The Reed — Chapter Thirteen: The Year the Phone Rang

On New Year’s Day, Zuo Yiling told me he would call to ask me out to play. I answered him honestly, perhaps a little too honestly, that my family didn’t have a telephone installed. He immediately seized upon this as an opportunity for mockery, showering me with sarcastic remarks. In most places I could afford to be at a disadvantage, but never when it came to Zuo Yiling. So I retorted sharply, “What, do you think our house is some sort of government office or a royal palace, that people are lining up to call us?” The look on his face — momentarily silenced and caught off guard — was priceless. I felt triumphant, and with the air of a magnanimous victor, I informed him that instead of calling, I would simply show up at his front door. He had better be prepared, I warned, and not greet me looking shabby and unpresentable.

To my astonishment, when I got home that evening my mother told me that she had already submitted an application to have a telephone installed. At that time, a telephone set was a costly luxury. I still remember her saying it would cost several thousand yuan, a figure so staggering that my jaw nearly dropped. On top of that, there were the monthly fees, which were by no means cheap. I could not help wondering — since when had we become a family of means? Since when had we become the household of “some government official or king” worthy of constant calls? Yet my mother was truly willing to part with such a large sum simply to bring a telephone into our modest home. Among all our relatives, only my uncle’s family had a phone. Everyone else still relied on letters, shouted messages at public phone booths, or the semi-automated switchboards at their workplaces. Which meant, in reality, that even if our shiny new phone were installed, my mother would have very few people to call.

Of course, I never believed for a moment that she had gone to such expense merely to give me the satisfaction of showing off in front of Zuo Yiling.

At the end of term, both Zuo Yiling and I did well in our exams. Once again he announced that during the winter holiday he would call me and invite me to his house. This time, I carefully copied down his telephone number, a detail that suddenly carried new significance.

When the winter holiday began, our own telephone was finally delivered and installed. My mother had chosen the simplest model, a bright red set. I had seen telephones before, of course — at the public booth near the school gate, in the teachers’ office, and at my mother’s factory. But to have one of our very own, sitting on the nightstand beside my mother’s bed, was something altogether different. For a long while I studied it intently, almost reverently, as though it were some rare and curious machine.

The star key did not quite look like a star, nor did the pound sign resemble a grid; the whole thing felt oddly like a child’s plastic toy, and yet this unassuming device had cost several thousand yuan. I lifted the receiver to listen to the dial tone, pressed the buttons just to hear their tiny notes, and experimented with the “repeat” and “cancel” keys the manual described — though not all of them actually functioned, as certain features required additional service activation.

When my mother first told me, she explained that it might take a few more days before the lines were fully laid out and the telephone could be officially put into use. After the initial excitement had worn off, I began to daydream about calling Zuo Yiling first, just to surprise him. Yet, before I could make my move, something unexpected happened — our phone rang.

The sound startled me. It was somewhat muffled, yet it carried a peculiar clarity, almost a resonance that seemed to cut through the air. It was, in its own way, pleasant. So this was what a telephone ringing in one’s own home sounded like — so different from the shrill, metallic trrring-trrring of the public phone booths. Ours rang with a softer, pulsing di-di-di, a rhythm that felt gentler, almost intimate.

My mother, calm as ever, walked out of the kitchen, wiped her hands, and picked up the receiver. Only then did I learn who was on the other end: my father. After months of trying to keep in touch through letters, they had both realized how impractical it was not to have a direct line of communication. That, at last, was the true reason behind the installation. Once again, my mother had exchanged some of the U.S. dollars my father had sent. The phone was not only for the two of them, but also for my grandmother, my aunts, and uncles scattered in other provinces. In the new neighborhood there was only a lonely, unattended phone booth, not like the old place where neighbors would come knocking on our door to summon us to take a call. This new red phone would serve as a lifeline between our family and the wider world.

I sensed that my father and mother had much to say to each other, conversations filled with things I was neither meant to hear nor to understand. Yet my mother handed me the receiver briefly, instructing me only to greet my father and report on my exam results.

My father, speaking from afar, told me he was using a payphone. “The moment the coins run out,” he said, “the line will cut off automatically.” I quickly urged my mother to take back the receiver so that she could continue the conversation. Making an awkward excuse about needing the restroom, I slipped away. I noticed, however, that she was smiling — a rare, fragile smile. I could not tell whether she was amused by my clumsy pretext, happy to hear my father’s voice again, or simply relieved not to have to stand nervously at a public booth, watching strangers queue behind her while she tried to speak.

