第九章 很重的人Chapter Nine · A Heavy Person
他們在回收塔等她。
夷光踩上那座秤的時候，數字跳出來，這一次，連調度員都往後退了一步。她太重了。重到秤幾乎發不出聲音。
「妳亮了太多燈。」調度員說。他身後站著幾個拿著儀器的人。「第七區昨晚亮了十一格。沒有人交記憶，燈卻亮了。妳知道這代表什麼嗎？這代表城要亂了。人一旦發現，記得比交出去更值得，就沒有人要交了。沒有人交，城就 ——」
「城就會發現，它根本不需要那些記憶。」夷光把話接完，「那顆星早就在死了，跟我們交不交，一點關係都沒有。你們收走我們的記憶，不是為了餵星。是為了讓我們輕。輕的人不會記得，不會生氣，不會聚在一起。輕的人，最好管。」
調度員沒有反駁。
他只是很輕、很累地看著她。夷光忽然發現，他是她見過最輕的人。輕到幾乎透明，輕到她可以從他的眼睛裡，看到後面那道牆。
「妳太重了。」他說，「夷光，重，是會痛的。妳記得越多，妳就越痛。妳母親、周伯、外面那些人 —— 妳全都扛著。讓我幫妳。踩上去，交出去，妳會輕，妳會不痛。妳會像我一樣，什麼都不必記得。」
這是她母親，在很久以前問過她的那個問題，換了一個人的嘴，又問了一次。
記得，但是痛。
忘了，但是不曾擁有過。
「你選了忘。」夷光看著那個快要透明的人，忽然不恨他了，只覺得很難過，「所以你現在，什麼都沒有。」
她沒有踩上去。
那幾個人帶著儀器圍上來，把她按住，把冰冷的儀器貼上她的太陽穴。調度員按下確認鍵。
什麼都沒有發生。
他又按了一次。儀器發不出完成的聲音，因為它找不到東西可以收 —— 夷光腦袋裡那段停電的夜、那首沒有名字的歌，此刻不只在她一個人的腦袋裡。它在第三區底層那群人的腦袋裡，在母親越來越小的房間裡，在每一個今晚，會聽見它的人的腦袋裡。
你收不走一段，很多人一起記得的東西。
夷光在他們手裡，輕輕地，開始唱。
They were waiting for her at the Reclamation Tower.
When Yiguang stepped onto the scale, the number leapt out, and this time even the dispatcher took a step back. She was too heavy. So heavy the scale could barely make a sound.
"You've lit too many lights," the dispatcher said. Behind him stood several people holding instruments. "District Seven lit eleven squares last night. No one surrendered a memory, yet the lights came on. Do you understand what that means? It means the city is about to fall into chaos. Once people discover that remembering is worth more than giving it up, no one will surrender anything anymore. And if no one surrenders, then the city —"
"Then the city will discover it never needed those memories at all," Yiguang finished for him. "That star started dying long ago. Whether or not we surrender anything makes no difference to it. You take our memories not to feed the star. You take them to keep us light. A light person doesn't remember, doesn't grow angry, doesn't gather with others. A light person is easiest to govern."
The dispatcher did not argue.
He only looked at her, very lightly, very wearily. All at once Yiguang realized he was the lightest person she had ever seen. Light enough to be nearly transparent — so light that she could see, through his eyes, the wall behind him.
"You're too heavy," he said. "Yiguang, weight hurts. The more you remember, the more it hurts. Your mother, Old Zhou, the people outside — you carry all of them. Let me help you. Step on, surrender it, and you'll be light, you won't ache. You'll be like me. You won't have to remember anything at all."
It was the same question her mother had asked her, long ago, now asked again through another mouth.
Remember, but ache.
Forget, but as though you had never possessed it at all.
"You chose to forget," Yiguang said, looking at the man who was almost transparent, and suddenly she no longer hated him; she only felt a great sorrow. "And so now you have nothing."
She did not step onto the scale.
The ones with the instruments closed in around her, pinned her down, pressed the cold devices to her temples. The dispatcher pushed the confirmation key.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again. The instrument could not sound its note of completion, because it could find nothing to take — the blackout night inside Yiguang's head, the song without a name, was no longer in her head alone. It was in the heads of those people in the lowest level of District Three, in her mother's ever-shrinking room, in the head of every person who, tonight, would hear it.
You cannot take away something that many people remember together.
There, in their hands, Yiguang softly began to sing.