Death Fugue

Part One

1

Those who have suffered the mental strain of life’s vicissitudes often end up by becoming withdrawn. Their earlier zeal has died; their beliefs wander off like stray dogs. They allow the heart to grow barren, and the mind to be overrun with weeds. They experience a sort of mental arthritis, like a dull ache on a cloudy day. There is no remedy. They hurt. They endure. They distract themselves in various ways, whether by making money, or by emigrating, or by womanising.

Yuan Mengliu fell into the last group.

He was born in the 60s, though the specific year is not known. You might say he was an unidentified person. As for the circumstances surrounding his parentage, there are many versions of the story. In the more hair-raising one, his father was an orphan who later became a soldier. One night when he was on an assignment somewhere, he had a one-night stand, sowing his seed in the virgin soil of a girl who was later hidden away in a remote snowy mountain range. She gave birth to Mengliu, then went on her merry way back to the place from where she had come. Or perhaps she had died in childbirth.

What is certain is that Yuan Mengliu’s early life was like a river, with its source hidden high in the snow-capped mountains, meandering through the land of Dayang, flowing through countless provinces and cities until it finally ended up in Beiping. There his life took root and branched out into many tributaries, becoming the protagonist of many tales.

Lanky and pale, Yuan Mengliu resembled a Coca-Cola bottle in shape. His short, soft hair was gelled expertly in place, and his sideburns were meticulously trimmed. His complexion was smooth, without blemish. His scrubs were always bright white, flawless as new fallen snow, and the clothes he wore underneath them bright and fresh. When he performed surgery, he usually wore rimless glasses. It was his habit to be slow to speak. He didn’t have a temper. He never made trouble, and he had no bad habits. The only drawback to his character was that he liked to play with women. Of course, he did not count this as a fault himself. He liked to say, ‘If men are afraid to talk about their love of women, how can the state talk about hope for the future?’ One might guess that Mengliu had read Epicurus, who wrote that if a man were to give up the enjoyment of sex, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what was meant by ‘the good life’.

As a member of the silent majority, Mengliu was getting along just fine. Humanity moved along in a steady stream of disease, and Mengliu was born with gifted hands, so his use of the knife to carve out some advantage for himself was not surprising. It was whispered that he had been a poet, but the topic was taboo with him. He never mentioned poetry or acknowledged that he had once been a member of the literary group called ‘The Three Musketeers’. His personal record did not list him as a poet. It was as clean as his scalpel, free from even the slightest fleck of blood.

Mengliu had once done something else, but he did not consider it a bad thing to have done. In order to secure a girl’s favour, he had made use of the opportunity provided by surgery to kill her lover.

Of course, that wasn’t quite the whole story.

It happened in the years following the Tower Incident. At that time, Yuan Mengliu wasn’t quite himself, and wandered around like a lost puppy with his tail disappearing between his legs. Despite his bright new appearance, he secretly sniffed about the alleys for the scent of history. He looked forward to seeing the striptease act in which history’s body would finally be exposed. His expectation in this matter was as strong as his anticipation of the first time with a new woman. He was eager to know what it would be like to bed her — her voice, her face, the excitement and tremors she would send through his own mind and body. He was convinced that, once stripped of clothing, all women would go back to their true state. The body could not lie.

He began very early on to take care of his health, monitoring his calorie intake with scientific precision. Every day he pounded a few small garlic cloves, then allowed the amino acids, enzymes, vitamins and fibre to flow with the crude proteins in his bloodstream. As a healthy person, Mengliu did not suffer from haemorrhoids. He had no beliefs, no ulcers, no ideals, no gingivitis, and while his teeth may not have been white, they were clean, with never a hint of grain between them. He wasn’t talkative, and he always drank enough water to keep his lips full and moist. He ate garlic, but he also had his own remedy to eliminate halitosis. His secret recipe eventually became the gospel his patients lived by in their attempts to avoid their own bad breath.

Yuan Mengliu could also play the chuixun, an egg-shaped instrument made of clay. Since childhood, the little kazoo had never left his side. Self-taught, he played a variety of tunes on it. In later years, he could sustain a noble, elegant melody, a sentimental tune to make girls’ hearts tremble and heighten their maternal instinct. This became his fixed routine in foreplay with them.

Naturally, to feminine eyes, he was clean and charming. On the map, the country of Dayang is shaped like a paramecium, or like the sole of a right shoe. Its capital Beiping is a city surrounded by a wall, which offers it both protection from external harm and the means to excrete its waste, just like the paramecium’s wall. Beiping’s climate is poor, its land arid. During the annual autumn storms, the city is bombarded by sand. Everywhere you look, it’s a crumpled, disgraceful mess. The winters are extremely cold, the summers hot, and the air is always filled with an odd bready smell.

Beiping’s main road is like a satiated python lying flat on the ground, the five-hundred-thousand-square-metre Round Square its protruding abdomen. This is the heart of the city, and one of Dayang’s main tourist attractions. Some years after the Tower Incident, Round Square became home to the statue of a peace monument, a naked goddess with eyes as clear as diamonds, holding a torch in her outstretched hand. A red laser beam broke the night’s black canopy, broadcasting propaganda slogans, weather forecasts, and news of current events. Occasionally a poem might even appear there, giving instant fame to the poet who penned the verse.

Sadly, there was no beauty in the language of Beiping, and its writing was ugly. For instance, the words ‘Long Live Democracy’ were inscribed ‘WlOrj ldlNOr!’ The words looked like tadpoles, and the pronunciation was equally awkward, as if you had a mouthful of soup rolling about your tongue that was so hot it caused your jaw to cramp. You had to make full use of your facial muscles to speak the language. Even your nostrils needed to be flexible in order to achieve the heavy nasal quality. It made you sound like an asthmatic she-donkey.

Yuan Mengliu liked calligraphy, and he collected books to use for practice. He always practised on the eve of a major operation. He liked to write calligraphy in order to maintain a cool disposition — heart, eyes and hand always in perfect sync. His ten fingers were as alert as a watch dog. His senses of hearing and smell, along with everything else about him, responded quickly and deftly, allowing him to cut open a belly, and remove a tumour or an appendix with skilled strokes. He knew exactly where to start and just what to do next. Each finger applied just the right pressure. He was accurate, and rarely made a mistake.

‘The scalpel is more effective than drugs. Not many medicines are known to humans and few doctors really comprehend their uses, just as the truth only lies in the hands of a few,’ Mengliu said to the interns. They were often confused.

At that time, many men in their thirties and forties remained unmarried. Mengliu was clearly aware that, in his case, the problem lay with himself. When he encountered a girl who was not too boring, had both brains and breasts, with a tiny waist and rounded hips, smooth legs, slender arms, agreeable both in and out of bed, in public and in private…he just couldn’t do what was required to bring it all to fruition. It was not that he was committed to a life of solitude. The problem lay simply in a thought.

He believed that Qizi was still alive.

2

One summer, when Mengliu was in his mid-forties, temperatures reached a high of fifty degrees Celsius. The sun scorched the pale-skinned, and the streets were covered with dead insects looking like popped corn.

The streets of Beiping were wide and mighty, the river similarly open and indifferent. Anyone standing in the centre might feel a slight space-time disorientation. Round Square was like a living room kept squeaky clean under its meticulous master’s care. The flat ground had a yellowish lustre, created by the trampling of feet. Low-rise buildings stood guard at a distance around the square, surrounding it like a reef.

In those days, setting out from the square and walking east on Beiping Street, when you came to the museum on the left, there was Liuli Street, one of the more authentic old lanes. Both sides were lined with vintage stores full of aged items, windows filled with blue and white porcelain, busts, old swords, rusty daggers, bronze ware…In an enchanting moment, you could feel the ghosts and spirits floating in the streets, whispering their secrets. Sometimes you might come across someone wearing an aged, jaded expression mingled with the arrogance of youth, and looking rather lost. Their bodies were covered with a certain demonic light that did not invite close contact.

Liuli Street was originally the site of a famous old Catholic church, which had been destroyed during the Tower Incident. It was said that one of the faithful had hanged himself inside. The legend was that he had suffered from deep depression. Because it had not been set aside for protection as a heritage building, the church was soon uprooted and demolished. A tall commercial building was constructed on the site of the church, and the whole area converted into a pedestrian mall. In these modern times, the glory of the old street can only be seen in the archives.

Walking to the end of Liuli Street, you enter an area surrounded by relief sculptures fashioned in a mythic style. Beyond a stand of old trees, an imposing stone plaque displays an inscription reading ‘National Youth Administration for Elite Wisdom’ in the tadpole-shaped squiggles of the Beiping language. The administration building’s gate, constructed of Spanish granite in a classical style, stands next to two old pines that have been stripped bare by the scampering squirrels. The Spanish-style building is covered with grey roof tiles that extend out over long arcades. It is full of an air of mystery and a sense of history. The nature walks and the variety of entertainment facilities make the area feel like a resort. More widely known than the administration building is the attached amphitheatre surrounded by a wall decorated with frescoes on religious themes. There is a corridor on either side of the wall around the amphitheatre, extending to the grass. People call it the double-tracked wall. Originally the birthplace of an important school of thought, it has since become commercialised, filled with so many posters advertising random products that the wall has virtually disappeared. This seems to suggest that people no longer feel the need for such places, that all sorts of ideas and philosophies have simply become part of the daily lives of today’s citizens.

