韓松：乘客與創造者

The Passengers and the Creator

By Han Song

Translated by Nathaniel Isaacson

1. The Passenger Cabin

A TREMOR under my rear-end.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. We are experiencing some

turbulence, and there may be some bumpiness in the cabin. Please remain in

your seats and secure your safety belts. The restrooms will be closed.’ A hoarse

female voice emanating from the speaker overhead is broadcast throughout the

cabin.

I quickly fasten my safety belt and turn my head sideways to the window,

looking out in trepidation. A shroud of darkness. Legendary turbulences come

and go but you never see them in reality. You suffer through it for a while,

the nauseating jostling finally stops, and precious stability and tranquillity

are restored. The air conditioning system releases a thin stream of warm air,

unknotting the apprehension that has gathered in the pit of everyone’s stomach.

My seat is 31A. I stretch out my legs and watch them stick out akimbo like a

crooked index and middle finger.

Beside me, passenger 31B has fallen asleep. There are three hundred and some

people in the whole World and the majority of them are already under the spell of

deep sleep. Throughout the journey, sleep, like a dog, has been mankind’s faithful

companion.

Whisks of pale yellow light flow down from the overhead lights, and I begin to

get drowsy. Before I fall asleep, I force myself to stand up, and straddle my way

over the unmoving 31B, following the aisle to the back as if I were setting foot

upon one of those rugged mountain paths I only see in my dreams.

I walk alone, the cabin is filled with people, but it seems as if no one is here.

Trembling, I pull my gaze away from the procession of faces that bloom out of

the rock-like seats, looking instead at the unending rows of silvery, oval cabin?windows.

—Darkness, nothing but darkness

surrounds us.

A small cluster of lonely and wary

human shapes stand by the door of

the restroom. They’re waiting. Maybe

the guy inside is defecating, or maybe

having a shower (the restroom doubles

as a shower stall).

After a long, long time the door

opens and a pair of gaunt middle?aged men emerge, their flushed faces

covered in sweat. The people in the doorway hang their heads in embarrassment:

they’re a gay couple. No wonder it took so long. Not an ounce of public decency.

Eventually, it’s my turn. I piss noisily, then flush. Seeing water gives me a

bitter taste in my mouth. In this metallic World, it’s impossible for human beings

to know where water really comes from. This is the kind of thing that makes you

wonder, but then again it does not matter.

As I piss, I stare at the sign on the wall:

No Smoking

The rest is mostly graffiti, but as far as I can tell, it’s the same old stuff:

I like you, 35G

22A was here

18C is a sonofabitch

After that, I drag my feet back down the aisle to my seat, row upon row of

motionless black heads arrayed before me.

Seat—aisle—bathroom—aisle—seat, this is the only path in life. This is how

we live our lives.

Darkness, always darkness. A boy firmly tied down by his seat belt cries out,

but the sleepers keep on sleeping.

2. Passengers

31B’S SLEEPING POSTURE is a bit odd.

I give him a nudge. His breathing is shallow and thick, white, pungent foam

burbles from the corners of his mouth. Heart disease or brain embolism? A skinny

cockroach is perching vigilantly on the fatty folds at the back of his neck.

I press the button to summon the stewardess, and a slender figure glides over.

The flight attendants work on a rotating basis, ed from among the female

Economy Class passengers. She gives 31B an indifferent look, and calls another

attendant over. They exchange a quiet glance, then carry 31B off.

The cockroach loses his footing and falls to the floor. He seems desolate,

crawling away down the aisle all alone. Gaze fixed on this creature, I watch it

make its way silently under the many dull leather shoes and disappear through

the winding path formed by them before I breathe a sigh of relief.

The flight attendants strain to support the sick man, the three of them

cobbled together like a makeshift toy, headed straight to the back of the cabin. A

few passengers glance up briefly but most pay them no notice. As for what would

be done with 31B, no one is interested.

A fetid odour wafts up from the recently vacated seat. It will soon be filled by

a new person, which means that some woman from the Economy Class will soon

have the good fortune of being given the right to bear a child.

But the person chosen to sit in 31B will not necessarily be that unborn infant.

Seats have to be reassigned. This is a rule—passengers are not allowed to sit

next to another for too long; if they become too familiar and begin to interact,

problems could arise.

Who gets to sit where will be discussed in the Business Class cabin, and then

decided in First Class. They have a passenger manifest that lists all human

beings. A maroon velvet curtain always hangs between the First, Business, and

Economy Class cabins—though it’s soft, it’s as impenetrable as iron. Economy

Class passengers such as myself have no chance of crossing over, and no way of

seeing what’s on the other side.

The grating sound of the woman on the loudspeaker blares out again. The

passengers called to their seats stand up like languid marionettes, on their

faces the seemingly comprehensible smile of one for whom a heavy burden has

been lifted. As if practising t’ai chi, bit by bit they open the ashen-grey overhead

compartments, remove the valises and suitcases that they never have and never

will use and carry them off to their new seats in a somnambulary torpor, and

the moment their bottoms hit the seats, they are asleep again.