I had always thought of her as overly suspicious — almost paranoid. But in truth, hers was the reflex of a generation raised under constant scrutiny: background checks at the work unit, registration at the local police station, endless inspections of household status, even marriages subject to bureaucratic approval. That vigilance had become instinct. She spoke as though every word traveled along a wire under surveillance, every pause a chance for someone unseen to be listening.

Whenever I spoke with my father at a public phone, if I lingered for too many sentences she would frown, whispering that I was wasting money, or worse, that I might accidentally mention something that should never be spoken over the line. At the time, I did not understand her anxiety. To me, my father was just an ordinary middle-aged man — not a spy, not a fugitive, not a man burdened with dangerous secrets.

Now, finally, she could speak without that tension, and I, standing by, was reminded of the TV series Sixteen-Year-Old Season. I recalled the scene when Bai Xue’s family first had their own telephone installed, the pure excitement on her face as she chattered into the receiver with her father.

Still, my amazement was quickly tempered by reality when my mother explained the charges. I had assumed only overseas calls would be expensive. To my shock, even local calls cost dearly. A short conversation could swallow up the equivalent of a pancake or a simple breakfast. And heaven forbid we ever dialed abroad by mistake — that would devour an entire month of my school meal allowance. The telephone, I realized, was astronomically expensive, no matter where in the universe you made the call.

After much hesitation, I seized a chance when my mother was distracted. I dialed Zuo Yiling’s number, my heart pounding, and when he answered I gave him our long, awkward new number to memorize. “If anything comes up, call me,” I instructed grandly. Then, before he could even say goodbye, I hung up, feeling both guilty and exhilarated.

Zuo Yiling could only call me back. After some back-and-forth, we agreed that I would visit his house the next day. But he didn’t just stop there — he would hang up and then call again, bragging with a sense of triumph that “the trick is to keep it under fifty-nine seconds; that way it’s the cheapest.” He dialed repeatedly, his voice coming through again and again, until my mother grew exasperated. Convinced it was some kind of nuisance caller, she stormed over, ready to unleash a torrent of scolding. On the other end, I heard Zuo Yiling scrambling to explain himself, hurriedly apologizing and stammering out his name.

My mother, once she realized who it was, gave him a lengthy lecture: one must learn to be frugal, she said; the purpose of installing a telephone was to facilitate necessary communication, not to cause mischief. Foolish interruptions, she warned, might block truly important calls from getting through. Meanwhile, I sat at my desk, clutching my stomach, trying not to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

When her lecture finally ended, I waited until she was distracted and then secretly dialed his number, whispering to him about the time we had agreed upon for the next day. It was, in part, a reassurance and in part a quiet apology. He, for his part, accepted my mother’s admonishments with surprising humility, as though he were used to it. He often remarked that my mother was far better at “raising children” than his own parents. Yet I could not help but think — had she ever really devoted that much care to educating me? I had never felt it.

The next day, after my mother had left for work, I finished my winter homework as quickly as I could and slipped out, heading toward Zuo Yiling’s home. His neighborhood looked about as new as ours, though on a slightly smaller scale. His family lived on the sixth floor, and unlike my building, each landing in his had only two apartments. By the time I climbed all the way up, I was panting heavily. At the very top, before the sixth-floor apartments, there was an extra iron gate — apparently something the two households had agreed to install together. Inside the gate, the entranceway was cluttered with shoes from both families, stacked and scattered in a haphazard mix.

There he was — Zuo Yiling — waiting for me at the iron gate, shuffling in his slippers. The advantage of being children visiting each other, I thought, was that no gifts were required. I strolled right in with an air of casual confidence.

To my surprise, both his parents were home. They welcomed me warmly, beaming as though I were an honored guest, ushering me in with indoor slippers and showering me with thanks. Over and over, they expressed their gratitude for how my presence had inspired Zuo Yiling to take his studies more seriously, to the point that his grades had improved. Between smiles, they even inquired after my entire family — my grandmother, my cousin, my uncle, my aunt, my mother — naming them one by one with polite affection.