The Wisdom Bureau, as the National Youth Administration for Elite Wisdom was popularly known before the Tower Incident, had over 50,000 employees, arranged in departments with many branches and sub-branches. The nation’s intelligentsia numbered over 10,000, with a large number of elite members. The Bureau was extensive, with sub-departments for literature, physics, philosophy, music, medicine, and dozens of other professional branches. This intellectual institution might look idle from the outside, but the atmosphere inside resembled that of a battlefield.

At that time Mengliu, having just been assigned to the Literature Department, rented an old house with a few other people his age. The landlord, a skinny old man who wore a skullcap year-round, was fond of young people. He respected learning, and as long as you were a member of the Wisdom Bureau, he would offer cheap rental. In the volatile environment of the time, when resources were scarce, people held high expectations for the young elites. At the end of the day, everyone was willing to take care of these young people and to protect them.

The house was very old with green walls and timber latticed windows. Quiet and low-key, it had once served as quarters for government dignitaries. It offered the advantages of being clean, quiet, and conveniently located. Mengliu’s flat, situated on the west side of the building, was playfully dubbed the West Wing. With an area of about twenty square metres, it was not very spacious. It was just large enough for eating, sleeping, and studying in, with a small space for a sitting area. Of course, Mengliu had no need for the latter.

The potted rose bush on the windowsill was part of the original furnishings. It had never bloomed. At one time during the Tower Incident, when it was especially droopy, one of his female visitors provoked it into a show of life. It budded and eventually dropped, and only bloomed a few times after that.

The acacia tree in the yard was centuries old and covered with a dark, rough bark. Its branches climbed over the grey tiled roof. In summer its leaves turned yellow, and produced a lot of worms. They dangled there, bodies a bright transparent green, like pieces of amber or smooth jade. They climbed along the fine silk they spat out of themselves, swaying in the wind. A black train of faeces ran along the ground, releasing a pungent odour. Having travelled through the digestive system of the worms, the faeces smelled fresh and thick. Their fragrance was mesmerising.

Mengliu did not like to shave, and he often sat writing poetry all night long with his hair dishevelled. He was at an age when the mere sight of a girl aroused him. He banded together with two other vibrant young poets, Hei Chun and Bai Qiu, whose names meant ‘Black Spring’ and ‘White Autumn’, and the trio became known as ‘The Three Musketeers’.

When he had nothing else to do, Mengliu sat under the acacia tree playing the chuixun.

One day Mengliu awoke feeling that there was something strange in the air. The central heating seemed to have gone off. It was surprisingly cold. He glanced out of the window, and saw birds in the acacia tree, all of them tight-lipped and looking about vigilantly.

With a yelp, he got out of bed and dressed, listening to the news coming from the radio next door.

‘…Reports have come in this morning of excitement around Round Square, where a tower made of excrement was found in the early hours, drawing massive crowds to see the spectacle… For now, it has not been determined whether the excrement came from an earthly creature. The police rushed to the scene to protect the tower and maintain order…Experts are on their way to Round Square…If the small group of hostile elements in the capital take this opportunity to make trouble, they will be detained and severely punished!’

The announcer’s words were clipped, as if he had a mouth full of bullets. His tone was threatening, especially when he got to the phrase ‘they will be detained and severely punished!’ It was like he had fired into the air, spitting all the bullets out. There was a burst of static, followed by the sound of explosions coming over the radio.

Mengliu had a bad feeling. He washed hastily, using his hand to wipe the traces of water from his moustache, and hurried out the door.

The wind outside was biting cold. He had forgotten his scarf. All he could do was wrap his arms tightly about himself, put his head down and walk into the wind in the direction of the Wisdom Bureau.

The leaden sky watched indifferently, like a solitary pair of eyes. A crow voiced an assassin’s cry as it shot out of a bush and into the sky. The chill offered the promise of snow.

He found that every place he passed through was in a state of upheaval. People were talking about the strange pile of faeces. Their interest had already escalated to panic level. Heated comments had begun to appear on the double-tracked wall, criticising the government’s incompetence, saying its response to the excrement situation had been too slow and that it had taken too long to reach a conclusion in its discussions concerning the tower. It would be more efficient to invite the experts to eat the pile of shit.

When Mengliu saw that, he felt like laughing. Everyone was making a big fuss over nothing. It was just a pile of shit. Surely it did not portend the descent of some strange beast, intent on gobbling up Beiping. What was the fuss all about? Of course, he knew that people had been looking for a reason to vent their anger. For the past few years, everything had been in a mess. Times were hard, all over the country the rich were buying up villas while the poor could barely keep clothes on their backs. Pests had been gnawing at the fabric of society, and there were holes everywhere.

Mengliu was a bit bored now. He thought he might go to the Green Flower and grab a drink and a bite to eat. That should prove to be more interesting.

Despite his longing for a little warm Chinese wine and some fried peanuts, he found himself mysteriously wandering into Round Square instead.

The crowd in the square was beyond imagining. Some had lingered there for a long time, and in front of the newcomers their expressions filled with the pride of those in the know.

Mengliu, listening to them talking about the faeces, got a general impression of it — that it was a dark brown lump smelling of buckwheat, soft in texture, and standing nine stories high. Its bottom layer was fifty metres in diameter. Its structure was like that of a layered cake, narrowing to a relatively artistic spire at the top.

Mengliu found that the masses that had gathered in the square could be divided into three factions. The first had no sense of crisis, their interest lay in the question of what sort of sphincter would have been capable of forming such a masterpiece. The second was not interested in taking sides, and adopted a more neutral position as they waited to hear what those with some scatological expertise might conclude about the matter. The third group was for reform, having endured their meaningless lives for long enough. Anchorless, they held nothing dear. Their only hope was to catch a little fish out of the troubled waters through which they waded.

In a state of disbelief over the size of Beiping’s population, Mengliu plunged right into the fray and became just another sheep in the mob. The rams, goats, ewes and lambs crowded together. They rubbed and brushed against one another, bleating the gossip from one mouth to the next. The agitation encompassed everyone — office workers and menial labourers, tourists and loiterers. They wore their expressions like masks, firmly buckled in place. Numb, expectant, worried, nervous, excited or eager, they wiggled their bloated bodies as their noses turned red and white smoke emerged from their mouths in the cold air. In times of excitement, even hands that are normally caged inside billowing sleeves will be let loose to the air. The people, huddled together as if waiting to witness some astronomical wonder, warmed the chilly streets.

Mengliu could not squeeze his way into the heavily guarded area, where armed police were surrounded by a group of high school students, who in turn were surrounded by a group of kindergarten children. They had formed a three-layered human wall with their uniformed bodies. Water had been sprayed on the ground and, having frozen over, it now let off a luminescent glow. The air was heavy with fog and the sun seemed to be wrapped in a cocoon, emitting only a little grey-white light.

Mengliu, pushing his way through the crowd, broke out in a sweat. Before he was able to get a good look at the famous tower of shit, he had to turn back. When he got home, he was feverish, and he felt ill.

That evening, the television news went to great lengths reporting the incident, clearly advancing the theory that the tower was made of gorilla excrement, while at the same time criticising rumours of aliens and biological monsters. Together with sound bites, experts were seen donning their white gloves and inspecting the faeces. Their wrinkled brows showed their respect for their subject and underscored the serious academic nature of their work, leaving no room for doubt concerning the rigour with which their research was being conducted. The next morning’s newspapers printed essentially the same content, with nearly identical headlines appearing throughout the nation. But the majority of the people did not believe that it was gorilla excrement. Some even burned newspapers in the street as a sign of protest against the media’s failings and called for the government to be more transparent in relation to the faecal matter.

Of course, the government could not easily modify its own conclusions about the Tower Incident. The media stood in a united front, offering an objective view of the event. When some papers went so far as to raise questions, their editors were immediately relieved of office for ‘dereliction of duty’, and the reporters were likewise sacked. This provoked the public’s ‘sense of justice’, making the people all the more certain that things were not as simple as they seemed. The feelings of resentment grew, and it did not take long for some people to take to the streets in protest. The crowd got steadily bigger, the protest gained momentum.

People gathered at the site where the pile of shit had appeared. Naturally, it had been removed long ago. The ground had been carefully scrubbed clean. All evidence of it had disappeared, so finding out the truth was virtually impossible. No one could tear down the testimony of the so-called experts. They all knew of the shit’s existence, and many had witnessed the oddity first hand. But every one of them remained silent, without exception.

