I pushed open the thick wooden door and swept aside the cotton curtain.Warm air infused with an aroma that I was sure I knew enveloped my face.About fifteen people were seated in the bar in a loose circle，and there was an old fashioned coal stove—the kind that took honeycomb briquettes—in the middle of the circle.On top of the stove sat an aluminum kettle hissing with white steam.
The borrower picked up the kettle and poured me a cup of hot tea.I was surprised to see that there was a hint of a smile on his cold，expressionless face.He introduced me to the others，and it didn’t take me long to realize that most of them were as socially awkward as me，but I could see friendliness and candor in their eyes.They already thought of me as one of them.I relaxed.
I found an empty chair and sat down.The borrower stood up like a host and said，“Good evening，everybody.Let’s welcome our new friend.Today is a special day，and I’m delighted to see all of you make it on a snowy night like this.”
The crowd quieted，holding hot cups of tea and listening.
“Tonight，we gather to remember a poet，”he continued.Twenty years ago，a cold，stormy winter’s night just like this one，she departed our world.
Everyone here tonight is a reader of her work.We love her poems but know almost nothing about her life.It is said that she was an introvert who lived like a hermit.She didn’t use the computer or the Web，and left behind almost no photographs or videos.Her poems received little attention during her lifetime，and were published only in a few obscure literary journals.When the editors of these journals asked for an author photo or an interview，she never responded.
But one editor，who loved her work，managed to maintain a correspondence with her.Through handwritten letters，the two of them discussed life and poetry，poverty and humility，the terrors and hopes of our age.This was a simple，pure friendship，sustained only through the written word.They never met each other in life.
Right before the poet died，she sent all her published and unpublished poems to the editor.After reading through them，the editor decided to publish a collection as a way to commemorate her dead friend.But she knew that the only way to make a collection of poetry popular was to package up the poet’s life into a story that was already popular with the crowd.The story had to exaggerate the poet’s mystery and solitude，dig up the scars of her family life and childhood（Changed for effect），show her poverty and hunger，disclose her hidden life of love，and present her death scene with pathos.It had to be a story that would make everyone—whether they read poetry or not—shed tears of sympathy for a young woman poet who died too young，drive the crowd to curse our cold，commercial age for persecuting genius，allow each and every member of audience to project themselves onto her.This was the only way to sell a collection of poetry，to grow her fame，to make her name last through the ages.
But this was also exactly what the poet would have hated.
And so the editor chose another way to commemorate her friend.She paid to print and bound copies of the chapbook and mailed them to her friends，anyone who was willing to read the poems，the penniless writers，translators，teachers，editors，students，librarians.She wrote in the note accompanying the chapbook that if anyone wanted more copies to gift to others，she would mail them for free.And since she knew so little about the poet’s life，she couldn’t satisfy their curiosity.
Year after year，readers who loved her work formed clubs like this one.We read and pass on her work，from one private shelf to another，from one library to another library.But we are not interested in superficial attention；we do not fabricate tear-jerking tales about her life；we do not manufacture illusions that would be popular.We only wish for readers to admire her through her poetry，and we disdain insincere blurbs，biographies，photographs，or interviews.In fact，we make it our mission to eliminate any material of that sort.If one of us discovers an image or biographical record of her somewhere，we do our best to delete it.Documents on the Web can be deleted，databases can be carefully edited，tapes and rolls of film can be cut and then pasted back together，and anything printed could be torn out and burned.
“Very few people have noticed our actions.Compared to making news，reducing attention was work that could be carried out quietly.Of course，it was impossible to accomplish what we did without anyone noticing.There will always be the curious who wanted to know the stories behind the poems，who needed to pierce the riddle.We have no right to stop them，but we will say：we do not know any secrets，and we do not want to know any.For us，the poems themselves are enough.”
The borrower finished speaking.He opened the chapbook in his hand and placed it in front of me.I saw a yellowed piece of paper between the pages，like a piece cut from an old newspaper.
“I cut this out of the newspapers collected in your library.I’m sorry that I damaged your property.Now I return this to you so that you can decide what to do with it.”
I looked at the piece of paper.There was a blurry photograph on it.Almost twenty pale faces，exposed to the sun，stared at me.Was one of them the poet？Which one？How would I know？
The answer to the riddle was its plain text.
I picked up the piece of paper with the tips of my fingers and brought it to the stove，tossing it in.The flame licked the paper，burst into an orange flare，and in a blink the paper had turned into a curl of ash.
