By SHAO BAOJIAN

IN an ancient town in the southern reaches of the Yangtze River there lived in a small compound of nine average households sharing an ancient well.The layout of the oldstyle houses had largely remained unchanged over the years,except that more and more modern furniture and home décor accessories had been added.

Two of the nine households were one-person households and the two persons,a bachelor named Zheng Ruokui and a spinster named Pan Xue’e,were next-door neighbors.

“Morning!” Zheng greeted Pan.

“Morning!” Pan walked past Zheng without slowing down.

Such simple and lukewarm greetings sounded very discouraging to the neighbors who so frequently heard them.Probably past 40,Pan had a delicate figure,a milky complexion,and a good-looking oval face.Dressed in a simple but fashionable style of clothes,she had a glamor befitting her age.She worked in a flower shop on West Street.Her neighbors wondered why a woman of her beauty would remain unmarried even though they knew she needed to marry for love.She was already living at the compound when Zheng moved here five years ago.

Zheng worked as an art designer at a cinema.Though said to be an artist without the gift,he was a cautious and responsible worker.He was in his mid-40s but looked a lot older.He was a bit hunchbacked and had dry and dishevelled yellow hair that was seldom combed.He had a skinny face,skinny shoulders,and boney hands.The only thing young about him was his large eyes shining with thirst.He was in the habit of bringing home a bouquet of flowers after work,and the flowers varied by season,including roses,crab-apple flowers,wintersweet,etc.that he put invariably in a blue,transparent long-stemmed vase.He spent most of his off-work hours indoors and seldom visited anybody.At times,he would wash his clothes,dishes,and the blue vase at the well.After cleaning up the vase,he would fill it up with clear well water and carefully carry it back to his home.

A thick wall separated him and Pan’s bedroom.Beside his bed and pressed against the wall was an old bamboo bookshelf about the height of an average adult.The upper right end of the bookshelf was where the vase was permanently located.Hanging or leaning against the walls were Chinese and oil paintings either done by him or by others.

Judging by the arrangement of the furniture and the thick layer of accumulated dust on it,the room lacked a sweet and cozy atmosphere that only a woman could create.However,the vase was always wiped spotlessly clean,the water in it was always crystal clear,and the flowers in it were always fresh and in full bloom.

Neighbors in the compound all wished to see those flowers appear in Pan’s room next door,but the miracle never happened.By and by,they felt deeply sorry for Zheng.

On a drizzling fall morning,Zheng greeted Pan as usual with an umbrella over his head.Pan,also with an umbrella over her head,responded with her usual greeting.By evening,when the rain stopped,she got back from work,but he didn’t.Soon after that,news came that Zheng had died of a sudden heart attack.He was working on a painting in his studio before passing out and was quickly taken to hospital,where he never woke up again.

Weeping was heard in the compound.Pan did not cry,but her eyes were red.Wreaths arrived one after another.The largest one,decorated with various flowers but with no words on it,was from her.

The loss of an average single man from this ordinary compound who had never been loved was certainly something to be regretted.

Just a few days later,Pan moved out abruptly.

People were caught by yet another surprise while sorting out the artist’s personal belongings.Though the room was dusty,the vase looked as if it had been cleansed not long ago.Inside the shiny blue vase was a bouquet of live white chrysanthemums.

When the old bamboo bookshelf was moved away,all those present were stunned,their eyes wide open.What they saw was a door in the wall! An exquisite,purplish red door with a brass doorknob on.

The neighbors’ hearts sank,and their voices grew loud.Their respect,compassion and weeping for the single man were instantly replaced by an indescribable and illicit resentment.

When someone stretched a hand and tried to open the door,however,the person yelled with shock.The doorknob wasn’t real,neither were the door or doorframe.It was a door painted on the wall!