The news that aliens had come spread like wildfire. Then, some reported that they had seen a UFO in the sky, and described it in concrete terms. Some claimed they had run into huge, strange creatures at night. As soon as evening fell, people locked their doors, no longer daring to walk on the streets after dark.

Because of the emergence of the excrement, life was no longer calm for the citizens of Beiping.

Postings on the double-tracked wall offered a detailed analysis of the Tower Incident, and mentioned several news reports. They pointed out a few holes in the arguments of the experts who claimed to know that the pile of excrement had come from a gorilla just by looking at it. In fact, they said, the research was very sloppy. They called for the most authoritative experts and the most scientific testing to be employed in addressing the mystery, saying that only DNA analysis of the faecal matter would be convincing.

One of the famous writers in the ‘monster theory’ camp wrote: ‘Recklessly, they first came up with conclusions to deceive the public. It’s a trick for maintaining stability. The truth is in the hands of a small minority. If we go on like this, there will come a day when even the sun above us will be covered up by them.’

Mengliu thought the claims of the ‘monster man’ were exaggerated. It was just a pile of shit. It was nothing to get so worked up about. But still, he had to admit it was a well-written essay, worthy to be counted among those of the talents at the Wisdom Bureau. As he casually read through the posters, he suddenly came across poems Hei Chun and Bai Qiu had composed about the faeces. They were written with a lot of passion. He was so excited that he fell into a fit of coughing.

Still suffering from his cold, Mengliu broke out into a high fever again. He didn’t want to go to the hospital. He thought hospitals were places for making healthy people sick and sick people die. Some who had been admitted for nothing more than a cold had their appendices removed by mistake, someone with an inflamed gall bladder had ended up having his liver removed. This was no joke. Mengliu did not trust hospitals. He had his own remedies. He rinsed his throat, drank plenty of water and got plenty of sleep. After a couple of days, the fever broke and he felt fine.

When he emerged from his quarantine, he walked on weak legs into the courtyard of his building. There, he heard the radio reports of the experts, still talking about the problem of the faeces. They said that ignorant people had been incited into rallying at Round Square, and they were destroying the public peace. It was producing a very negative impression. They hoped that these people would quickly disperse and go home to their families, keep house and cook for their children. The program’s host similarly persuaded the young people to disband and go home — preferably in time for dinner.

Mengliu felt weightless. He was nearly blown over by the wind. After the coughing, he felt hungry. He needed to get something to fill his belly. He made his way to his landlord’s shop and got two cups of warmed milk and some bean cakes. As he chatted with the landlord, it was not long before the subject of the faeces came up. With the air whistling through the gap where he had a missing tooth, the landlord talked about the lively proceedings at Round Square.

‘Most of the people at the Wisdom Bureau will head over there today,’ he said. ‘You are all intellectuals. We common folk are too uncultured. We don’t know anything, but we trust you fellows. Whatever you say, that’s how it is.’

Mengliu was a little taken aback. A collective action by the Wisdom Bureau was no small thing. He finished his milk, swallowed another bean cake, and went to wave down a trishaw to take him to Round Square.

But before the vehicle could even get out of Liuli Street, it was blocked by a crowd. He had no choice but to get down and walk.

At the intersection of Liuli and Beiping Streets, he saw a mighty procession. The crowd was in uniform, in white T-shirts and with red bandanas tied around their heads. They held up placards and waved banners.

‘We Want a Meeting’

‘Capture the Aliens’

‘DNA Testing for Stool Samples’

‘Live in Truth’

The onlookers shouted warm welcomes from both sides of the street. They raised their voices in a chorus, singing the newly composed ‘Tower Song’, There were some individuals who had always been shy and reserved, but now suddenly they produced placards from inside their clothing, as if by magic. They slipped into the crowd and raised their signs. After a few moments their faces lit up with a burst of energy.

The branches of the trees beside the street were bare, making the birds’ nests there uncomfortably conspicuous. The sky was grey, and it was becoming difficult to see in the failing light.

By the time Mengliu realised that he was caught in the swaggering ranks, it was like waking up in a flood of consternation. He did not know how he came to be standing near the banner at the head of the procession. This was completely out of character for him. He was normally very cautious.

In the chaos, as Mengliu tried to find a way out, several people in blue caps squeezed their way toward him. One with a sharp face and pinched mouth said to him, ‘We workers came especially to express our solidarity with you. You people at the Wisdom Bureau are the best.’

Hearing this, Mengliu was filled with pride. He raised his hand high up in the air, causing the banner above him to tilt.

When he did take note of the banner, he found that the other end was held by a girl with closely cropped hair, an oval face, and fair skin. Her almond-shaped eyes were dark and gentle.

He felt as if his heart stopped beating in that instant.

Just then, the short-haired girl raised her head, and turned a furtive glance his way. His heart came to life again, beating double time. He felt he was a cicada emerging from its cocoon. A ray of sunlight fell on him, making him feel warm all over and full of the joy of life. Stimulated by this joy, he raised his own voice in unison with those shouting slogans. His voice was like a stone thrown by a child, skipping across a lake, and he felt ashamed at the thinness of it. His heart boomed in his chest, and he raised his voice even louder. Perhaps a new measure of courage had been injected into him, for somehow his voice came out mellow and resonant. He gained confidence in his own cries. He pretended not to bother about the short-haired girl, exaggerating the measure of his passion and the grace in his performance. He knew she was beside him, delicate and quiet as a bird perched on a branch.

The short-haired girl seemed to be withstanding a head-on invasion as she faced the storm. Her lips were shut tightly, and she remained silent.

Suddenly, a group came out of nowhere to break up the procession. After a moment of confusion, Mengliu found himself crammed into an unmarked bus. The windows were sealed shut, and everything was dark.

Half an hour later, a light came on in the bus.

When his eyes had adjusted to the light, Mengliu found that the bus was full of people. More importantly, the short-haired girl was standing next to him. Her pale face made her look like a sleepwalker.

It was a rickety old bus. He deliberately turned away from the girl for a few seconds, then turned back to adjust the angle so that he could make an even bolder observation without being noticed.

She had pretty lips, full and red. The smiling mouth rested beneath a perky, slightly freckled nose. She looked down, her gaze following the bridge of her nose and landing at Mengliu’s feet.

The sense of joy once again consumed Mengliu’s heart. He turned a little, gaining a more direct line of sight, and continued to stare.

She was probably not much more than a metre and a half tall. She had withdrawn into herself, didn’t even look up. Her glossy black hair smelled of shampoo. Or perhaps the fragrance came from her body, her fair white skin, the unique expression she wore.

As the bus rattled along, the distance between them changed, altering his perspective of her. Now she was facing him, her expression blank as a wall. She stared at the fourth button on his windbreaker as if examining its texture.

He looked her over. The more he inspected her, the closer he felt to her. The longer he stared, the more he felt he had known her forever.

When the bus had bumped along for more than an hour, making several turns along the way, it finally came to a stop. Several brawny, aggressive fellows suddenly leapt up. They separated the bus’s occupants into groups and led them away to different places.

The dimly-lit basement was damp and cold, with a single bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling, its bamboo shade covered with dust. The concrete walls were uneven, and the mud-yellow floor was dirty. The shoddy tiles were broken in places, and crunched underfoot as they walked. The room was furnished with a single desk and two long, narrow wooden benches. The air was bad, filled with a nauseating mixture of cooking fumes and sewage.

Mengliu and the short-haired girl were brought into the room with a young man from the construction department named Quanmu, a farmer from outside of Beiping, and also a high-school student.

Before long, two men and a woman came in. It was not clear what their vocation was. Their faces were a blur, though they all looked vaguely similar. They carried with them an air of experience, streetwise people who had seen it all. A group of freckles gathered at the tip of the woman’s nose. She sat down, spread her notebook out on the table and uncapped her pen. The first of the two men sat down too, and propped his feet up on the desk, while the other rested his buttocks against its edge. All three pairs of eyes made their way over the group of people who had been brought in.

‘Relax. We’re just here to chat,’ the first man said, his face rigid.

‘Come on, we have the right to choose not to talk.’ The room was as icy as a freezer. Quanmu, seemingly quite familiar with the routine, turned and looked at his comrades. His face was bruised.

In the strange atmosphere, Mengliu wondered whether he had unwittingly gotten himself mixed up with Triads.

‘What were you all doing playing in the streets? Don’t you know it seriously obstructs traffic and disrupts public peace?’ the first man said, ignoring everyone else. ‘Tell me. Just tell me all about it and you can go home.’

‘It was all about that pile of crap,’ the farmer cried. ‘Weren’t the slogans written out clearly enough?’

The woman, who was busy scratching out her report, looked up. The first man looked like he wanted to give the farmer a good beating.

‘He’s right. It was all for shit,’ the short-haired girl suddenly interjected.

