Saturday‘s Threshold

Beiping's dust, come Saturday, seemed to carry a hint of rest too, lazily tumbling under the sun. But the earth in Old Wang Tou's heart felt like it had been hardened by last night's wind, compacted, unable to breathe.

He huddled in his palm-sized little room in the South City. Old newspapers were pasted onto the window paper, printed with long-outdated foreign company ads, the words almost faded away. Inside, there was a whiff of stale cooking smoke, mixed with a faint scent of mildew. He just sat like that, facing the creaking wooden door, his gaze blank.

Saturday, eh. Normally, he should go out for a stroll. The chess stall at the hutong entrance should be set up, Big Mama Zhang's grandson should be crying out for candy, the street ought to have some life. But Old Wang Tou just didn't want to move. It wasn't that his legs weren't nimble, nor was he feeling unwell anywhere. None of that. He just... didn't want to.

Why not? He couldn't quite explain it himself. It was as if an invisible threshold lay right at his doorway. Not high, but he couldn't lift his foot over it. What was this threshold made of? Was it young Liu at the factory yesterday saying, "Master Wang, at your age, your eyesight's probably not so good anymore"? Was it Sister-in-law Li next door saying, "Aiyo, Old Sir, still making your own porridge? Where are your children?" Or was it the few crumpled small bills in his pocket, which, count them as he might, were only enough for a few catties of cornmeal?

He sighed, a sigh so heavy and long it felt like it would carry out all the dust from his lungs. When he was young, he was the renowned "Swift-Legs Wang" of the hutong, pulling a rickshaw, faster than the wind. Back then, Saturday? That was the best kind of day! Plenty of customers, generous tips. After a day's running, he could go to the small tavern in the evening, have two liang of cooked meat sliced, drink a cup of "shao dao zi" liquor, and the weariness in his whole body would be scalded away.

But now? The rickshaws had long been replaced by "san beng zi" (motorized tricycles), and he couldn't pedal anymore. The gatekeeping job at the factory was thanks to the favour of an old neighbour, just a way to get by. But this livelihood tasted increasingly bland. In the eyes of the young folks, there was always something... indefinable, like they were looking at an old object about to fall apart.

"Dong dong dong!" A knock on the door. It was Sister-in-law Li from next door. Her voice could pierce through three walls. "Brother Wang! Are you home? Such nice weather today, not going out for a walk?"

Old Wang Tou didn't move, nor did he make a sound. He was like a clay statue, nailed to the small stool. He could imagine Sister-in-law Li's expression right then: warm-heartedness mixed with a bit of puzzlement, perhaps even a tiny trace of... pity? That's what he dreaded most.

Sister-in-law Li called out twice more from outside. Getting no response, she muttered, "This old fellow, maybe he's asleep," and her footsteps faded away.

The room fell silent again. Only the occasional coo of a pigeon whistle drifted in from outside, long and empty.

He touched his stomach; he was a bit hungry. There was still some porridge left in the pot from last night, stone cold. Heat it up? Too much trouble. Just make do with it like this. He picked up the bowl of cold porridge and took two sips. His mouth tasted as bland as if he were chewing wax.

Life, sometimes, was like this bowl of cold porridge. Not impossible to swallow, just lacking that warm anticipation.

He thought of his late wife. If she were still here, she'd surely be nagging him right now: "Old Wang Tou, don't just mope around inside, go out and get some sun, it's good for your bones!" She always had so much spirit, as if the sky could fall and she'd be able to stitch it back up with a needle. But she left, and took his bit of spirit with her.

"Ai..." Another sigh.

This room was too small, small enough only for him and his shadow. Yet this room was also too big, big enough to hold a lifetime of his disappointments, and those lingering thoughts he couldn't shake off.

Outside the door, the sun was high. Light filtered through the gaps in the window paper, casting a few crooked patches on the floor. Within the patches of light, dust motes danced, like a swarm of homeless souls.

He suddenly thought: Why not just sit like this? Sit until the sun sets, sit until the moon rises. This threshold, he wouldn't cross it today. Let the hustle and bustle outside be bustling, let the busyness outside be busy. He would stay right here, guarding his little room, guarding his quiet, and also guarding that bit of indescribable... stubbornness?

Perhaps this wasn't escape. It was just... an old man, on an ordinary Saturday, giving himself a day off. A day off where he didn't want to do anything, didn't have to do anything. Even if this 'day off' meant only facing a broken door, a bowl of cold porridge, and a room full of loneliness.

He closed his eyes, as if hearing the sound of rolling wheels from his rickshaw-pulling days, and his own heavy breathing. Back then, life was tiring, but his heart felt full. Now? His body was idle, but his heart was empty.

This threshold, was it really outside the room, or inside his heart? Old Wang Tou couldn't figure it out. So he simply stopped thinking about it.

This Saturday in Beiping, for Old Wang Tou, consisted only of this one room, and a threshold he chose not to cross. The world outside was vast, but it seemed, somehow, to have little to do with him anymore. And so he sat, quietly, with his shadow, wearing away this lazy, yet heavy, time.