Dream of the Golden Nugget
Old Wang reckoned this was the most reliable thing he’d done in his entire life. That bit of pension money he'd saved for nearly half his life – he hadn't listened to his wife's nagging about buying some darned "wealth management product," nor had he followed the young folks next door dabbling in some "Eye-Pee-Oh." No, he, Old Wang, had exchanged it for golden nuggets! Real, solid, gleaming yellow nuggets. Heavy in his hand when he clutched them, and tucked under his pillow, they made him sleep more soundly than ever.
"See this?" He'd occasionally pull out the small gold bars, wrapped in red velvet cloth, and dangle them in front of his wife. "This is hard currency! Even if the sky falls, this will still be gold!" His wife would purse her lips, muttering, "I'm just afraid the gold price will collapse before the sky does." Old Wang would stiffen his neck. "Nonsense! How can gold fall? Since ancient times, gold has been treasure. What do you know!" He felt utterly delighted inside, as if what he held wasn't just a few pieces of metal, but a guarantee for a worry-free old age, a magical anchor against any storm.
During that time, Old Wang walked through the hutong with his back straighter than usual. The neighbours all knew Old Wang had bought gold. During chats after meals, someone would always sidle up to inquire. "Old Wang, heard you've struck it rich?" "Not at all, just seeking some peace of mind." Old Wang was modest verbally, but the smugness in his heart was like freshly boiled douzhi, bubbling hotly upwards. He even started calculating: wait for the price to rise a bit more, sell the nuggets, and swap them for a small two-bedroom apartment with an elevator down south, no more suffering from coal smoke in winter. Then, his wife wouldn't have to complain about her knees hurting from climbing stairs anymore. This thought was like honey, sweetening his heart until it bubbled.
The wind at the mouth of the hutong carried a hint of late spring warmth, but also some unsettling news that made one's hair stand on end. First, the radio mumbled something vague about "international market fluctuations" and "profit-taking." Old Wang didn't pay it much mind, thinking, that stuff is far removed from us common folk, a hundred thousand miles away, how could it blow into our little hutong? But the next day, Old Zhang, the vegetable seller in the hutong, looked off. His weather-beaten face was wrinkled like a bitter melon. "Old Wang, seen your phone? The gold price... it took a nosedive!" Old Zhang's voice wasn't quiet, tinged with a complex mix of schadenfreude and shared fear.
"Nosedive?" Old Wang's heart thumped, as if something had violently grabbed it. He pulled out his old phone, used for several years, the screen small and scratched. His fingers trembled as he tapped open the red news app. Several bold black characters smashed into his eyes like hailstones: "GOLD QUAKE! OVERNIGHT PLUNGE!" The numbers below were a sickening green, like the eerie will-o'-the-wisps over graves in the wild.
Old Wang felt his head buzz, as if struck by a blunt object. He almost dropped the phone, his vision darkening. He blinked hard. No mistake, the numbers were clear. The gold price that had filled him with smug satisfaction yesterday had plummeted today like a kite with a snapped string, falling so hard, so unreasonably.
"Impossible, impossible..." he murmured, as if trying to convince himself, or perhaps questioning this absurd world. Those few golden nuggets, which yesterday had warmed his heart like little suns, had turned into lumps of ice today, chilling him to the bone, making his teeth chatter.
His wife came out upon hearing the commotion. Seeing his distraught state and glancing at the惨状 (miserable sight) of green on the phone screen, she understood everything. She didn't nag him as usual about being "stubborn" or "not listening," but just sighed deeply, a sigh filled with complaint, helplessness, and mostly, heartache. "I told you... that stuff, it looks shiny, but you can't hold onto it. It's fool's gold!"
Old Wang had no mind to respond. He paced back and forth in the cramped room like a headless fly, the floor tiles groaning under his feet. Sell? Selling now would be like cutting off his own flesh! It was his heart's blood, his pension saved penny by penny, his hope for a stable old age! Don't sell? What if... what if it dropped further? Dropped until it didn't even make a sound? He remembered the bank manager's smiling face back then, spewing promises of "only rises, never falls"; remembered the suited "experts" on TV confidently analyzing, calling it a "safe haven"; remembered his own certainty and anticipation as he handed over the passbook. How did it all change overnight? Like a play, the actors turning hostile in an instant!
This gold price, how could it just change like that? Who decided? Was it the Westerners in suits and ties across the Pacific? Or some "big shots" hiding in a building somewhere here, tapping keyboards? Old Wang couldn't figure it out. The more he thought, the more confused and aggrieved he felt. It felt like walking on a smooth road and suddenly tripping over an invisible stone, falling flat on his face, bruised and swollen, then getting up wanting to find the culprit but unable to even grasp a shadow. This world felt inexplicably strange, unsettling, making him feel like a tiny grasshopper in the wind, liable to be blown away to God knows where by a gust of freakish wind.
He walked to the window, watching the people coming and going in the hutong. The delivery guy was still in his usual frantic rush, pedaling his tricycle, horn blaring; Auntie Li next door carried freshly bought, still dripping green vegetables, chatting with her grandson just let out from school; a few teenagers chased each other, their laughter carrying far... Everyone's life seemed unchanged. The sun rose as usual, coal briquettes still needed buying, life went on. But Old Wang felt separated from them by a thick, invisible glass wall. His world, because of those few cold golden nuggets, had been turned upside down, thrown into chaos.
In the evening, his wife specially made his favorite zhajiangmian – cucumber shreds and scarlet radish shreds cut finely, the soybean paste sauce simmered fragrantly. But Old Wang had no appetite. The noodles piled up in the bowl, he just poked at them listlessly with his chopsticks, as if counting the strands. Seeing his downcast state, his wife felt sorry for him. She hesitated several times, but finally couldn't help speaking, her voice softened: "Old Wang, try to look on the bright side. Money is external, what matters is that we're okay. You can't bring it with you, can't take it away. Worst case... we just stop thinking about that apartment down south. This old house, we've lived here most of our lives, know all the neighbors, it's fine too."
Old Wang didn't make a sound, his eyes fixed on a grease stain on the corner of the table. The stain stubbornly seeped into the wood grain, like the knot in his heart that couldn't be removed. Yes, it's good that people are okay. But inside, it felt like a large piece had been forcibly gouged out, leaving him empty, adrift, unable to muster enthusiasm for anything. Those once heavy golden nuggets now felt like heavy stones, crushing him, making it hard to breathe. He suddenly felt that what he had clutched back then wasn't security at all, but clearly a soap bubble, shimmering with iridescent colors in the sun, yet unable to withstand the slightest touch.
Night fell deep, the hutong completely quiet, save for the occasional cat's meow, which sounded exceptionally clear. Old Wang lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, like flipping a pancake. The golden nuggets under the pillow were still there; he could feel their cold, hard outline. He reached out and touched them. The familiar feel no longer brought comfort, but seemed to silently mock his wishful thinking, mock an ordinary old man for wanting to grasp onto something in this unpredictable world. He closed his eyes, but what flickered before him wasn't a golden gleam, but that glaring, sickeningly green downward-trending number, like a phantom stuck to his eyelids, impossible to shake off.
This dream had turned truly sour; being awake felt more exhausting than dreaming. Old Wang let out a long sigh, heavy and prolonged, filled with indescribable bitterness. He stared at the dark ceiling, not knowing when this "quake" would stop, nor when his heart, tossed up and down, could finally settle back solidly into his chest. Outside the hutong, the world carried on as usual. The sun would rise again tomorrow, but Old Wang's dream of the golden nugget was thoroughly shattered, smashed on the ground into glass shards, impossible to pick up.