3

Now, with the heat close to 50 degrees during the day, Yuan Mengliu closed all the doors and windows in the house, drew the curtains and turned his room into a cave. Like an ant, he carried lots of food into his quarters, where he sometimes holed up for days at a time. When he looked out the window, he saw mounds of earth covered with weeds and small trees.

The past rose up before him with all the force of a hallucination. He saw bodies lying in a disordered heap on the ground. The sun scorched them so that the people were faint and dehydrated. Starved of electrolytes, they fell into convulsions…Everything was chaos. There were ambulances, gunshots, and the blaze of red flames filled the night sky. He had discovered that there was no solace for him, even in the arms of a woman. Lately, he had turned to Jesus, spending his weekends reading a hidden copy of the English Bible and visiting the city’s magnificent churches. But he had overestimated God, and the result of his conversion to Christianity was simply that he discovered the strange hypnotic power of hymns. As he sat on the churches’ pews, he entered into the same dream. In this dream, he was speaking in Round Square, surrounded by a crowd of people. The ferocity of his speech always jolted him awake. His face felt flushed, his eyes bloodshot, there was an icy pit in his stomach. After a vigorous ‘Amen’, he would leave the church and aimlessly follow the dispersing congregation into the streets.

As he walked a complete circuit around Beiping Street, passing through the metropolis which had been attacked by financial crisis and turmoil, none of the city’s attractions held any appeal for him. The trees along the roadside had grown thicker, the road was wider and prettier, and the people were well-nourished and healthy. He bent his head and walked. The ground gradually turned red. He had walked all the way to the edge of the city. The water in the moat there was a violent scarlet stream. Dizzy, he leaned against the stone balustrade covered with engravings. The railings had been repaired so thoroughly that they were far superior to what they had been in their original state. The damage had been covered by a seamless reconstruction. Now that all the injury done had been compensated for, the events of a thriving life had taken over and filled in all the remaining cracks.

A faint smell of blood was detectable, sometimes seeming to come from the flora and fauna, sometimes from the sewer, and sometimes from a certain class of people who couldn’t seem to rid themselves of it no matter how often they bathed, applied perfume, or covered it up with gorgeous clothing. Mengliu planted flowers, grass, fruit trees, but the poetic artificiality of the peaceful natural scenes could not rescue him from the restless feelings of the displaced. His spirit was never still. When he heard the night insects or a barking dog, or the wind howling in the dark, the sound was always interspersed with piercing jeers. His impeccable life had been calm as a brook, meandering through the plains and across the land, eventually to lose itself in the expanse of the sea. Now happiness had become shameful. He was filled with doubt, as if some conspiracy were brewing and a huge trap awaited him. He occupied his mind with research every day, seeking ways to better satisfy his physical needs. He went to night clubs, hung out with a group of female doctors. He seduced the bridesmaids at his friends’ weddings, or hooked up with female students on the train. Any consenting female was fair game. He would take women home, offering them his warmth and respect in exchange for the grave pleasure of having his way with them.

He placed women in two basic categories. There were those who liked revolution and those who did not. Women who liked revolution were energetic and restless. They liked to take the initiative, riding him for their own pleasure. Those who did not like revolution blindly closed their eyes and wore pained expressions. They secretly enjoyed being ravaged by him, and even when they reached a climax, it died on their lips. He could not say which group fascinated him more. Eventually he would think of Qizi, imagining her in his bed, and what it was like when the two of them were together.

It was a painful torment to him.

Each year at the height of summer, Yuan Mengliu was stricken with a strange disease, involving itchy skin, inflammation, muscle spasms, convulsions and headaches, and his hallucinations grew more severe. He beat his body and bathed himself in hot water, soaking there until his skin was as red as a newborn baby’s.

He had had a few lengthy relationships over the years, and during his bouts of illness he spent much effort convincing those innocent girls that he needed to be alone for a while in order to recover. None of them believed that his illness required him to be away for such a long stretch. Most were convinced that it was a cover for him to engage in an affair. Others, those with a deeper disposition who understood his personal experiences a little better, laughed at him for shouldering the burden of history, telling him that life was short and he should seize the day. One broad-minded girl gritted her teeth, pulled out a few of his white hairs and tenderly warned him that he should pay attention to his safety. A secret spring brews in the hearts of women. When it bubbles into action, it is the recovery of all things, a sort of rejuvenating power. It is as unstoppable as the coming of spring, and the opening of flowers — and just as short-lived. He was not saddened by this. On the contrary, he appreciated it.

Mengliu believed Qizi was alive. She must be in some corner of the vast territory of Dayang, raising a family. So every year he went travelling, driven to find her by his gathering hysteria.

This summer he decided to go even further than usual, on the recommendation of a girl he had met.

After a long journey he came to a fertile land with exquisite scenery. He sat in a small café by the lake, where the well-endowed proprietress knew that the taste for delicacies was like going to the opera; the leading actors were the main attraction. Haltingly, she rattled off the names of the four specialties from the area around the lake. There was wild celery, wild artemisia, asparagus and knotweed. She was like a procuress carefully reading off the names of famous courtesans in a pleasure quarter. The wild, the lovely and the innocent — all kinds of beauties to please and entertain her guests, who had travelled such distances.

Mengliu went on a little binge, indulging in fried whitebait, steamed mandarin fish and braised carp, along with the four regional specialties. The table was overflowing with delicacies as he drank his wine and gorged himself on the fish. His face was flushed all the way down to the base of his neck. Even his pores gave off the smell of alcohol. When he’d finished eating he felt a little sleepy and so he settled down to take a nap in the breeze. He was awakened by a sudden roar, to find several motor boats resembling tanks bulging with machine guns taking a colourful, noisy crowd to the island in the lake.

He pulled out his chuixun, thinking he would play for a while. He changed his mind, rubbed the instrument a few times, then slipped it back into his pocket. He peeled off a few garlic cloves and went for a walk along a secluded road as he chewed them.

The houses were scattered. The signs of people gradually disappeared. Birds flew low overhead, beneath brilliant clouds.

He continued to walk, passing over several hills and into less hospitable terrain. After a sharp turn in the road, he saw the white walls and grey roof tiles of a house. There were some domestic animals at its door, and a boat with its sail rigged was moored nearby.

There was something a little different about this lake and mountain scene. The lake’s surface was an endless sketch of muddy yellow, a vast expanse. A white bird fell from the sky and struck a graceful pose on the sail of the boat. A spotted eagle dived into the water and speared a silver fish. When the clouds burned away, the water also seemed to burn, and the fishing boats in the distance could hardly be seen in the blaze.

Mengliu suddenly heard the screech of birds as they whizzed by like bullets overhead. He ducked quickly.

Now the scenery at the lake was beautiful and quiet. The path was overgrown with wild grass. The air was humid. The gardenia bushes were full of plump white flowers. Thin gourds dangled on the loofa vine, alongside pink hibiscus blooms and bamboo shoots. Smoke hung over the house like the billowing sleeves of Chinese opera performers.

A pungent smell diluted the poetic effect of the scene. A fish hung on a bamboo pole, its eyes protruding. It wore the look of one who had died without finding happiness.

A fisherwoman in bright red garb stepped toward Mengliu, holding a harpoon. The blood-red colour she wore had a dizzying effect. Her rough skin and dark complexion were in stark contrast to the colour of her clothes. Her face, a black spot on a crimson bed, was that of a person who was content with poverty. Perhaps it was because of the dust, or maybe it was just a trick of the light, but her messy hair looked as if it were silver-plated, like a lazily floating reed.

The fisherwoman first looked frightened, as if she had never seen a stranger before. But once she realised that he wanted to charter her boat, she moved her bamboo chair over and offered it to Mengliu, then boiled him a strong brew of the fragrant local leicha, a green tea blended with sesame, peanuts, and herbs.

The house was old, and seemed to sag just a little. The exterior wall was painted with red-lettered slogans.

In the distance the lake had a bewitching appeal. The breaking waves faded in and out. Waterfowl flew exuberantly into the line of fir trees which stretched to the horizon until it disappeared from view. The reeds formed an ashy clump of down that scattered in a thick cloud when the breeze blew.

The sun had ascended to its full height. Huge geese flew up like seeds sown in the sky.

Mengliu finished his tea in a single gulp. He was still chewing on the residue left from the brew as he boarded the boat. The rope was released, and the boat slipped out into the lake.

The sun was majestic, the white clouds puffy against the sapphire sky. Mengliu steered the boat past a wetland covered with a large patch of duckweed, blooming with flowers that flowed by like gold, slowly passing the low bushes, reeds, water hyacinth and other plants whose names he did not know, stretching out into the distance. He could see a bird’s nest in the reeds. The chicks sat there undisturbed by his presence, picking at each other’s feathers. At intervals, he caught sight of cranes nesting on a single leg, curled up for a nap. Water snakes swam in lazy figure of eights.