I looked at the borrower，who smiled at me，extending a hand.I held his large and warm hand.I realized that it had been a long time since I last held a stranger’s hand.My eyes grew wet.
“How about we read a poem together？”he said.
We sat down in our chairs and flipped open the chapbooks to the first page.We read from the first character in the first line of the first poem.Our voices floated up，passed through the ceiling，rose against the falling drifts of snow，until they had returned to the eternal，cold，dark abyss.
Yuanyuan’s Bubbles
by Liu Cixin，translated by Carmen Yiling Yan
1
Many people become enraptured by something or other from the moment of their births，as if they came into the world just for the delight of its company.In this way did Yuanyuan become enraptured by soap bubbles.
Yuanyuan was born with an apathetic expression on her face.She even seemed to cry as if she were discharging an obligation.The world was disappointing her greatly，it appeared.
Until，at five months old，she saw soap bubbles for the first time.
Immediately，she began to wave and kick in her mama’s lap，her little eyes alight with a radiance that outshone the sun and stars，as if this was the first time she had truly seen the world.
It was noon in the northwest of China，many months since the last rain.Outside the window，the sun-scorched city billowed with dust.In this world of abnormal drought，the gorgeous apparitions of water drifting through the air were truly creatures of utmost beauty.That his little daughter could recognize their beauty gladdened Baba，who’d blown the bubbles for her.Mama，who was holding her，was very happy too.She had waived her remaining month of maternity leave；the next day，she would return to her lab for work.
2
Time passed.Yuanyuan entered the big kid class of preschool，and she still loved bubbles.
This Sunday，she was on an outing with Baba.She had a little bottle of bubble fluid in her pocket：Baba promised he’d have Mama take her up on her airplane to blow bubbles.This wasn’t play-pretend；they really did go to the crude airfield on the city outskirts.The plane Mama used for her aerial seeding research was parked there.
Yuanyuan was quite disappointed.It was a battered agricultural biplane.Yuanyuan thought it must have been built out of old wood planks，like the hunter’s hut in the forest from fairy tales.She doubted it could fly at all.But even so，this shabby plane was off limits to Yuanyuan，according to Mama.
“Today’s her birthday！”said Baba.“You’re already working overtime here instead of at home with her.At least let her ride on the plane.Give her some fun and excitement！”
“What fun and excitement？She weighs so much already.How many tree seeds will I have to leave on the ground？”Mama said，hauling another heavy plastic sack into the cargo hold.
Yuanyuan didn’t think she was all that heavy.She screwed her face up and wailed.Mama hurried over to comfort her daughter，taking a strange object out of one of the big plastic tarp sacks on the ground.It was about the same size and shape as a carrot，pointy-headed and streamlined behind it，with a pair of cardboard tail fins stuck on its butt.It looked like a little airplane bomb，only transparent.
This might be fun.Yuanyuan reached out and touched it，only to immediately draw back：it was made of ice.
Mama pointed to a black speck at the center of the little bomb.She told Yuanyuan that it was a tree seed.“The plane drops these ice bombs from way high up，and when they fall to the ground，they stick into the soil.When spring comes，the ice melts.The water it forms helps the seed sprout and grow.If we drop lots and lots of these ice bombs，the desert will become green，and the sand won’t blow into Yuanyuan’s face anymore when she plays outside.Mama’s research project will double the aerial afforestation survival rate in the Northwest drought areas—”
“What does a kid know about survival rates？Sheesh.Yuanyuan，let’s go！”Baba picked Yuanyuan up and marched off.Mama didn’t try to keep them，only quickly cupped her daughter’s face in her hands one quick last time.
Yuanyuan could feel that Mama’s hands were much rougher than Baba’s.
From Baba’s shoulder，Yuanyuan saw the“hunter’s hut”take to the air with a rumble of engines.She blew a string of bubbles toward the plane and watched it disappear into the sandy either.
Baba carried Yuanyuan out of the airfield to the roadside bus station.As they waited for a bus back into the city，she suddenly felt Baba shiver.
“Baba，are you cold？”
“No…Yuanyuan，didn’t you hear something just then？”
“Hmm…I don’t think so.”
But Baba had heard it.There had been a low explosion，far off in the direction the plane had been flying，so distant that perhaps he registered it with a sixth sense.He jerked his head around to look back the way they’d come.In front of him and his daughter，the drought lands of the Northwest stared pitilessly toward the vault of heaven above.
