As the sky darkened, the Berlin evening of late autumn turned pitch black, with only a glimmer of sunlight lingering on the horizon. Narcissus gazed out through the glass window, where the fading light outlined straight silver lines along the dark edges. Ravens flew by, and he saw each note leaping on the staff of a musical score. As the crows cawed overhead, the notes in his mind became polyphonic. Sometimes the ravens flew side by side, occasionally one ahead or behind, their undulating motion resembling a melody weaving between left and right hands. Unconsciously, he followed these birds to the banks of the Sprée River, crossing an unnamed wooden bridge. The bridge's railing was in disrepair, with only incomplete wooden posts lining its edge. The river water occasionally splashed against these pillars, spraying water onto the surface of the bridge.
Narcissus stepped across the current, his military boots making a clattering sound on the wooden planks, feeling as though someone were tapping on his heart. In the distance, the rotating searchlights of a watchtower swayed, shimmering brightly against the undulating waves of the river, the light glimmering and dimming in the murmuring water. Narcissus showed no sign of evasion.
It seems that during the early days of the Berlin Wall's construction, both the stationed guards and passing pedestrians appeared indifferent. Therefore, I'm not sure whether Narcissus didn't evade out of courage or simply because, like those pedestrians, he didn't fear the wall. However, Narcissus had learned lessons from the past and once even spent an entire day hesitating to enter a reed bed. He truly is an eccentric person. What do you think, Yanfeng?
He fumbled in the darkness, stepping into uneven depressions, falling into the reeds with a rustling sound. Ravens flapped their wings, masking the noise of his fall. He looked around, and by the base of the wall, there was a five-inch hole. The light from a nearby streetlamp shone through the hole, dazzling his eyes. After a minute, a dark figure blocked the glaring light.
"Narcissus?" a voice came from the other side of the wall. This voice was different from what Narcissus remembered, and at first, he hesitated to respond.
"Narcissus? It's Geraldmon," the voice continued, filled with anticipation. This faint voice resonated continuously on the 30-centimeter-thick stone wall, each echo creating a resonance in Narcissus's heart.
"I'm here, in the reeds," Narcissus responded, the booming voice awakening him from his isolated slumber. When he spoke these words, he didn't consider the potential risks.
"Fantastic, old friend. You're here, you're here," the voice from the other side of the wall trembled slightly.
Silence.
"Are you alright? How is your brother? Ah, it's been so long. I can't believe you're really here," the voice from the other side continued. "Alyosha told me Aunt Olga and Uncle Franz passed away last year. I was planning to come to Berlin last year to see you... never thought, now that the wall is up."
"I'm fine. We're both doing well," Narcissus replied with a smile. "I heard you've become famous. And your wife, I haven't met her yet. How are you both?"
"Leoni, she didn't make it through. Ah, those are all in the past now. I'm still at the music society, just not composing as much," the voice from beyond the wall turned somber.
"Why?" Narcissus suddenly raised his voice.
"Life here is too dull, everyone cares about the stock market, no one cares about music," the voice from the wall grew dimmer.
"I thought freedom was the cradle of creativity," Narcissus sat up, leaning against the wall, occasionally glancing towards the watchtowers on both sides.
"It's not what you think," the voice chuckled softly, then continued, "And of course, another reason is without your encouragement, I can't come up with anything new."
Yanfeng, reading up to this point, I also want to ask you: aside from what Freud called the libido, where does the source of creativity come from? If freedom isn't the cradle of creation, then are external repression and life's hardships the nutrients of creation? I don't understand why they always use tragedy to write philosophical truths about life, as if truth only emerges from tragedy.
Narcissus thought his friend had gradually drifted away, and the scenes of childhood seemed like a distant dream. Yet these ghosts of the past always hovered above him, as unpredictable ravens pressed through the grey clouds, stirring up echoes of melodies in his ears.
"Fantastic, I've composed many new movements," the walls of the monastery flashed in Narcissus's mind, and the cement stone wall before him seemed oddly familiar.
"I've been waiting for you here every last Sunday night of the month at 8 o'clock. Bring me your movements," the voice from the other side of the wall exclaimed joyfully.
"I haven't written them down. The movements are all in my mind; I can only speak them to you," Narcissus looked through the hole, trying to see the owner of the voice across.