With the boat drifting in the breeze, he pulled out his lady-charming chuixin and played a tune in the face of that vast lake. It was melancholy, solemn, and mysterious, and the water trembled.

When he grew sleepy, he found relief by reclining his head. He lay down in the boat, closed his eyes, and breathed in the pungent smell of fish.

4

Outside, flurries of downy snow began to fall. The basement windows were quickly sealed with snow, and the room in which their interrogation was taking place became even dimmer. Mengliu was so hungry that a constant rumbling sound came from his belly, making him feel uneasy. By now he had learned that the short-haired girl’s name was Qizi. She was from the Physics Department, and was twenty-three years old. Everything she said was interesting. When they asked her why she had joined the procession, she said it was because she’d broken up with her boyfriend and was feeling down. She had absent-mindedly stepped into the street. Anywhere that there were lots of people suited her just fine. She didn’t care anything for this shit everyone was talking about. She joined the procession because of love, and so she could breathe freely.

With the way that Qizi transformed filth into love, the atmosphere in the room suddenly became more relaxed. Even their captors started chatting idly about love. But before long they felt that they were getting carried away, so they turned back to the problem of the excrement.

The freckled woman said that ever since she was small, she’d heard her father talk about the animal kingdom. She knew a lot about hundreds of different species of animals, and understood them better than she did humans. She said that gorilla manure was shaped like a fried twist of dough, not like a pagoda. Furthermore, the gorilla’s excrement was important for the environment, so any attempt to protect the forest without protecting the gorillas was a mistake…

‘Growing up with a father who talked so much about the animal kingdom must have been pleasant,’ said the first man.

The second, catching hold of the crux of the issue, ignored this proposition. ‘Why did that pile of dung shrink by ten percent after it was first reported in the news? Surely it didn’t suddenly dry up?’

Everyone took this as a licence to laugh. They wanted to ask the father of the freckled woman to offer his testimony. She said her father was just a humble scholar of the working class, not someone with a real academic background. Nor did he have any professional ties, so no one would believe anything he had to say. His speech and the belief of others would alike be of little use.

The first man’s face squeezed itself into a worried expression. ‘If it’s not gorilla shit, then what sort of trick are they trying to pull on us?’

The freckled woman knocked on the table, warming the two men to keep their roles here in mind.

After a while, some food was brought. There was only bread and water. The farmer, unused to eating bread, chewed at it awkwardly as he complained about the government’s unreasonableness. ‘A man can’t say a few words without being punished. All I did was carry a sack of peanuts into the city to sell, and I said just one word to support them…and now you’re starving me to death, giving me nothing more than this rotten thing to chew on. My wife is still waiting for me to bring back the meagre earnings from that sack of peanuts so she can attend a wedding reception. We need to buy clothes for the banquet, and I was on my way to the market to get a little fabric for my wife. We haven’t finished with the arrangements, and now it’s getting so dark that I can’t go home anyway. I’m sure she’s sitting at home cursing me, saying I went out squandering the money, drinking too much and passing out on someone’s doorstep…I just want to go back and tell her all about this shit business. She’s sure to jump to her feet and give me a good telling-off for talking such rubbish!’

The farmer raised his voice to a shrill note in imitation of the woman. ‘What? A pile of shit? What crap is this? You think that after all the years we’ve spent raising animals, I’ll buy that? It might be easy to fool those hoity-toity city folks, but I’m no fool! That’s like saying my dog’s turned into a poet — there’s no way!’

The words flew out of the farmer’s mouth like bats from under the eaves of a house, a rapid stream in a strong rustic accent. When he’d finished howling, he glanced at everyone in turn as if looking for an ally. He licked bread crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

‘I’m an honest farmer, always on schedule with my deliveries. Whatever the government asks me to do, I do. If they tell me to grow rice, I grow rice. If they say to plant hemp, I plant hemp. Everything is according to their plan. They set the price, and that’s the price. If they don’t accept my crops, then I let them rot at home. A fellow like me just wants to provide a simple house for the wife and kid, and to put food on the table. How could I have the time to accompany those who want to take to the streets to play their silly games?’ When he’d had his say, the farmer patted his body here and there, then produced a flattened cigarette pack from one of his pockets. When he discovered that he didn’t have a lighter, he reluctantly put the cigarette back into the pack and let out a long breath, just as if he’d actually taken a puff. ‘The plight of a farmer! Which of you knows anything about that, huh?’

The lamp was not working, and the rest of the house had been left in darkness. Only a faint glimmer from a streetlight fell in through the basement window. The farmer’s voice made a circuit around the room, like the buzzing of a fly. No one paid any attention to him. After a while, his voice died down and he began to snore.

The detainees were released from the basement one by one. Eventually only Mengliu and Qizi were left, sitting at opposite ends of the bench. They could not see each other’s faces.

‘The Wisdom Bureau is so big…This is the first time I’ve noticed you,’ he said.

‘I’ve seen you before. You’re a famous poet. But it’s good that you don’t put on airs.’

‘Where’ve you seen me? And who are you calling “a famous poet”? Is that supposed to be some kind of insult?’

‘It’s from the newspapers of course. Who doesn’t know the poetry of the Three Musketeers? Your poetry, if you don’t mind me being direct, I really like it.’

‘Oh, you mean you guys in the Physics Department are interested in poetry?’

‘We have a literary society too. Unfortunately, the atmosphere at our meetings isn’t much to boast about.’

‘You should join our literary salons. There are forums and poetry readings every week.’

‘Maybe I am an undiscovered poet…but I’m presently tied up in a scientific research project.’

‘Oh? Something relating to the use of a machine in place of the human brain?’

‘A secret machine. The preliminary work will be done soon. I believe we’ll see the results in the near future — at least, in theory. Are you laughing at me? To laugh at me is to laugh at science.’

‘I wouldn’t dare! I hear that the Physics Department has quite a number of creative…geniuses.’

‘You can call me mad and I wouldn’t care. There’s not much to distinguish a mad woman from a genius. To a poet, scientific fantasies may sound weird. For example, would you believe there’s a machine that can detect information anywhere in the world, even extracting human genetic information or accurately calculating the electrical power generated in a lightning storm? And that, harvesting the forces of nature, it is able to absorb data on the world’s finest species?’

‘I think your concept is worth admiring and exploring. But if there really were such a machine, it shouldn’t be used to plunder…’

‘…it also has an automatic conferencing facility that makes policy decisions, and holds think tanks to analyse the situation at hand and offer proposals about how to solve the nation’s incurable diseases. It serves so many functions. It converses with people. Its methods are even more humane than a human’s.’

‘Humane? Unless it has emotions…This machine, is it male or female?’

‘How far we can progress is only limited by the smallness of our minds. Never doubt science, Yuan Mengliu.’ She used his own name to mock him.

‘Yes, yes, yes. Humans wanted to go to the moon, so they went to the moon. And if they want to go to hell, they’ll go to hell.’ Mengliu was rather enjoying himself.

But Qizi was taken away. Before long, he left the basement too.

The streetlights were dim. The people on the streets were wrapped up warmly.

The night mingled with the snow, a world of black and white.

5

The sky over the lake suddenly turned dark with rolling clouds and a freakish wind. The gigantic waves were like horses rushing out of an open gate, striking the hull of the boat with a loud crash, raising the bow out of the water and throwing Mengliu into the cabin, where he struck his head just hard enough to daze himself. The maddened clouds surged together, twisting in a fury into one great pillar that towered over the lake and drew it up into a funnel, leaving a spinning whirlpool at its centre. The sail, caught in the winds, began to flap violently, and everything turned black before Mengliu’s eyes. Both his body and his consciousness were sucked into the great black hole.

He did not know how much time had passed before he opened his eyes to see the clear moon overhead, looking like a round loaf of bread in the sky. The forest around him was dark and full of rustling sounds. The leaves of the trees reflected the light from the moon, as if countless pairs of eyes were watching. His body lay in the damaged boat, his legs dangled in the water. He was so cold that his teeth chattered. He cursed. The boat sank beneath his hand as he tried to push himself up.

He was soaked. He waded towards the bank, starting a bright ripple in the water that accompanied the sound of his splashing. Scrambling ashore, he shouted several times, but even his voice seemed dark and hollow. He wasn’t sure whether his shivering was inspired by the cold or by his fear. The moonlight was cold, the shells strewn along the bank reflected its light. He was surrounded by a pale blue fog. He wrapped his arms around his body. He was barefoot, and wore little more than tattered rags. He took each step cautiously, hoping to see some signs of habitation.

The moon was a dandy. As he walked, it followed him, mocking him for his beggarly appearance.

He was like a louse on an elephant’s body, nothing more than a tiny insect in the forest. Branches whipped against him as he moved along, stinging his flesh.

As he crested the hill, the moon went into hiding. He was suddenly plunged into darkness. The strange nocturnal sounds made his hair stand on end.

