ARCHIVE 44
THE ART OF SELF-SECRECY

ACOUSTIC METADATA

​

• TIMESTAMP: Spring, 1986

• LOCATION: Zhengyangmen Restaurant / Editorial Night Shift

• PRIMARY SUBJECT: Marriage / Birth of Daughter (The Heavenly Sound)

• ACOUSTIC PROFILE: Vinegar-scented nagging, Teresa Teng melodies, Silence of stone

Following my father’s commands, I went on a blind date. She was fair-skinned and quiet—an electronic publishing engineer. Avant-garde, yet dull. Months later, we married.

Before the end of the wedding feast, my father leaned in: “I’ve done secrecy work my whole life. What is secrecy? First and foremost, it is not keeping others' secrets, but secreting yourself. Do not attract attention.” His tone was as flat as a lake without a ripple.

I smiled. “Then why did you let me become a journalist?”

Domestic life was typical, except in the deep of night, when her voice would take on the sharp scent of aged vinegar. Those frequencies became a switch that killed all joy. Then, my daughter was born—bringing the only true Heavenly Sound. Her tiny body emitted the signals of spring, the clarion call of all things growing.

To the world, we were a happy family. I followed my father’s wishes: I was a master of self-secrecy. I was mediocre.

Sister Rong transferred me to the night shift. No more interviews. No more agony over truth and lies. While my colleagues hammered out the "drumbeats of the era," I played deaf and dumb. I spent my time playing Go, or cradling a cheap six-string guitar, humming Teresa Teng: “The moon represents my heart.”

Relaxation.