Guangzhou. That year when phones started ringing everywhere.
Three hundred million mobile phones. That's what they said on the news.
On the site, during breaks, the Chinese workers pulled out small screens. Their thumbs moved fast. Like sewing.
You bought one. Secondhand. Nokia. The plastic was scratched. A thin line ran through the screen.
The seller said: "This one can go on the internet."
You didn't know what that meant. But you bought it anyway.
The first week, no one called.
The phone sat in your pocket. Heavy. Warm from your body. Sometimes you took it out just to look at the little light.
Then someone showed you SMS. Cheaper than calling. You learned to type Chinese characters with your thumbs. Slow. One letter at a time. The predictive text guessed wrong most of the time.
But when you sent your first message — to a countryman across the city — and he replied — a thin wire connected.
Mobile QQ came later. A small green icon. You chose a name: Qiang Zai. Little Qiang. It made you smile.
The internet cafe. You went at night. After the site.
The air was thick with smoke and instant noodles. Rows of screens. Blue light on young faces. Beside you, a guy was playing Legend of Mir — clicking, shouting, his character killing something on screen. Two rows behind, someone was watching Stephen Chow. The laughter came in waves.
You paid for an hour. The keyboard was sticky. The mouse had no right click.
You opened a browser. Typed: Guangzhou construction forum.
The forum was blue and white. Ugly. But full of words. People looking for workers. People selling materials. People complaining.
You turned to the countryman beside you. Xiao Ruan. The one who could type. He had learned Chinese programming in Vietnam — a useless skill there, but here, it became a weapon.
"Help me write a post."
He looked at the screen. "What do you want to say?"
"Vietnamese construction team. Hardworking. Fair price."
He typed. Fast. No hesitation. Then he added something you didn't say: "Quality guaranteed."
He shrugged. "Everyone writes that."
The post went up at 11:47 PM. The clock on the screen was small and red.
Nothing happened.
You refreshed. No replies. Zero views.
Refreshed again.
Xiao Ruan said: "It takes time."
You didn't have time. But you waited.
The hour ran out. The screen went black.
The next day. On the scaffold. The phone buzzed.
A number you didn't know.
You stared. Then pressed answer.
A voice. Cantonese with something else underneath. "You the Vietnamese team?"
"Yes."
"Can you do a shop renovation? Twenty square meters. Fast."
Your heart beat faster. "Yes."
"Send me a quote. I'll text you the address."
The line went dead.
You went to see the shop the next day. A small noodle shop. The owner wanted new tiles, new counter, new lights.
You measured. Calculated. Gave him a number.
He looked at the number. Looked at you. "Too high."
"Good materials. Good work."
He shook his head. "I can find cheaper."
He didn't call back.
That night. Back at the internet cafe. Same smoke. Same sticky keyboard.
You opened the forum. Your post had twelve views. No replies. But a private message: "I saw your post. Do you do waterproofing?"
You wrote back: "Yes."
He wrote back: "Send me your number."
You did.
He never called.
Xiao Ruan said: "This happens. Most people just ask. They don't buy."
You said: "But someone will."
You stayed until 2 AM. Beside you, the Legend of Mir guy had leveled up — his shouting got louder. A Stephen Chow movie ended. Someone started playing Faye Wong. Her voice floated through the smoke.
You opened QQ. Qiang Zai was online. No friends. No messages.
You stared at your own name. Little Qiang. Sitting in an internet cafe in Guangzhou. With a secondhand Nokia and a fake permit.
You thought: this is what connection feels like. Not the calls. The waiting.
The next morning. On the site. The phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
"Hello. I saw your post. Can you do a bathroom renovation?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
You told him.
He said: "Okay. Come see it on Saturday."
Saturday came. You went.
The bathroom was small. The tiles were old. The pipes were leaking.
You measured. Calculated. Gave him a number.
He looked at the number. Looked at the bathroom. Looked at you.
"Can you start next week?"
Your heart stopped for a second. "Yes."
"Okay. I'll buy the materials. You just do the labor."
You shook hands.
The bathroom took three days. You did it alone. The tiles. The pipes. The waterproofing.
When you finished, the owner walked in. Looked around. Nodded. "Good."
He paid you. Cash. In an envelope.
You walked out. The sun was setting. The streets were orange.
The owner called after you: "Hey. You know Taobao? My nephew sells light fixtures there. Makes more money than me. Without touching a single tile."
You didn't know Taobao.
But you wrote down the word. On your hand. Next to the fading address.
That night. You opened the internet cafe browser. Typed: Taobao.
The screen loaded something you didn't understand. A marketplace. A thousand shops. Things you never knew you could buy.
You stared at the screen for a long time.
Beside you, someone was still playing Legend of Mir. His character kept killing. The same loop. The same monsters.
You closed the browser. But you didn't forget the word.
That year. The one with the phones and the internet cafes and the green QQ icon.
You learned something. Not about building.
About the space between asking and answering. The silence before the buzz.
And a word you couldn't pronounce yet but kept in your pocket. Next to the Nokia.
Taobao.
End of Chapter 26