As he walked on in the darkness, in an attempt to warm himself, he began to think of his most recent conquest. Suitang was a lovely girl. She chewed gum the first time she reported for work. She looked so much like Qizi that Mengliu had to catch his breath. When she took the initiative and asked to be his assistant, his mind became even more muddled. He compared her to a lily which flowed with a secret fragrance. He knew that Suitang would be completely taken in by this sort of elaborate but common analogy. At night, she would stand before the mirror, blushing, posturing and preening, seeing the dazzling human world reflected in her dark eyes.

The next morning the sun shone into the forest and warmed the ground. Mengliu felt a tongue of sandpaper licking him all over. Opening his eyes, he saw a huge lion’s head, and his whole body went limp. As he stared at it, he realised that the lion must be a benevolent creature, since it allowed birds to perch atop its head and sing. Another lion stood nearby grazing on a clump of grass. An antelope, an elk and a kangaroo played close to them. The eyes of the animals looked happy, their ears moved like strings on a plucked instrument and their tails were swaying gently.

It was a harmonious society of beasts.

Mengliu suddenly felt that everything was going to be just fine. He picked fruit from the trees and quickly filled his stomach. At a small brook, he washed his unshaven face. He wove a pair of sandals from grass and, leaning on a walking stick that he had made from a fallen branch, set out on a journey that would last several days.

It was not an easy forest for a hike. Sometimes he climbed like an ape, sometimes he rolled down, and sometimes he had to swim. He came to a strange place that seemed to have been burned. There was no flora or fauna, and no wildlife. All around were scattered hideous-looking glossy black stones, and the land was dry and desolate. The mountain peaks in the distance formed the jagged lines of a country mapped against the sky. One stone was particularly striking for its gigantic size. Its porous surface seemed to have retained warmth, and was emitting an infernal gaseous substance.

He lay down to sleep. Before long, ants woke him up, and he found himself covered with countless red blisters. He got back on the track.

Ahead there was only one path to follow, through a weird crevice in the cliff like a huge wound that had scabbed over. He fumbled along, following the foot-wide trail along the edge of the cliff for a few dozen metres. He reached the crevice, and the path became even narrower. He eased himself forward. His skinny shrunken frame seemed to be tailor-made for the narrow space. He smelled moss, followed by an occasional burst of floral perfume. He heard the sound of a spring, bubbling with girlish laughter. From its initial merriment, it grew more melodious. Suddenly, as if a car window had been thrown open, there was a sound like that of a beast’s low threatening roar. Before he could distinguish what it was, there was another roar and it leapt on him — a huge waterfall, seeming to fall from the sky, crashing down to the base of the cliff. Flowers grew wild on the rocky face, soaking up the spray from the waterfall.

He stepped forward, and his foot found only empty space. He plunged headlong into the pool below. The surface of the water was covered by large peonies. He felt that he had been dropped into a pot of hot dumplings. The waves buffeted him, and the spray from the waterfall hit him like tiny stone missiles, momentarily stunning him.

The grass looked soft. The sun lightly covered his body. The birdsong grew to a crescendo. Mengliu waded over to the bank and fell to the ground. He lay there motionless. Weak and somewhat dazed, he saw a beautiful girl walking toward him, her long hair hanging loose around her naked body, which was heavy with fruit like coconuts on a tree. She looked like Suitang at first, but as she drew nearer, she looked more like Qizi. The girl bent over him…

In his exhaustion, Mengliu had an erotic dream. When he woke, he thought of the vision of Qizi he’d seen in his dream. It had been over twenty years, but her likeness was engraved on his heart. It had not gathered any dust, nor had his love for her subsided in the least. He would never know such love again. Back in those days, Qizi and another girl called Shunyu had frequently made appearances in his diary. After the Tower Incident, Qizi had gradually come to play the central role. Mengliu visited the cinemas, shopping malls and eateries in Beiping with the wealthy little princess Shunyu. Shunyu was infatuated with his friend Hei Chun, and Mengliu had fallen for Qizi, so the two had banded together for mutual entertainment and consolation.

The photo of the Three Musketeers he had kept, depicted them as being full of vigor, self-confidence, and idealism. One look at Hei Chun’s hardened eyes was enough to convince anyone of his influence. Bai Qiu’s shoulder-length hair, full and ready to take flight, made him look romantic and elegant. Mengliu was the perfect image of a frail scholar, cool and reserved with his Adam’s apple protruding above the neckline of his white shirt, hands held low and clasped in front of his body. The timid rabbit-like expression he wore demonstrated his trust in and love for a peaceful society. He always thought he should have put his hand on Hei Chun’s shoulder, or perhaps slipped both hands into his pockets, rather than letting them hang low, tightly clasped together, as if he were a football player afraid he was about to be kicked in the nuts.

The background in the photo was the double-tracked wall outside the Wisdom Bureau. The wall was covered with posters, all of which had later disappeared. The photo had faded, turning yellow and wrinkled. It was becoming more distinctly representative of its era. No one wore that expression anymore. It was the special property of the 60s generation.

This photo was a cherished memorial to his poetic past. He regretted keeping it, because of the memories it evoked. Yet, he was glad too, as it retained signs of the romantic youth he had experienced. If anyone thought a rift had developed between him and Hei Chun because of a girl, it definitely wasn’t a crack in their relationship. No, it was more like a line of poetry. Thinking it over carefully so many years later, he still held the same opinion. Back then, the country was unsteady, dealing with economic decline, disorder, and rife with government corruption. The fate of both nation and individuals were uncertain.

Shunyu was a big-eyed, shy girl who could set off a storm with a furtive glance, but Hei Chun remained unmoved. Shunyu was worth remembering. In the end, she had been hit by a stray bullet in the middle of the chaos. As she waited in the long queue outside the hospital door, she died slowly from loss of blood. She died beneath the flag of Dayang, fluttering in the wind overhead.

Startled out of his reverie, Mengliu sat up. The sound of the water falling from that terrible height reminded him of the rumble of the tanks as they lumbered toward him.

6

The April following the Tower Incident, the flowers were in bloom, but remained smothered under a layer of snow. The old acacia tree was covered in leafy green, its sharp points rising out from under its thin snowy coat, bringing a cold hint of spring, flowing with life. Mengliu walked beneath the tree and considered going overseas. In an attempt to lure him into staying on board, the Wisdom Bureau had offered him a promotion and, before the venerable leader, he had made a show of being touched. He said he would think about it.

Mengliu pined for Qizi. The love buried deep in his heart flowed continuously like an underground spring. Only when he had written several poems about her could he find any peace of mind. To be fair, Qizi was a good girl, possessing all the beauty and frail delicacy of the women of olden times, just as she was equipped with the cool aloofness typical of the women of Dayang. Her career ambitions were quite exceptional. He felt ashamed when he recalled how he had treated her scientific ideas like crazy talk.

He remembered how she looked — pale, thin, short hair, pert nose, pointed chin, and a distinctive fragrance. Her demeanour as she spoke…

When the joy born of that memory revived, he got a bicycle and raced around the compound at the Wisdom Bureau, his head full of dreams in which he held her and kissed her, running his lips over her responsive breasts. He was pedalling so hard the bike was gasping and moaning, when he unexpectedly came across his friend Bai Qiu near the entrance to the library. He was so startled that his lust fluttered away like a frightened bird.

Bai Qiu was dressed in an oversized military coat, the sleeves so long they hung over his hands. Mengliu slowed down, then put his right foot down to brake. Stopping in front of Bai Qiu, he exhaled heavily. His friend, apparently composing a poem in his head, was so stunned he took a step backward. Seeing it was Mengliu, he smiled as if in a trance but, quickly recovering, he commented that Mengliu’s eyes were glowing so much he looked like a dog in heat. Though Bai Qiu had a keen mind, he appeared so slow that it was hard to believe that harsh words could come off his tongue, or that sharp verses could be penned by his hand.

They shared a few laughs by the roadside, lifting their spirits. Bai Qiu proposed they go to a bar. Mengliu’s earlier hot-blooded state had cooled down now, and he put aside his thoughts of Qizi. He accompanied Bai Qiu along Liuli Street to the Green Flower Bar, one of their favourite haunts. The proprietor tried to be especially generous toward the poets with his home-brewed Chinese wine, often going so far as to offer them drinks on the house. Of course, if the poets occasionally received special treatment on account of the proprietor’s daughter, whose name was Shunyu, the proprietor got something good out of it too. They held a variety of literary salons there, turning the Green Flower into a hub for Beiping’s literati.

