The BMW and the Knight in the Basement
Lao Wang finally got his hands on the car. Not by stealing, not by robbing, but in a way more characteristic of these times—you know the kind. A brand new, gleaming metallic, Bavarian-proud, five-letter iron beast. In theory, this thing symbolized success, at least the greasy kind, the kind others could recognize at a glance. Touching the blue-and-white emblem on the steering wheel, Lao Wang's heart felt like it held a rabbit, one that had just popped some pills, kicking frantically with excitement. The feeling was like the first time he held a girl's hand in his youth, soft and smooth, full of infinite possibilities, as if he was about to do something earth-shattering.
However, this rabbit soon turned into a groundhog, endlessly digging, carving out an abyss of fear in his heart. This car, like the apple in Eden, radiated tempting light but came with a venomous snake, cold and slippery, ready to coil around your neck at any moment. He couldn't drive it. Absolutely not. Driving it out would be like carving four words on his forehead: "Investigate me, please." In this work unit, in this city, maybe even on this planet, flaunting such a car was, for someone like him—not too high, not too low, stuck in the middle like an undercooked loaf of bread—tantamount to streaking naked. Streaking naked in a blizzard, no less. Besides freezing off his vital parts, it would attract countless scornful or envious gazes, along with certain ill-intentioned "attentions."
And so, this machine symbolizing speed and passion was smuggled by him, like a thief, into the storage room assigned to him by the unit—three levels underground, perpetually sunless, reeking of dampness and mildew. Nominally a storage room, it was actually larger than his bedroom. Piled in the corners were defunct printers and dust-covered file folders—plenty of space to stuff this sheet-metal beast. He covered it with a thick, grey, dusty car cover, like draping a night cloak over a secret lover who couldn't bear the light, or perhaps concealing a corpse.
From then on, that dark corner on the third basement level became Lao Wang's sanctuary, and also his hell. A paradoxical existence, much like his life.
Every day, or every other day, he'd find an excuse to slip downstairs. Sometimes during lunch break, while everyone else was pretending to be dead at their desks; sometimes during overtime breaks, lifting his tired head from piles of documents, pretending to get some air; sometimes simply clutching his stomach, brow furrowed, claiming intestinal distress requiring a quiet place for philosophical-level excretion. He moved like a devout pilgrim on a pilgrimage, or like a guilt-ridden thief disposing of loot—hurried steps, evasive eyes, ears pricked for any sound, terrified of running into acquaintances, especially those colleagues whose eyes always seemed to hold searchlights. Opening the creaking iron door, locking it from inside, then letting out a long sigh, as if entering a safe zone in another dimension, a private space belonging only to him and his sheet-metal lover.
He would carefully lift a corner of the car cover, as if handling a priceless treasure, or confirming a terrible secret was still in place. Sometimes he'd just look, letting the metallic glint brighten his dull pupils, imagining how dazzling it must be under the sun. Sometimes he'd open the car door and sit inside. The moment his backside sank into the genuine leather seat, he'd close his eyes and take a deep breath. The new car smell—a mix of leather, plastic, and some indescribable "premium feel"—acted like a potent tranquilizer, temporarily numbing all his anxiety and humility. He'd grip the steering wheel, pretending to race down an open highway, engine roaring, wind whistling past his ears, roadside scenery blurring by... Of course, all this existed only in his imagination, a low-cost fantasy. The reality was, he was enveloped in silent darkness, with only the occasional low moan from the ventilation ducts, like the breathing of some monster, or the sigh of this underground tomb itself.
He felt the car was alive, like a caged beast filled with repressed energy. He also felt he and the car were kindred spirits, both trapped, unable to move. He possessed it, yet was possessed by it, firmly nailed to this dark corner. This stationary, cold machine became the only, and heaviest, secret in his life. He started suffering from insomnia, tossing and turning at night, his mind filled with terrifying scenarios: the garage door suddenly bursting open, a group of uniformed people rushing in; or the car suddenly starting on its own, its engine letting out a deafening roar, exposing all his shame to the public. During the day at work, he became even more cautious and timid, like a startled rabbit, over-interpreting every glance, always feeling that others were gossiping about him, that they knew his unspeakable secret. An innocent joke from a colleague—"Section Chief Wang, you're looking well lately, any happy news? Made a fortune?"—could drench him in a cold sweat, his back soaked through.