3
Time flew onward.Yuanyuan entered elementary school，and she still loved bubbles.
She and Baba visited Mama’s grave on Qingming Festival.Like always，she’d brought along her bottle of bubble fluid.As Baba set his flowers in front of the plain tombstone，Yuanyuan blew out a string of bubbles.Baba would have erupted，but her next words left his eyes wet with tears.
“Mama will see them！”Yuanyuan said，pointing at the bubbles floating past the gravestone.
“Child，”Baba said as he hugged Yuanyuan，“you have to grow up to be like your mother，with her sense of duty and mission，with a high-minded purpose like hers！”
“I already have a high-minded purpose！”Yuanyuan yelled.
“Tell it to Baba？”
“Blow—”Yuanyuan pointed at her bubbles，already flown far into the distance—“big—biiiig—bubbles！”
Baba smiled sadly，shaking his head，and led his daughter away.They weren’t far from where the plane had crashed a few years ago.That year，the seeds in the ice bombs dropped from the sky really did survive，growing into saplings，but the final victor had still been the endless drought.The aerially seeded forest had died to the last tree in the dry，rainless second year.Desertification marched inexorably onward.
Baba turned to look back.The setting sun stretched a long shadow behind the gravestone.The bubbles Yuanyuan had blown were all gone now，like the dreams of the woman in the grave，like the beautiful delusion of the Western Development Project.
4
Time flew onward.Yuanyuan entered middle school，and she still loved bubbles.
Today，Yuanyuan’s young homeroom teacher had come for a home visit.She handed Baba a flashy，novel-looking toy gun.The physics teacher had confiscated it from Yuanyuan for playing during class，she explained.The gun had a fat barrel and a ring like an antenna loop attached to the muzzle.Baba turned it over in his hands，puzzled as to its appeal.
“It’s a bubble gun，”said the homeroom teacher，taking it and pulling the trigger.With a low whirr，a long string of soap bubbles shot from the small ring on the muzzle.
The teacher told Baba that Yuanyuan’s grades were always the best in her year.Her biggest strength was her robust sense of creativity；the teacher had never seen such a lively-minded student before.He should cherish this seedling，she told him.
“Don’t you feel that the child is a bit…how do I say this，a bit effervescent？”Baba asked，hefting the bubble gun.
“Hey，all the kids today are like that.Quite honestly，in this new era，being on the light and airy side isn’t necessarily a flaw.”
Baba sighed，cutting off the conversation with a wave of the bubble gun.He didn’t think he and the homeroom teacher had much to say to each other.She was barely more than a child herself.
Once he saw the homeroom teacher off，leaving just the two of them，Baba decided to have a talk with Yuanyuan about the bubble gun.But immediately he encountered a new source of displeasure.
“You bought another one？”he said，pointing to the cell phone hanging from Yuanyuan’s neck.“But you already got a new one this year！”
“No，I didn’t，Baba，I only changed the case！See，it keeps things fresh for me.”Yuanyuan took out a flat box as she spoke.Baba opened it，revealing a row of colorful rectangles.At first glance，he thought they were a set of paints.Only upon further examination did he discover that they were twelve cell phone cases in twelve different colors.
Baba shook his head and set the box aside.“I wanted to talk to you about this…tendency.”
Yuanyuan spotted the bubble gun in his hand and snatched it over.“Baba，I promise I won’t bring it to school again！”She shot a string of bubbles at him.
“That’s not what I wanted to talk about.The problem goes far deeper than that.Yuanyuan，look，you’re a big girl now，and yet you still like to blow soap bubbles—”
“Is that wrong？”
“Oh，no，there’s nothing wrong with that in and of itself.It’s just that，like I said，your fondness reflects a certain，hmm，mental tendency.”
Yuanyuan stared blankly at her father.
“It demonstrates your tendency to chase after pretty，novel，superficial things.You easily lose yourself in mirages.Being so ungrounded in reality will lead you in the wrong direction in life.”
Yuanyuan looked at the soap bubbles filling the room，seeming even more puzzled.The bubbles swam tranquilly in the air like a school of transparent goldfish.
“Baba，let’s talk about something more interesting！”Yuanyuan leaned against Baba’s shoulder and adopted a confidential tone of voice.“Do you think our homeroom teacher is pretty？”