The Green Flower was in an old wooden house, and occupied both the upper and lower floors. Inside, it was warm, with Chinese-style decor. It was said that the tavern’s owner had been a soldier and had seen action on the battlefield. He had travelled to China and loved Chinese culture, Chinese food and Chinese liquor. He had purchased several items at a private auction and had them shipped to back Dayang, bringing a Chinese flavour to the bar that included everything from the furnishings to the waiters’ uniforms. He paid even more attention to the inner rooms. One room was furnished with an ancient wooden day bed and an intricately designed drinking table. Another had elaborately designed square tables, with chairs to match. The seats were covered with an eclectic assortment of brightly-coloured cushions, upon which the patrons could recline when they became drowsy with talking. Ancient calligraphy and paintings hung from the walls, and porcelain pieces from the Song through to the Qing dynasties adorned the shelves. Even the coat rack was carved wood. The literati gathered in the Green Flower to talk freely about politics, ideals, literature and women. They drank until the small hours, then squatted on the curb and vomited. They talked bullshit and shared their truest aspirations, and at the end of it all, the old boys disappeared one by one into the cold still night.

At first, Mengliu and Bai Qiu sat in the main hall by a window with bowls of fried peanuts and seeds and nuts, assorted cold dishes and shredded squid accompanied by warmed wine. They poured the wine into porcelain cups no thicker than a thumb, and toasted each other with them. After they had had a few drinks, Hei Chun and some others lifted the curtain and entered the bar, followed by two girls, one dressed in black and the other in white. Mengliu took one look and froze. His gaze bounced back like a spring and his hand nervously reached for an ashtray. He pinched a cigarette and inserted it into his mouth, only to spit it out immediately after.

Hei Chun had already seen them and cried ‘Cheers!’ He hurried over and exchanged a few pleasantries then invited them to join him in a room on the second floor where they could all catch up. They settled in, but the atmosphere had not livened up, and no one had yet taken up quarters on the day bed. They all looked like they had gathered for a meeting, propping their elbows on the edge of the drinking table. When the waiter carried their dishes up and laid them out, the profile of the girl dressed in white was visible through the crook of the waiter’s elbow, allowing Mengliu a chance to watch her secretly. Soon he met her gaze through that same aperture. His heart was set on fire with a crackle like that of a newly-lit match.

Just as they were warming up, the proprietor came in. He was in his fifties, his head sprouting a shock of silver hair and his cheeks as rosy as a tuberculosis patient. He lumbered over and plopped down on a stool, making it immediately appear small and frail. He did not employ his usual loud tone, and seemed almost to be a completely different person. In a small voice he said, ‘Wine. You all drink whatever you’d like. Just don’t talk politics, and don’t make trouble.’

After fiddling with the wine cups for a while, he got up. Walking to the door, he turned back and called, ‘Shunyu, come here. I’ve got something to tell you.’

The girl sitting inside, the one in black, stood up. With a weary grimace, she reluctantly followed him outside.

Her figure wasn’t bad at all, her appearance decent. She looked like a typical honour-roll student, fit to be a civil servant or hold a job in education.

‘Shunyu just joined the Plum Party. Her father has been a part of the literary movement all his life. He wanted her to be a poet, but is also afraid for her to mix with the likes of us.’

Hei Chun rubbed his palm over his hair, which was shimmering with grease. ‘Pity the loving parents! I guess we’re just like chicken ribs. We’re tasteless, but even if a thing is tasteless, it’s a waste just to throw it out.’ Finished with his self-deprecation, he glanced around the circle and asked, ‘You all know each other, right?’

They glanced at each other, but before anyone could speak, Hei Chun pointed the girl in white out to Mengliu. ‘I guess you don’t know Qizi, from the Physics Department. She’s very talented. Her ex-boyfriend is from the Chemistry Department, a jerk called Dadong who helped someone with some research into the making of fake antiques a while back, and caused an explosion, that reduced the guy’s house to nothing. He’s been in the hospital for nearly a month himself, practically in ruins.’

In large groups, Hei Chun always liked to preside over the small talk. Sometimes his talk was over the top, and he liked to season it with foul language.

The girl in white smiled in acknowledgement. She pulled off her white down jacket and hung it on the coat rack. Beneath, she wore a tight black low-cut sweater and low-waist denim bell bottoms. It was quite revealing. Everything about her was petite and exquisite.

They all made the most of the occasion, laughing and enjoying themselves. Bai Qiu said he and Dadong had played a bit of soccer together. Dadong was a handsome guy but a lousy soccer player. He ran around the field haphazardly, committing fouls all the time. If a shot didn’t ricochet off the goal post, it was only because it had sailed right over it.

They spent some time making fun of Qizi’s ex-boyfriend as a source of merriment. Every idiotic move that could be made by a football player was attributed to him, and the poor chap’s name was turned into dirt right there in the bar. But then, this was common practice. Any time they drank together, there were always a couple of absentees whose names would be brought to the table and dragged through the mud. Sometimes they would become the subject of a limerick, which would be relived at their next drinking session.

As they sipped at their wine, the conversation livened up.

Mengliu’s expression gave nothing away, but his heart was fluttering. He was thinking about Qizi, and his joy once again broke down the door to his heart. It was as if he had entered a garden in full bloom. He helped himself to the wine, noticing how dazzlingly white Qizi’s skin was, like a spotlight aimed right at him. He longed for a moment alone with her, to hold her delicate hand, and to whisk her away to some secluded spot where he could express his affection to her.

Shunyu returned to the party. Their mockery of Qizi’s ex-boyfriend came to an abrupt end.

Shunyu was young, with long hair, large eyes, a tiny mouth, and a flat chest. Her canines were perfectly aligned with an adorable set of jug ears. Playing host, she was in an unbridled state, constantly reaching out her slender arms to add tea or wine to each empty cup. With this wellspring flowing from her, her face became as rosy as the proprietor’s, though hers was a healthier hue.

‘My father just told me that he’s heard news that some people are going to be picked up. It’s best to behave ourselves, and also to avoid large gatherings.’ As Shunyu spoke, she took on the manner of a member of the Plum Party.

‘Not again!’ The tea was too hot, so Qizi sipped it carefully. ‘Don’t worry. I was picked up last time. It was nothing.’

‘You were arrested? For what?’ Hei Chun was taken aback.

Qizi stole a quick glance at Mengliu and said, ‘I was guilty of being in love.’

The stolen glimpse at Mengliu was enough to establish a tacit conspiracy between them. The halo that seemed to surround her reached right into his chest. He thought she must have learned she could trust him.

Shunyu stared at them with eyes that had grown rounder than their wine glasses. This didn’t necessarily mean that she was surprised. She wanted her lashes to seem longer, her mouth to grow smaller, and her face to appear sharp and thin, like an adorable cartoon character, in the hope that the boys would be fascinated. Specifically, it was all for Hei Chun’s benefit. It was obvious that everything she did was motivated by concern for Hei Chun’s wellbeing. Hei Chun pretended not to notice. He looked at Qizi, and after scrutinising her for a bit, stubbornly returned to the topic of her ex-boyfriend.

‘Dadong is not completely useless. The fake antiques he helped make were sold at exorbitant prices. Someone alerted the National Cultural Relics Protection Bureau, and he was almost thrown in jail for stealing and selling national treasures. If he’d put his brains to good use, he’d be fine. At the very least, he could apply it to his love life.’ Hei Chun tucked his feet in and sat in the Buddha pose as he continued, ‘Qizi, look around here carefully. Which of us can’t measure up to Dadong? You could choose any of us. I think that punk just got lucky.’

Even though it was clear that Hei Chun was joking, Mengliu cringed. He busied himself by gulping down more wine.

‘Hei Chun, are you trying to hide something?’ Bai Qiu asked. ‘Everyone in the world knows you’ve been bitten by the love bug. You hide under the covers at night writing Qizi’s name in all the languages of the planet. Now that she’s fair game, you can seize the opportunity to confess your love. You don’t need to drag all of us into it.’

They all ribbed him, growing more and more waggish in their jibes.

‘Hey! What fucking nonsense!’ Hei Chun’s eyes flashed like the fluttering of bat’s wings, but he quickly restored his bright countenance. Making an about-face, he began to expound on another topic of interest. ‘There’s a good poem on the double-tracked wall. It says, “Honest men die, while hypocrites survive; passionate men die, left to be buried by the indifferent.”…The best kind of government is the one that does not make its presence felt. The next best is the one that makes its subjects feel close to it. After that, the one that uses administrative measures. The worst is the one that resorts to violence. What do you think?’

‘Sh! Don’t let my father hear or he’ll kick all of you out. He told me so himself.’ Shunyu, really anxious now, turned her wide eyes on Hei Chun.

‘Okay, okay, okay. Let’s switch to the entertainment channel then. Mengliu, show us your unique skill. Blow us a tune to make us forget all our troubles. Make us believe all is well.’

‘I didn’t bring it,’ Mengliu replied, suddenly nervous. He didn’t feel like showing off in front of Qizi right now. Hei Chun poked a hand into Mengliu’s pocket and went right for the lady-charming chuixun. ‘Unhappy with your performance fees, you little prick? Everyone, give him a round of applause.’

A mix of applause and heckling came from the group.