He began talking to the car. At first, it was complaints, rambling like a neglected housewife, whining about this damn system being a meat grinder, about those eyeing his position like hungry wolves, about his own pathetic state, lacking even the freedom to drive his own car, living like a eunuch guarding a treasure he couldn't use. Later, it turned into confession, pouring out his fear, his greed, his weakness to this pile of steel and leather—things he dared not say to anyone during the day, only venting them to this cold machine. The car listened in silence, like a faithful confidant, or an indifferent deity, unmoved by his laments. The basement was cold and damp, and fine beads of condensation gradually formed on the car cover, as if the car was shedding tears for him, or perhaps just sneering at his stupidity.
"Tell me, what the hell was I after?" he muttered to himself, fingers tracing faint lines on the cold car paint. "Bought you, can't drive you, can't talk about you, have to worship you like an ancestor, constantly on edge, living torture. What kind of fucking success is this?" He even started periodically charging the battery, afraid it would die from depletion, and secretly bought the best cleaning agents and soft cloths, meticulously wiping away non-existent dust under the dim light. This ritualistic behavior gave him a sliver of control, but mostly absurdity. He was like a modern Sisyphus, pushing not a boulder, but a BMW forever unable to leave the basement. Each wipe, each charge, felt like reinforcing his own prison.
People around him did start to notice that Lao Wang was a bit off. He was always distracted, pale-faced, with dark circles under his eyes, as if drained of his vital energy by something. He'd also disappear for short periods, returning with the distinct musty smell of the basement clinging to him. Some whispered behind his back, speculating: Did he have a mistress stashed away somewhere? Or did he have some shameful disease requiring secret treatment? These rumors buzzed around his ears like mosquitoes. When they reached Lao Wang, they intensified his panic, driving him more frequently into the basement to seek solace from the cold machine, trapping him in a deepening vicious cycle. He felt like a joke, a fool in the emperor's new clothes, only nobody else could see his "new clothes"; only he knew how heavy and ridiculous this garment truly was.
He felt like one of Kafka's clerks, a Mr. K or someone, trapped in a vast, invisible, absurd bureaucratic machine. And this BMW was the most exquisite and ironic castle—or perhaps, tomb—that he had built for himself. He had once been its knight, yearning to ride it to conquer the world, or at least the street outside his office. Now he was its prisoner, pinned firmly within this confined darkness. He even had the absurd thought: maybe one day, he and the car would completely rot away together in this basement, turning into a pile of neglected scrap metal and dry bones. That, it seemed, might be a kind of liberation, a darkly humorous end. But as long as he was alive, as long as this car still gleamed dimly here, he had to continue playing the role of the secret keeper, day after day, driving his eternally stationary BMW on the highways of his imagination, heading aimlessly towards the void.
Sometimes, through the small, dust-covered window of the storage room—if you could even call it a window, more like a square ventilation hole in the wall—he would gaze at the sliver of faint light leaking down from ground level. The light was weak and distant, like an invitation from another world. He'd remember his youth, riding a battered bicycle—where everything rattled except the bell—carrying his girlfriend at the time, a girl whose eyes crinkled like crescent moons when she smiled. They'd laugh out loud under the sun, feeling like they owned the whole world, even the air tasted sweet. That happiness was simple and real, like a freshly steamed bun, warm and substantial. Unlike now. He owned an expensive BMW, yet felt he possessed nothing but this boundless, damp darkness and a progressively shrinking heart.
The basement door creaked shut again, closing heavily, sealing off all outside sound and light. All that remained was Lao Wang and his BMW, like two forgotten exhibits displayed in the museum of time, silently telling an unfunny joke about desire, fear, and existence. Under the faint glow of his mobile phone screen, the Bavarian blue-and-white emblem seemed like a spinning vortex, poised to suck in the last pitiful remnants of his sanity, crush them, and then return to silence.