连摇头也被当成不合时宜。
我看报纸，看见街边的广告写着“全民保障，共享未来”。共享未来的那“共”字挺大，似是一把撑开的大伞。伞下的人各自抱着自己的东西，有的抱着孩子，有的抱着账单。伞再大，也挡不住从伞边钻进来的冷风。冷风里有人哆嗦，有人装作不觉。装作不觉的人常常走得最远。走得远的人回来，口袋里有光亮的卡片——付款凭证。他们的表情像天平，一头是孩子，一头是证件。证件越亮，孩子越被放在天平的边沿。
见识多的人嘴里常念几句俗语，说：“从前交的是税，税也有规则；如今交的是保，保里却装着无数条纹。”条纹是老虎的皮，漂亮得危险。他摇头又摇头：“人啊，总把自己丢进方便里，等着别人把不方便的账单算好。”我问老学者：“可有办法？”他瞥了我一眼，说：“有话一定要说，且慢着点说；先看他们的笑容，后看他们的账本。”话说完，他又笑得很小，很像收了票的柜台。
我也有惶恐的时候。夜深人静，家里只剩钟表的“滴答”。我数着滴答，像数一种不见的税。窗外偶有灯火，是那些仍抱着希望读书的人。他们的影子在墙上拉长，像要走出窗外，走进那片被标注为“有学籍者可进”的光圈。可光圈再亮，也有边界。边界之外，便是生活的实物：柴米、铺盖、修理的单子。实物是厚的，热的，能当饭吃。光圈是薄的，远的，只能用来照梦。
到后来，我想起一句老话：天下无难事，只怕有心人。可这话在此处需改成：天下无难事，只怕没钱又要示范热心。示范热心常常在路灯下照出假影，人们被影子吓走，忘记本来的路。于是他们又来找我，问我怎样写信、怎样申诉、怎样证明贫困。
证明贫困可以证明许多事，却证明不了孩子的童年。孩子的童年需要时间，需要笑声，需要没有被单据剌破的手。单据剌手，是慢性的伤口，愈合得很慢，留的印子深且瘀。
我心里有点沉。沉得像压在胸口的一本账本，账本里有数字，有公式，也有缺页。缺页的地方，写着几行小字：那年我们为了未来，把孩子的现在卖了。卖给谁？卖给了一个叫“国家”的名字。国家是个体面的大词，听起来自有光环。光环下的人有时在翻自己的口袋，摸出几张皱巴巴的票子，票子上的字因为频繁摩擦，都被磨成了空白。空白的票子还能换来笑吗？或许能，不过笑声里夹着账本翻页的声音，和那声音比起来，笑得再灿烂也显得苍白。
我却笑了，笑得不是快乐，而是挤牙膏时最后一滴从管口挤出，表面光泽，心里空洞。我想把这篇文章折成一张单据，递给当局；但递出去，又怕被盖章，于是我把它撕碎，夯在抽屉里。抽屉里本是压东西的，压久了，东西也变形。若有朝一日有人翻开抽屉，见到这些碎片，也许会把它们拼成一个孩子的脸。那孩子若问我：“这是我的脸么？”我会说：“是的，只是画得不完整。”孩子会不解，会眨眼。我只好摘下帽子，好似个考试不及格的老师，笨拙地把自己的帽子递给他，让他遮头顶的日光。
帽子旧了，透气，正好。
The Promissory Notes and Schoolchildren of a Ruler Whose Word Is Law
Author: Zhang Zhijun Editor: Li KunExecutive Editor: Luo Zhifei Translation: Lyu Feng
There is a piece of “good news” that everyone is talking about with excitement:“The state treasury needs to be patched up.”
The “hole” in question is not a gap under the city wall, but an unfathomable bronze basin—once full, now empty.And once empty, it begins to echo, summoning forth new “regulations.”
These new rules are crafted with bureaucratic precision:Anyone wishing to enroll in school must first pay a “security policy.”The document has a refined name — social insurance.
No one objects to the idea of “insurance.” But once this policy is laid out, it becomes a threshold —and across that threshold, words are inscribed:“Those who do not pay shall not attend school.”
Children are caught right at this threshold —their toes resting on the bright, polished tiles of the schoolhouse,their heels still pressed into the muddy earth of home.
