“Young man, one for Witness for the Prosecution.”
“It’s really pouring tonight.”
“This cat looks like it’s overeaten.”
“Try the multigrain canned stuff—switch to an easier-to-digest brand.”
“Fewer patrons these days, huh?”
“Your ticket, sir.”
“You left your umbrella here last time.”
“That’s a lovely orchid.”
“You a jazz fan too?”
“Of course, though I think Peking opera’s even older.”
“One for A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“Any movie recommendations?”
…
Until one day, the holographic projector malfunctioned. He and the old man who arrived that night stared at each other across the blank screen. Moments later, the old man chuckled warmly. “No worries. This could be a pleasant surprise. At my age, tasting the unexpected is a joy in itself.”
He felt frustrated—he had no idea how to fix the projector. The black cat nudged his hand on the counter. The old man pondered for a moment. “You know, there might be a spare machine in the warehouse. I seem to recall the previous owner using one ages ago.”
There was indeed another backup projector in the warehouse, but it lacked even holographic functions—an old digital projector from the first two hundred years of cinema. No, not even that. He stared at the dusty light box. How was anyone supposed to use this thing?
The old man seemed to read his confusion. He smiled, fiddled with the gears on the film loader, and said, “This is a film projector, one of the earliest forms of movie projection.”
The old man unfastened his cufflinks and rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows. From a jumble of odds and ends, he selected a reel of film and loaded it into the supply reel compartment. A beam of silver light sprang to life, shining onto the dusty white wall.
Old films possessed a certain magic. An invisible row of seats always formed in front of the screen, and the moment the black-and-white images flickered to life, the audience settled onto the floor in unison.
That first night, they watched Casablanca.
When World War II erupted in the twentieth century, countless Europeans fled to the American continent. Casablanca, in French Morocco, became a crucial transit point for those escaping Europe, though only the luckiest secured visas to the United States.
In this city woven from despair and hope, the male lead ran a tavern. He nursed a broken heart, accompanied by a loyal Black pianist and a bar packed nightly with gamblers. Smugglers traded diamonds for passage, murderers fell to gunfire, and a woman gazed at an old flame by the piano, asking him to play one more song from days gone by.
“Play it once, Sam. For old times’ sake.”
When the film ended, the old man turned to him. “In 1982, a singer wrote a song with the same title for this movie. The melody is enchanting.”
He dug it up and listened to it countless times. A few days later, the old man returned. Their eyes met, and they both smiled. “I brought my own reel this time,” the old man said, pulling a silver box from a paper bag. “Shall we watch it together?”
This time, the screen burst into color: Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn played a socialite, wandering the streets in that famous little black dress. At dawn, she would hop into a cab and head to Tiffany’s, eating breakfast in front of the jewelry displays.
“I like that bright yellow taxi,” he said when the movie ended.
Those cabs were everywhere in New York, carrying the protagonists down Fifth Avenue, as if they could drive to the ends of the earth.
In truth, the ends of the earth weren’t so far away. As night fell amid the projections and silver glow, they wandered the glittering Montmartre Hill of the Red Mill, reveled at Gatsby’s jazz parties with abandon, toured student protests beneath the Eiffel Tower in Play Dream Paris, gazed at the starry skies of 2001: A Space Odyssey from across the Pacific. When doomsday arrived with a tsunami capsizing ocean liners, they fled into a cave where poetry society students debated freedom and death. They joined in, reciting a Whitman poem around the campfire.
On the who-knows-how-manyth night, when the film ended, he finally asked the old man the question that had been burning in him: “Why did you save me?”
During the seven days he hid in the theater to recover, he often caught whiffs of elm pomade and cigar smoke from the row ahead. After the lights went out, he would find forgotten items on seats still warm from occupation—first food, then medicines.
The old man laughed. “I was wondering when you’d ask.” He flashed a sly glint in his eye, and in that instant, he seemed young again—a young businessman, impeccably suited, navigating the districts where vast fortunes came laced with peril.
“The first time I was desperate, I fled into a movie theater too.”
From then on, he developed the habit of watching films. Though retired, he had kept his youthful passion alive. The old man’s voice was gentle, tinged with amusement. “So when I first sensed you hiding in the back row, I thought, isn’t everyone a poem? Rhymes appear by coincidence in the same places.”
“What business were you in?”
The old man regarded him with indulgent warmth, then recited a code name.
It was an ancient name. Dusty, yet radiant.
“I’ve heard of what happened on the 777th Layer,” the old man said. “It’s been ages since anyone dared unmask at a gathering. That dragon you conjured was beautiful.”
Every archaeologist knew that code name, though it had been buried in history for years, its bearer long retired.