Yet all the while, my eyes had fixed themselves on the wall directly opposite their front door. There, painted directly onto the white plaster, was a vivid, colorful mural. At once, I recognized it: Princess Jasmine, Aladdin, and the Genie, soaring on the magic carpet. It was unmistakably taken from the cover art of the Aladdin CD my mother had given me for my birthday not long ago — a genuine Disney release in its original edition.

The characters’ faces brimmed with life, the colors shimmered with brilliance, even the carpet seemed to float right out of the wall, as though ready to fly into the room. The work was so skillful that I wondered if some trick had been used — perhaps the image had been enlarged and traced onto the wall before being filled in.

At that time, I had never been to a cinema to watch a film on the big screen. But the CD itself had captivated me. I played it endlessly at home, and each night before bed I would hum along to A Whole New World while brushing my teeth. Naturally, I often found myself humming those same melodies absentmindedly in front of Zuo Yiling as well.

So I simply could not believe that the notoriously careless, disheveled Zuo Yiling could have created such a masterpiece. Reading the doubt in my eyes, his father smiled and explained kindly: yes, it truly had been painted by his son. He had sketched it first in pencil, and then filled it in with color all on his own. The father had offered only the simplest guidance — help with the proportions, a hint about the composition — but the execution, he insisted, was entirely his boy’s.

Zuo Yiling watched me with a look of mock disdain, then tugged at my sleeve and pulled me into his room for a proper tour. Their new apartment was not especially large — just one bedroom and a living room, the same as ours — but because it was a corner unit, sunlight streamed in more generously, making it look brighter and more cheerful than my own home.

The kitchen stood immediately to the right of the entrance, where his mother was bustling about with some small task. Beyond it was a round dining table, neatly laid with plates of candies and nuts. Without ceremony, Zuo Yiling scooped up a handful and thrust them into my palms. Turning left, we passed a compact bathroom and entered the master bedroom. From there, he led me straight out onto the balcony.

The balcony had been converted into a small sleeping space: a narrow bed pushed against the wall, and at its far end a desk. He seemed inordinately proud of having arranged his bed and study area himself. With eager hands, he showed me the toys and stacks of comic books lined up above the desk, pointing them out one by one as though each were a prized treasure.

His father was in the bedroom, spreading a towel blanket across the bed. With a genial smile, he suggested we play a game of Ludo together. Having an adult join in made us both a little self-conscious — especially me, the only girl, facing off against two males. And yet, to my own surprise, I managed not only to hold my ground but even to win.

Again and again I rolled sixes, moving my four red pieces forward with practiced calculation. Father and son, by contrast, seemed to suffer from middling luck. Zuo Yiling’s father in particular stuck doggedly to the “proper” method — marching one piece all the way home before daring to advance another. Zuo Yiling hovered at his side, loudly “coaching” him, half-teasing, half-boasting, while his father chuckled good-naturedly at his son’s noise.

I had heard in passing that both his parents had been laid off early the previous year. They were vocational school graduates, once employed at the local factory, but after leaving it they turned to small-scale business ventures. His father’s trade was unclear to me, though it seemed to bring in decent earnings; his mother worked part-time at a nearby water purification station, with hours light enough to leave her plenty of time at home. Whatever the details, it was clear that their household was not burdened — Zuo Yiling never wanted for food or clothing, and his careless generosity stood in stark contrast to my own cautious frugality.

If the layoffs had left any mark on him, it was this: he studied harder. Perhaps he saw in his father’s reinvention a kind of freedom, a chance to carve out one’s own path. Or perhaps he simply realized that he could no longer afford to cause his parents worry. Whatever the reason, a change had come over him. His report cards improved steadily, and at parent–teacher conferences, even my mother eventually stopped using the dreaded label she had once repeated so often — “poor student, poor student.” Zuo Yiling was no longer anyone’s cautionary example.

At noon, Zuo Yiling’s mother insisted I stay for lunch. The table was set with stir-fried garlic scapes and pork, among several other dishes. Unlike my own mother, who always preferred to serve food lightly seasoned and arranged neatly on plates, the Zuos laid their dishes in deep bowls, each one rich, salty, and fragrant. I ate cautiously, trying not to offend their hospitality, yet the taste of garlic scapes — sharp, savory, and lingering — etched itself deeply in my memory. His mother, beaming, kept piling more meat and soup into my bowl. I regretted having eaten breakfast before coming, for now I could barely keep up, all the while listening to her gentle complaints about how little girls never seemed to eat enough, as though comparing me with the hearty appetites of her son and husband.