Parents, one after another, pass the money forward —as if dosing medicine to their child.The medicine is bitter,so they all frown—and swallow their smiles.
The issuers said it was “for the children’s long-term good.”“Long-term” sounds pleasant — it’s a pandemic-era word.But the long term always lives in the future — far away, empty.So people send today’s bread ahead to that future,as if tomorrow will bake bread and send it back.Yet yesterday’s bread was already taken “for national use,”and now today’s bread is taken again, “for national use.”The more that’s collected, the emptier the “national use” becomes —like a warehouse with its heart scooped out, echoing louder the more hollow it is.
The authorities issued a notice — complete with charts, arrows, and smiling faces.Beneath the smiley faces it read:“For fairness, for the future, for stability — please cooperate in payment.”Cooperate is such a lovely word — who wouldn’t wish to cooperate?Cooperation is like dancing:dance badly and you’re called “reactionary,”dance well and you’re photographed for the newspaper.So everyone learns to cooperate.Cooperation becomes a new virtue.March in rhythm — and you’re safe.Miss a beat — and even your child’s pencil case may tumble into the gutter.
I once went to see an old woman selling tofu on the street.She was aged, but her hands still smelled faintly of grass.She laid out her tofu on the stall, white as snow.A child ran up to buy a piece with a few coins he’d saved.The old woman was about to give him changewhen, from the loudspeaker on a nearby bulletin board, a voice blared:“Pay social insurance before registering for school.”The child’s eyes widened — like a mirror pressed into mud.The old woman sighed, pushed the money back again and again,and finally handed the tofu to the child.The tofu filled his belly;his school registration, like that bulletin, remained unmoved at the doorway.
In the city, there was a gentleman who called himself an intellectual.He wrote lively columns in the papers.One day he published an article:“Social insurance is a good remedy — if everyone pays, the world will be at peace.”The headline gleamed like a waving banner.Beneath it, a footnote read:“For the disadvantaged, exemptions are available — by application only.”
Procedure is a fine friend.Its purpose is to push people around — warmly, like a furnace; endlessly, like a ball.And the more the ball is pushed, the smaller it becomes.At last someone cried out: “The ball’s fallen into the ditch!”So a new announcement came: “We must strengthen implementation.”Implementation sounds good —but when you “land” too many measures, the ground turns to mud.In that mud hide countless little nouns — subsidy, exemption, deferment —each like a hollow life ring, bobbing in circles, but on dry land.
There was even a place called the “White-Slip Window,”where the “non-payers” could file appeals.The line was long — a sleeping snake whose head reached the counter and tail wound down the street.The clerk behind the window wore a uniform and a steady smile,smooth as a persimmon skin.She spoke politely, typed rhythmically,and at last called up a family:an old father clutching his documents,a daughter with the tears of last night still in her eyes.The clerk reviewed the papers, tapped a few keys,and said evenly:“You may apply for installment payment.”The old man froze, like an old clock wound one turn too far.Installment — such a sweet word,sweet because it’s far away;swallow it, and the aftertaste is bitter.
I asked a child, “If you don’t pay social insurance, can you really not go to school?”He blinked hard and nodded.In that nod there was no warmth — only the reflex of obedience.So parents tried everything: borrowing, selling, renting, calling distant relatives.They borrowed from tomorrow, sold today, rented out the old house,and called into the echo of an empty city.Someone sold a family watch to get a few claim slips;someone pawned an ancestral mirror — the carvings worn smooth,and in its reflection appeared another’s face.
The strangest place in town was the “School Enrollment Review Office.”On its door was red paper reading:“Those who have not paid social insurance — enrollment suspended.”Under the light, the red looked almost like blood,but not quite — more like glossy xuan paper brushed with false radiance.Inside, several teachers in uniform worked with a professional chill —cold as iron pots.Their questions sounded proper:household income, payment receipts, proof of hardship.When the answers were done, they closed their ledgers and said:“We will process this according to procedure.”Everything outside procedure they called “a special case,”and in every “special case,” a human life lay folded.