“I’ve been retired for many years,” the old man said evenly, his tone warm and steady. “Now I’m just an old man who loves movies.”
…
The films went on pause after that. Until one day, he reentered the site, only to retreat in haste, nearly swallowed by the chaos. That night, the old man watched him from behind the counter, brow furrowed slightly as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”
“My dragon,” he murmured. “My dragon is dead.”
His Creation ability, once perfected, had failed him this time. The site rejected him utterly; he couldn’t create a thing.
The old man pondered briefly. “I haven’t entered a site in many years.”
He wasn’t surprised by the old man’s words. “I know. No one can help with something like this.”
“You misunderstand.” The old man met his eyes. “For an old codger like me, even jumping off a building takes time to prepare. Are you free tomorrow at this hour?”
He blinked in surprise.
The old man wore his usual gentle smile. “Let’s see how bad it really is first, then decide. What do you say?”
The next day, the site resembled a Dali painting—everything chaotic and unstable. Giant clocks bent in midair, the sky melted, dripping translucent slime. The old man took the scene in stride and turned to him. “What can your ability manage now?”
He strained and managed only a single strand of hair.
“May I ask why?” the old man said. “What happened in the site before it turned like this?”
He recounted the veteran archaeologist’s entrusted student, the betrayal by an old friend, the cutthroat rivalries among peers. These were everyday matters for archaeologists. The old man listened quietly, then said, “Those bungling assassins are irrelevant. As for the newbie entrusted to you—you saved him too, didn’t you? So I suspect the issue lies with you and your friend.”
The old man paused and corrected himself. “Former friend.”
He had no response.
“Is it a requiem for a dying friendship?” No, not quite. He felt no fear of the blood of his old friend on his hands, even if it had once mingled with his own tears.
Silence fell between them. A square sun rose on the distant horizon—a level of disorder he’d never witnessed. Site A173 had always been his primary exploration ground; he could claim to be its deepest pioneer. His Creation ability had reshaped its core—he’d forged vermilion temples, flying dragons, even oceans and stars, imprinting his mark on the entire site. He gazed at the floating clocks, unable to grasp what it signified.
The old man suddenly chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Oh, I see. This is really…”
“What do you see?”
“Something I should have done.” The old man laughed with a touch of helplessness. “Young people always steal the privileges of their elders, even when we have so little left.”
He didn’t understand. But he watched as the old man stepped forward, pointed at the floating clock overhead, and asked in a calm tone, “Qijue, have you been preoccupied with time lately?”
Time.
Too much time separated them.
How much time remained between them.
“Qijue, hear me out.” The old man’s voice came close to his ear. “I’ve spent most of my life alone, but I’ve lived vibrantly enough. I thought I’d end like those old movies—the climactic peak behind me, lights dimming, audience departing, until some impulsive youth one afternoon dredges up the tales anew…”
“But fate has been generous. My life isn’t a film; destiny gifted me a poem. The finest lines always arrive when the poet is about to set down the pen.”
The old man gazed at him, smiling—a toothy grin that held half a lifetime. In it, he saw boys his own age laughing through clumsy kisses, teeth clacking; youths feigning suave confidence with kisses and roses, corners of their mouths twitching with nerves; elders extending elegant hands for a dance. All the images coalesced into one face: the old yet youthful man before him.
“Qijue, do you know the sole purpose of poetry?”
“What is it?”
“Before the music stops, drink as much as you can, laugh heartily, dance wildly, and sing your heart out.”
“You’re sure that’s poetry?”
“Of course. Poetry isn’t confined to ink on white paper.
Beyond stale conventions, past all rules of meter, rhyme, form, and antithesis, you can still craft a poem. Seize the final flame before sunset, chew it, swallow it whole. Ignore the timid finger-pointers afraid of fire. You will burn, writhe in agony and ecstasy, sing. Your ribs will turn golden; you will become the sun itself.”
“Qijue, I won’t be the only one you’ve loved, but I’m honored to be one of them.” The old man looked into his eyes. “As the last flame before the sun sets, my life has enough heat for one final blaze. Will you seize it?”
He instinctively glanced at the clock overhead, but hands covered his eyes. “Let it be,” the old man’s voice murmured from the darkness. “At least before the sun sets, we have time to make a poem.”
…
They relocated to the Middle Layer District, where living conditions better suited an elder. The projector went in the bedroom, old films replayed endlessly. His ability slowly recovered. One day, Emerging Clouds Theater staged the famous Peking opera Havoc in Heaven. Emerging from the box seats, the old man said suddenly, “Qijue, I have an idea.”
“You said before that, at its limit, your ability could only produce a hair. But what if it were the Great Sage Equaling Heaven’s hair?”
…