It was handsome face, just like in childhood memories, and Geraldmon still had that lively look. The white hair at his temples couldn't hide, but it didn't diminish his innocence. As their eyes met in silence, words choked up. Such a gaze couldn't linger; one more second, and ten years of history would rush down like a bursting dam.
After experiencing so much, there were no words to say. Narcissus suddenly sat upright and unconsciously hummed a passage of music. Geraldmon hurried out without paper and pen. He silently recorded every note in his mind.
"Who's over there!" came a shout from afar.
Oh no, Narcissus didn't hesitate. He took a quick step onto the wooden bridge. The guard, Emil, caught up and grabbed the collar of Narcissus's jacket, pulling him down. Narcissus swiftly turned over, and they both fell into the river.
The October river water was bone-chilling cold. Narcissus and Emil floated along the Spree River to the northernmost part of the city, where the edge of the city's north foothills was dotted with marshes, some of which had begun to freeze over in the shallow grass. They climbed out of the icy water onto the riverbank, gasping for breath, as if intentionally waiting for the other to speak first.
"What was that tune you were humming just now?" Narcissus didn't expect Emil to ask this.
"It's an untitled piece, composed by me." If the guard hadn't fired initially, he never would have fired again. Narcissus thought this and began to answer Emil's question seriously.
"Are you a musician?"
"Yes."
The title of musician felt unfamiliar to Narcissus. He was often referred to as a "committee member" or "inspector," and even the word "music" itself was rarely heard. That evening, he walked back to the unit with Emil, not talking much along the way. However, Narcissus was certain that in the future, every meeting with Geraldmon would inevitably involve Emil's assistance.
Narcissus met with Geraldmon as scheduled month after month, from deep autumn to severe winter, warm spring, and into midsummer when the reeds blossomed. Their compositions flowed with the seasons, drifting on the river, from the mountains of Rusatia, through the Eibe River, into the North Sea. Narcissus's desk remained as empty as ever, while piles of documents cluttered Geraldmon's desk. Sometimes, Emil would hide among the reeds and listen from the rocky edges. Over the year, Narcissus's happiness gradually showed on his face. He didn't tell anyone about this, including Alyosha, but his younger brother Narcissus noticed something different.
One Sunday evening at the end of the month, Narcissus's younger brother, Naxisos, visited him. Narcissus didn't return to the dorm until late at night. As he unlocked the door, he was still humming the tune he had sung earlier. He opened the door, turned on the light, and saw Naxisos sitting in the middle of the living room, silent. Initially hesitant to reveal everything, Narcissus eventually recounted everything under Naxisos' persistent questioning, including the encounter with the guard Emil. Naxisos didn't say much in response; he simply warned Narcissus to be careful and added, "Because you must cherish it." With the protection of his vice president brother and Emil's cover, Narcissus became even more reckless. Thanks to these compositions, Geraldmon regained fame on the west bank, and no one spoke of him as "past his prime" anymore.
Yan Feng, several years ago when I first visited the East District gallery, there were 138 roses painted on the wall, each rose commemorating a departed soul. At that time, I thought those people didn't need to die. Now I have come to terms with this regret. If the future is uncertain, then dying within the desires of this moment is also worthwhile. Walls sometimes rise, and sometimes fall. Life and death have their own destinies, just like love.
If it weren't for Emil, Narcissus wouldn't have died. Although Emil didn't shoot and kill Narcissus, his presence secured a reprieve for Narcissus. On that day when the reeds were still in bloom, Emil's superior was patrolling in the southern outskirts when he discovered Emil hidden in the reeds. Emil's anxious gaze kept darting towards Narcissus's direction. This man used to be a top hunter in the Siberian forest. Upon noticing unusual movements among the distant reeds, he didn't hesitate for a moment before pulling the trigger. He didn't even clearly see Narcissus's face. If he had known that Narcissus was the vice president of the inspection committee's brother, would things have turned out differently?
On the other side of the wall, Geraldmon heard the gunshot and ran.
The pristine white reeds were stained red. Beneath Berlin's densely overcast sky, a hint of hidden blood permeated the air.