Occasionally, these cases appeared on television.The host beamed and repeated clichés like“Laying the foundation for the welfare of all.”On screen, the smaller the child’s back, the more solemn the music.In that music mingled the names of several ministries —too many condiments in one dish,until flavor was all that remained and the food itself was gone.The real dish had been taken and divided —so finely that only a bone remained in the bowl.And still someone praised it as “nutritious,”offering the bone as a gift to those too short-sighted to see beyond it.
A neighbor once told me at night:He’d heard the treasury had a “black hole”filled with last year’s projects, vanity constructions, and leftover slogans.The hole had been covered many times, sprinkled thick with explanations:“Fiscal conditions stable, steady progress assured.”The stability was like a gray cloth stretched smooth —so smooth you could not see the cavity beneath.Then someone proposed an idea:why not fill the hole with the cash from every household pocket?Those with few bills worried; those with many laughed.The laughter was loud, ringing with the word “nation” —like a plaque struck by a mallet.The worried ones lowered their heads so farthat even a shake of dissent seemed untimely.
I read the newspaper and saw an advertisement on the street:“Universal protection, shared future.”The word shared was printed large, like an umbrella spread wide.Beneath it, people clutched their own belongings —some their children, some their bills.No umbrella can block the cold wind creeping in along its ribs.In that wind, some tremble; others pretend not to feel it.Those who pretend not to feel often walk the farthest.And those who go far return with shining cards in their pockets — payment receipts.Their faces are like a balance scale:on one side, a child; on the other, a document.The brighter the document gleams, the more the child tilts toward the edge.
The worldly-wise recite old sayings:“In the past we paid taxes — taxes had rules.Now we pay insurance — insurance is full of stripes.”The stripes, they say, are tiger skins — beautiful and dangerous.The old man shook his head again and again:“People keep throwing themselves into convenience,waiting for others to calculate the inconvenience on their behalf.”I asked an old scholar, “Is there any way out?”He glanced at me and said:“Speak the truth, but speak it slowly.First watch their smiles; then check their ledgers.”When he finished, he smiled faintly — like a cashier closing his till.
At times I too am afraid.In the deep of night, only the clock remains — tick, tick.I count the ticks as if counting an invisible tax.Outside, an occasional light flickers —perhaps those who still study with hope.Their shadows stretch across the wall,as if trying to walk out the windowinto the halo marked “Students with valid registration may enter.”But even the brightest halo has its boundary.Beyond it lie the tangible things of life:rice, bedding, repair bills.These things are thick, warm, edible.The halo is thin, distant, fit only for lighting dreams.
Later I remembered an old saying:“There is nothing difficult under heaven, if one sets one’s heart to it.”But here it should read:“There is nothing difficult under heaven —except being poor and still expected to show enthusiasm.”Demonstrated enthusiasm casts false shadows under streetlights.People take fright at their own silhouettesand forget their true road.Then they come to me again —asking how to write letters, how to appeal, how to prove their poverty.
Yet proving poverty can prove many things —except a child’s childhood.A child’s childhood needs time, laughter,and hands uncut by paperwork.Paper cuts heal slowly and leave bruised scars.
I feel a heaviness inside me —like a ledger pressed to my chest.The ledger is full of numbers, formulas, and missing pages.On one missing page, a few small words are written:“That year, for the sake of the future,we sold the children’s present.”Sold to whom?To a name called “the State.”
The State — such a grand word, crowned with its own halo.Beneath that halo, people grope in their pockets,pulling out a few crumpled bills —their printed letters rubbed blank from overuse.Can blank money still buy a smile?Perhaps — but the smile is thin,and beneath it, one can hear the turning of ledger pages.Beside that sound, even the brightest laughter seems pale.
Still, I smiled —not out of joy,but like the last drop of toothpaste squeezed from its tube —shiny on the surface, hollow within.I thought of folding this essay into a receiptand handing it to the authorities.But I feared it might be stamped,so I tore it into pieces and buried them in a drawer.Drawers are made to hold things down;pressed long enough, even things lose their shape.If someday someone opens that drawerand finds these fragments,perhaps they will piece them togetherinto the face of a child.
And if that child asks me,“Is this my face?”I will say,“Yes — only it isn’t complete.”The child will blink, puzzled.Then I will remove my hat,like a teacher who failed his exam,and awkwardly hand it to himto shield his head from the sun.
The hat is old,and it breathes —just enough.