I have been assigned to 18G. Next to me, the man in 18H is already seated

comfortably. ‘Hi,’ he says to me. In this world, no one would introduce himself of

his own accord. My heart leaps like a frog in my chest. My new neighbour looks

like he’s twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, his face shines clearly like a starry

night, suffused with a jadeite glow. My jaw nearly drops. It has been a long time,

so all the passengers in the Economy Cabin know one another’s faces, but this

man looks to be a complete stranger.

But it doesn’t matter; in this World nothing matters.

3. The System

SOME SLIGHT but noticeable changes take place in the space outside of the cabin?windows. The darkness is not an even mass; some clear cracks exist out there

which we have no way of understanding. Sometimes, stars display themselves.

Sometimes flashes of lightning and claps of thunder ring out. Sometimes a golden

orb emerges, and washed in its gentle glow, indistinct rows of serrated black clouds

billow forth, like a chorus of demons performing on an empty stage.

All of these wondrous transformations occur out there just beyond our World,

just like that. But passengers are separated from it by a thin membrane, and

can only see it through their windows. In reality, they are partitioned off and

completely unfamiliar with one another.

Sometimes, out there, in those very dark recesses down below, tiny sparks like

clusters of stars form a structure, silhouetting the shapes of chessboards and

mazes; still others resemble spurs jutting forth, inside of which one can discern

loops of differing lengths, glimmering in the depths of the darkness.

But they are no more than temporary splotches and patches whose time in

our field of vision is short-lived, drifting lazily away behind, their size rapidly

diminishing as they are absorbed by the infinite darkness and can be seen no

more. Could they be like us, bouncing along on the turbulence?

Clearly, outside our World there is some macro-system. And maybe out there

in its midst are other different and independent worlds. But what are they really

like? There are explanations. But there is always a sense of doubt, a murky plasma

that sometimes churns forth, coursing back to the cacophony of the heart.

4. 7X7

THE CHILDREN born in Economy Class will gradually grow up. During this

time, the monitors in the backs of the dilapidated seats flicker on at irregular

intervals. Their specialized education has begun.

I vaguely recall having received such an education myself while growing up,

but I can’t be wholly certain.

Basic education includes fastening safety belts and changing seats. Politics is

mostly the prohibition of smoking and admonitions against graffiti.

Natural sciences are a bit more important. When the holographic instructor

on the 3D monitor is done lecturing, homework is given. These are standard

questions presented by a voice simulator that has seen so many years of use that

it has become a clamour of crackles and skips:

‘What—is—this—World—ca-ca-ca-ca-ca-ca-called?’

The correct answer is:

‘7X7.’

7X7, that’s what our World is called. Some of the children get it wrong, saying

‘seven’, ‘seven-one’, ‘seven-six’, or ‘seven-eight’. Then, like spiteful housewives, the

flight attendants will slap them on the palm with a little steel spoon.

Yes, this is our World. The spacious

cabin always seems to be immersed in

an undulating cloud of light purple fog;

on the two dark foot-worn aisles with

ragged carbon fibre compound flooring,

the tightly packed and regularly

spaced old seats are fixed, their covers

worn through revealing the rotten

foam padding; and then, outside the

window and in the midst of the infinite

darkness, the indistinct rise and fall of two long wings jutting forth from the

centre of the World. X is just a symbol, it is used to represent uncertainty.

The holographic instructor is an expressionless, wizened woman wearing

traditional folk dress. I can’t tell how old she is but she also serves as the voice of

the announcer on the loudspeaker. She says the World was created 7X7 years ago

and then time stopped. That’s the essence of the story.

Then there’s us, put here in this sealed system by the Creator, a system that

floats in the midst of what is said to be a vast atmospheric bubble that revolves

around 7X7. We spend most of our time sitting still like potted plants, our

countenances facing the same direction, expressionless as if carved from wood.

The bright objects we occasionally see outside, those faint stars, are nothing more

than evidence of small bubbles wriggling along the walls of the air cell, or what is

referred to as a ‘mirage’.

7X7 is the only thing that stays constantly still, a self-sustaining ecosystem full

of lives, supporting what seems to be the only meaningful thing in this bubble of a

universe.

5. Meals

WE SLEEP at the appointed time, and after that we take our regular meals.

All of the Cabin Attendants wear a blank, unsmiling expression as the four?wheeled metal cart swishes along the aisle and they dole out our meals. Steam

wafts up from the chicken or beef and rice wrapped in foil packaging, but the

portion is too small, so we never get to eat our fill. Along with the main course,

there’s orange juice, coffee, or green tea. Sometimes, we are offered a bowl of

watered-down, stale broth. This costs extra.

Before eating, the passengers ne a prayer:

‘Boeing bless us. Amitābha.’

As we speak, we trace the outline of a five-pointed star on our chests using

our left index finger. Boeing is the honorific name of the unseen Creator, and


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