In the afternoon, Zuo Yiling’s father left for work, and his mother headed out for groceries, leaving us to our own devices. The moment the door shut behind them, Zuo Yiling grinned and pulled out his treasured “Little Tyrant” console. I had thought we might at least feign studiousness in front of his parents, but to him my visit was nothing less than a blessing — a perfect excuse to spend the whole day gaming without reproach. “With a guest in the house,” he said, “no one dares to nag me.”

He proudly displayed a cartridge labeled “300-in-1,” rattling off its contents as though reciting a catalog. Most of the games, however, were the kind I had never cared for when playing with my cousin: “boys’ games,” full of shooting, fighting, and endless, repetitive dialogues — like Saint Seiya. I shook my head, resigned, nibbling on snacks while watching him bounce about the room, pressing buttons with manic energy. At times I half-feared he would smash his console to pieces in his excitement.

At last, realizing he had all but ignored his guest, he produced a freshly purchased cartridge: Chip ’n Dale Rescue Rangers. With exaggerated confidence, he declared that “smart girls always love this one” and urged me to play. Of course, it wasn’t about clever girls at all — it was simply that the game had cute animals. Back then I didn’t even know who “Chip” and “Dale” were, but what delighted me was the lively music, the tight pacing of each level, and the inventive mechanics.

So I joined in. The sight of us side by side was comical: apart from skillfully defeating enemies, his squirrel would often hoist mine onto its shoulders, only to toss me across the screen in ridiculous ways. We pressed forward, clearing stage after stage, until at last we reached a sealed chamber. The music shifted. A boss appeared. Suddenly our coordination dissolved into chaos — “You jump!” “No, you throw!” “I’ll throw, you jump!” — our shouts filled with such urgency it felt as if we were battling for the fate of the world itself.

The afternoon vanished in a blur. By the time his mother returned with groceries and offered warmly to keep me for dinner, I had already slipped away, desperate to be home before my own mother arrived, to resume my role as the diligent daughter quietly studying at her desk.

But not long after, the phone rang. It was Zuo Yiling, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. Tomorrow, he promised, both his parents would be out working — meaning we could continue our “Rescue Rangers” adventure without interruption. And so it went for several days: each morning I dutifully finished my holiday homework, then crossed the street to his apartment for games. Yet guilt gnawed at me. To spend whole days playing felt shameful, so I bargained with him: if he wanted my company, he must at least complete his own homework. Slowly, reluctantly, he agreed, and soon we had a routine — five new vocabulary words each day, a diary entry, and then, at last, our reward: a few delirious hours of gaming together.

In the days that followed, Zuo Yiling’s parents all but vanished from sight. At noon, however, a tall insulated food carrier would appear, filled with steaming dishes far richer than anything I was used to. Zuo Yiling, ever impatient, would shovel down a few hurried bites before rushing back to the console. I, on the other hand, lingered over the meals, savoring the unfamiliar flavors, though no matter how much I tried, there was always too much left unfinished.

One afternoon we finally defeated the great fat cat boss. Our hands trembled on the controllers, our hearts racing long after the battle was won. Later we moved on to Contra and the other cartridges stacked by his television, until the little machine grew hot to the touch from our endless play.

My mother, though she knew nothing of Rescue Rangers or Contra, was not easily deceived. She noticed soon enough: my untouched lunches sitting cold on the table, the spotless stove where no pot had been reheated. The trail was clear. When she confronted me, I confessed — yes, I had been going to Zuo Yiling’s to “study.” She said little in return, only that from the next day I was to report directly to my grandmother’s house.

And just like that, our winter holiday of games came to an abrupt end. Occasionally, Zuo Yiling would still call, carefully keeping his conversations under fifty-nine seconds, to boast of some new level he had conquered. I would listen, sometimes understanding, sometimes not, until the line clicked dead without even a goodbye. It was, after all, not my family paying the phone bill. As long as my mother didn’t find out, what did it matter?

Not long before the New Year, my mother quietly rearranged the furniture. She lengthened the phone cord and placed the machine directly on my bedside table.