Yan Feng, several years ago when I first visited the East District gallery, there were 138 roses painted on the wall, each rose commemorating a departed soul. At that time, I thought those people didn't need to die. Now I have come to terms with this regret. If the future is uncertain, then dying within the desires of this moment is also worthwhile. Walls sometimes rise, and sometimes fall. Life and death have their own destinies, just like love.
In 1989, the Berlin Wall opened, and in 1990, it was dismantled. Naxisos moved to the western outskirts of Berlin. His children had grown up and left home, and Kachusha had been in poor health, leaving Naxisos alone to care for her. Fortunately, the nurse he hired was quite capable. This gave him time to immerse himself in studying musical scores, eager to reclaim the lost years. To support this collecting hobby, he purchased many manuscripts from antique shops throughout West Berlin. His savings from the time of East Germany were insufficient for this pursuit. He secretly hoarded money, taking advantage of his position at work to create a deeper cellar within the building's basement. If anyone discovered the stash, it would appear the unit had confiscated the coins.
He never mentioned this to anyone, including Narcissus and Kachusha. By chance, while researching the structure and chord progressions of Geraldmon's compositions, he discovered Narcissus's secret. He suddenly remembered what Narcissus had said before his death—could these works actually be written by Narcissus himself?
In 1991, Geraldmon turned 70. If all went as expected, he would receive a lifetime achievement award by the end of the year. Naxisos heard about this and could no longer bear it as he meticulously studied every section of his brother's work, perusing each part of the concertos, every note played by each instrument. He didn't know whom to confide in—about his brother's death, the wasted years, the unjust times, and the secrets deeply hidden within the scores. Such great works, yet they bore the Schmidt name (Geraldmon's surname).
At 71, time was running out for Naxisos. He had to fulfill his long-cherished wish more quickly.
When he found Geraldmon, he was smoking a cigar, sitting on a wicker chair against the courtyard wall. The surface of the chair gleamed with a polished lacquer under the rare Berlin sunlight, an import from India. Geraldmon spotted Naxisos and motioned for him to sit on another wicker chair nearby. Naxisos, leaning on his cane, stood before Geraldmon, occasionally gesturing with the cane towards him or tapping Geraldmon's trouser leg with it. They spoke passionately and frankly. Two elderly men confronting each other in public was a somewhat absurd sight. Geraldmon's butler intervened, alternating between guiding Naxisos and supporting Geraldmon. Geraldmon waved the butler away.
"You're just like that fellow from the other day. Are you Easterners all so destitute? Extorting money without a care for whom you target," Geraldmon remarked while seated, taking a puff of his cigar and blowing smoke towards Naxisos, who coughed uncontrollably.
"You have no evidence at all," Geraldmon said, turning his head and setting the cigar on the edge of the ashtray, its smoke rising parallel to the tabletop, the lit end still burning.
"Who are you talking about? I have evidence," Naxisos chuckled.
"What was that man's name?" Geraldmon asked his butler, then turned back to Naxisos, glaring. "Yes, I don't remember his name, but I remember that he killed Narcissus."
"Sir, that man's name is Emil," the butler replied, bowing slightly without looking at Naxisos.
"That's impossible. My brother accidentally fell into the river and died," Naxisos exclaimed. "Emil was his friend; he couldn't have killed him."
"Is that so? Who told you that? You Easterners are so easily deceived," Geraldmon continued. "Look at this."
Geraldmon held up a pocket watch with a deep dent on three-quarters of its outer casing. He opened the watch to reveal a family photo of Narcissus inside.
"I wanted to give this to you, Narsissus, but I also miss your brother dearly. Before Emil handed me this pocket watch, I didn't believe he was there on the other side of the wall that day. But now I must tell you, on that day, your brother came to see me, so... I feel deeply responsible for this. But if you would rather betray God and spread enormous lies just for the sake of gaining more wealth in this corrupt world, how are you any different from Satan?"
"God is long dead!!!" Naxisos exclaimed as he snatched the pocket watch. His cane nearly slipped, and he almost fell along with it. He opened and closed the pocket watch, running his fingers over the distorted gold filigree edges. Tears welled up in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but none fell. "You incompetent fool, the evidence is in the musical scores, don't you realize?"
Geraldmon fell silent, appearing deep in thought, for a long while.