The Tiled Wall

The water was running.

The water was running down the white tiles.

The water was running.

Someone was crying, behind me, somewhere behind me.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark, the flat quiet. I lay still, listening for the water. The pipes were quiet, the street was quiet. It was a dream. I told myself that. It was a dream.

I closed my eyes, slept until morning.

I made coffee, drank half. The rest sat on the counter until lunch.

I cleaned the kitchen, wiped the counter, hung the cloth over the tap, swept the floor.

I went to the market, two streets over. The morning was cold. The leaves were flat on the wet pavement. I bought greens, an egg, mushrooms.

I came home, put the food away, made tea, drank half. The rest went cold. I left it.

I read a page, put the book down. I did not remember what I had read.

The afternoon passed. It rained once, then stopped. The window was open, the air cold and wet. I closed the window.

In the evening I made rice, fried an egg, ate at the counter. I washed the bowl, dried it, put it away.

The dark came early. I stood in front of the window a while.

I went to bed. I lay down, closed my eyes.

The dream came.

The water was running.

The water was running down the white tiles.

Someone was counting, behind me.

One.

Two.

Three.

The count stopped.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark. The count was unfinished. I lay still, waiting for it to finish. It did not.

Two nights. I told myself people had dreams like this. It was ordinary. It meant nothing. I had dreamed it. That was all of it.

I slept badly.

It rained all morning. I stayed in. The calendar was still blank. I did not fill it.

My mother sent a message. She asked if I was sleeping. I said yes. She wrote that the leaves were down by the gate. I wrote back that they were down here too. She wrote that she was making soup. I wrote that it sounded good. She wrote that my cousin had come to dinner. I wrote that that was good.

The rain stopped, started again. I made rice, ate. I rinsed the bowl and stood it in the rack.

I read, put the book down unfinished. When the room went gray, I turned on the lamp. The rain came down the window.

I went to bed.

The dream came.

The water was running.

The water was running down the white tiles.

Someone was counting, behind the water.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The count went on.

Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

The last tile.

The water stopped. The crying stopped.

I opened my eyes.

Twenty-four.

I lay very still. Three nights. The same wall. The same water. The same count.

The count was the wall. I knew that. The wall in the dream was twenty-four tiles across. I had not counted them. I knew.

The alarm went off at 06:12. I turned it off. The room was empty. It was always empty.

I made coffee, drank half, dressed. I looked at the phone. Nothing on it. I put it down.

I opened the drawer. The earbuds were there — the frayed pair, the left one failing for months. I closed the drawer, left them. The walk would be quiet. That was all.

The bakery was open. The smell of bread came out with the door. I kept walking.

The underpass was the short way. The office was on the far side of the railway. The stairs went down, the steps wet. There was writing on the wall. I did not read it.

The wall was twenty-four tiles across.

I knew it before I looked at it. The knowing was already there — it had been there since the stairs. I had walked past it for years. That was the explanation. I looked anyway. Twenty-four across. I had not counted them. I knew.

The number was from the dream. That was all it was.

I stood still. The tubes hummed.

A drip came off the ceiling. It ran sideways for one blink. Then it ran down.

I blinked. The tube flickered. The light moved. Water ran down. It always ran down. That was what water did.

I sat down at my desk. Chen Wei came over. He raised a hand in a small wave. He had a coffee in his other hand. He set it on my desk.

‘You didn’t get one,’ he said.

I had not. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I smiled.

‘You look tired, Zhang Hao,’ he said.

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

He nodded. He looked at the window. Then he looked back.

‘Still no new earbuds,’ he said.

‘Not yet,’ I said.

He nodded. He let it go. ‘The client wants the numbers,’ he said. ‘By the end of the week.’

‘The numbers are the same as last month,’ I said.

‘They always are,’ he said.

He talked about the dataset; I listened, answered, said what I always said. The coffee was hot; I drank some, left the rest.

The meeting was in the room with the window facing the railway. A train went past; the glass shook. The meeting was ordinary. When it was over, Chen Wei walked me back to my desk.

‘You came in,’ he said.

‘I said I would,’ I said.

He nodded. He let it go.

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. I looked at the screen.

At lunch I ate at my desk. I washed the container, dried it, put it away.

The afternoon passed. When the room went gray, I turned on the lamp.

I packed my bag. I said goodnight to Chen Wei. He raised the hand in the small wave. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said.

I took the long way home.

The road went around the railway. The bridge was high, the wind cold, the railings wet. Below, the railway lines. A train went under the bridge; it shook a little, then stopped. The shops were closed. I walked past the corner shop. The man was at the door. He looked at me. He never looked at me. I kept walking.

I walked past the school. The yard was empty, the gates shut. The streetlights were not on yet.

I did not look at the underpass, did not go near it. I walked the long way around. It took longer. That was all.

The coffee was on the counter. I poured it out, washed the mug, dried it, put it away.

I made dinner — rice, an egg. I ate at the table, which I do not do. I ran the bowl under the tap, dried it, put it away. I wiped the counter, hung the cloth over the tap.

I made tea. I drank most of it. The last inch went cold. I left it.

The dark came. I stayed by the window a while.

I went to bed, closed my eyes.

The dream came.

The water was running.

Someone was counting, behind me.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The count went on without me.

The count did not stop.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark. The count did not stop. I lay still. I listened. The count did not stop.

It was a dream. I told myself that. It was a dream.

The wall was real. It was a real wall in a real underpass. I had walked past it for years.

Dreams used real things. That was what dreams did. The wall was real, and I knew it was twenty-four tiles across. I knew it without counting. I knew it before I looked at it.

The counting was done for me — by the boy in the dream, who is still counting.