‘What do you want to hear?’ Helpless, Mengliu wiped his instrument.

‘Anything. Whatever you play is best,’ said Hei Chun.

‘Then it’ll be “The Pain of Separation”.’ Mengliu took a sip of water and wet his lips. ‘This is especially for the two lovely ladies, Qizi and Shunyu.’

He fingered the flute and began to blow. Within seconds they had all been transported to hell, the music drawing out of them the great sorrow that lurked inside. It was the kind of mournful, melancholy tune that could break your heart.

When they left the bar, Shunyu’s father gave Mengliu a thumbs up. ‘You play that kazoo divinely. Even better than I do.’

7

As he pushed his way out from the dark mountains, across the thickly forested hillside, Mengliu climbed to the top of the hill to have a look. He saw a city, a real city full of mushrooming buildings, with spires sticking up like towering ancient trees. The atmosphere was solemnly quiet and mysterious, the air full of the aroma of buckwheat.

The sun was shining. A river ran down from the mountains and then through the city, stepping all the way down the slope like scales. Wild chrysanthemums swayed on the hill, dancing to their own tune. Church bells broke the silence, a ringing full of forgiveness and serenity, as if proclaiming to everyone, ‘All manner of sin and blasphemy will be forgiven. Don’t doubt, just believe.’

Mengliu raced like an escaped horse toward the city, his mane flying in the wind, eyes enlarged and nostrils puffing. He took wing, like a bird, the wind whistling in his ears, the trees falling rapidly away behind him. He shot forward like a bullet at lightning speed.

Of course, that was only in his fancy. In actual fact, he was squatting in front of a strip of engraved stone, carefully observing the text he saw there. The script looked like Hei Chun’s writing, thin and aloof, strong strokes that added a lot of character to each word.

He saw that he’d come to a city-state called ‘Swan Valley’.

Twenty minutes later he entered the city. It was extremely small, perhaps more appropriately called a town. The streets were deserted, and a mystical white smoke floated over the rooftops. The trees were low and tidy, their leaves thick and shiny. The buildings sprouting up in the midst of the trees were all of an identical style. Even the patterns on the windows, the door handles, and the stone steps were the same. None of the buildings were higher than two or three stories, constructed from beautiful granite stone. The joints were filled with plaster, and the walls topped with simple roofs resembling mushroom caps. White screens fluttered at each latticed window. The cloth on each screen was coated with a translucent oil, giving it an amber tint. The doors and windows were all wide open. The rooms inside were well-lit, and appeared clean and warm. They looked just like the sort of places where one might sit and talk of old heroic deeds and the current day’s farm chores over a cup of tea or wine.

A white porcelain dish held pig’s trotters that glistened in the room’s exquisite glow, like a lotus blossom made of meat. In a short while, all that was left was an empty plate and discarded bone fragments. Mengliu cleaned his mouth with his hand as he looked at the house’s decor. One wall was covered with a huge batik painting — the most eye-catching decoration in the room. It was a map that showed men, horses, bows and arrows and deer, all in scenes of chaos and tension.

The dining table was formed by a few round wooden blocks. The edge of the table retained the shape of the original log, its surface made smooth, and the wood grain distinct. It was covered with script written in a child’s hand, in what looked like the Latin alphabet. A cupboard held blue and white porcelain pieces, all beautifully crafted. They were covered with elegant patterns that gave them a historical feel. Rattan chairs filled the space with the smell of grass. Round baskets were hung around the room, each containing green Chinese wisteria plants dotted with blooming lavender flowers, giving one a sense of the owner’s genteel, delicate tastes. Mengliu rummaged around for more food, and ate a jarful of colourful cakes. He was not sure whether they were made from wheat or corn, or perhaps even some sort of ground soya bean.

Without regard for manners, he washed and changed into a grey robe and black cloth shoes. The sun was bright, but mild. He was bathed in comfort. Feeling that he’d entered a medieval atmosphere, he imagined people of that era, sheep herders spending their days out in the fresh air. They chanted curses when they got toothaches, and when they got tired of one place, they simply uprooted themselves and went on their way. They seemed to have just passed by.

Mengliu left the house and walked to a curved building. He found himself standing in an empty hall lit by stained-glass French windows. The floor was tiled with a red porcelain that made it look like coloured glass. There was a curtained stage, with the walls on either side hung with paintings depicting the events of a fairy tale. The remaining spaces were hung with embroideries, paper cutouts, and paintings made with shells. A few musical instruments, having been polished, stood in a neat row. Passing through the building, he encountered a group of children playing marbles, wearing odd clothes and speaking in a strange tongue. The marbles rolled in the sunlight, setting off sparkles to rival the glow of their fancy jewellery.

Seeing Mengliu, the children stopped their game and began whispering to one another. After laughing strangely, they ran off. A boy of about five or six years, with short hair and brown eyes, was left behind. He approached Mengliu like a little raccoon, picked up the marbles, offered them to the guest, then turned and walked away.

The boy had given Mengliu dazzling diamonds, so bright they made him squint. He hid them nervously in his clothes, then left in haste.

When he had walked along a path for what seemed like a long time, Mengliu came to a square full of sculptures. Crowds of people sat on the grass. Some banners with slogans hung from the trees, while others lined the roadside. Everyone looked cheerful and relaxed, as if enjoying a barbecue while on holiday. People drank beer or other beverages. Several played pipes made from reeds, with a crisp lyrical melody that crackled with a fiery vitality.

The crowd was full of people of different skin colours. Their clothing was light grey and of a coarse linen texture, loose-fitting, plain, and simple. Some were embroidered with complex patterns of fish, dragons, bamboo, flowers, butterflies, or the Buddhist swastika symbol, resembling clothing typical of Han Chinese, though not as beautiful. The men wore shirts with short fronts and baggy pants or open-necked long gowns, and their heads were either wrapped in turbans or left bare, exposing their curly hair. Their mannerisms and language were cultured. The women were distinguished by their colourful clothing, the sleeves had borders and the kimono-style collars were low-cut, exposing their inner garments. Some wore their hair loose, some covered it with a black hairnet, others chose to put it all up, adorned with a few brightly coloured hairpins. Some pulled their hair into a single ox-horn-shaped bun, situated on the left or right side of their heads. They tied their hair with something like flaxen yarn, of many different shades and patterns. There were also women who chose to plait their hair, curling the braids around their heads, inserting crescent-shaped combs at the crown to hold them in place. Others chose to pull their hair into spiral-shaped buns with scarves folded into hats at the crown, the neatly stacked ribbons flowing in the wind. The crafted shells used to secure the scarves shone like gems.

The women bloomed like flowers, and Mengliu was elated at the sight of them. He walked to the statue of a naked man and stood beneath it. At its base, he saw a plaque inscribed with a description in English. This was one of Swan Valley’s spiritual leaders. He had created Swan Valley’s language and led a life of hardship and good deeds. He established kindness as Swan Valley’s most important virtue.

The spiritual leader looked like a woodcutter. He held a sickle or some sort of weapon in one hand, while the other was clenched into a fist. He was muscular, with ripples protruding all over his naked body. He exuded power from head to toe, and all of the strength of his being was centred in his phallus. It stood impressively erect, pointing straight ahead, like invincible artillery aimed at the very spirit of evil.

Mengliu thought, ‘What artist had the guts to take the clothes off his spiritual leader? Didn’t he stop to think of how it would make all the women lust after him?’

A young man climbed nimbly up the statue. He hung a red banner with white lettering on the phallus of the spiritual leader. The slogans billowed outward in the breeze.

They were commemorating the spiritual leader’s birthday. Bird-shaped flowers bloomed everywhere. Mengliu later learned that these were the spiritual blossoms of Swan Valley, and stood for liberty and independence.

Enthusiastic applause broke out in the square. People beat on drums. The reed pipes belted out their sharp notes. The people, well-trained, raised their voices in unison a few seconds later. Their timing was as precise and clean as the slicing of a knife.

On a huge electronic screen, a spaceship flew through distant stars, and drew nearer. Its door opened slowly, and the image of a figure decked out in a space suit as it floated in the cabin was vaguely visible. It was impossible to tell its age or gender. The creature adjusted its position so that it faced the people, then waved and said in a robotic voice:

‘Beautiful and highly intelligent people of Swan Valley, greetings! In our Swan Valley, where kindness is the priority, each person has the potential to become the new spiritual leader. Choose the better history, put into practice the precious right that has been passed down from generation to generation, these noble ideals: it is God’s promise that each of us is equal, that all people may be free, and that everyone has the opportunity to reach the full measure of happiness. Thank you for your trust, your passion, and your sacrifice. Your insights and your upbringing are all influenced by the spirit of Swan Valley. You are all perfect, the pride of Swan Valley. We do not allow the soul to remain imprisoned. Now as your spiritual leader Ah Lian Qiu, I will do my best for the beautiful Swan Valley, giving my all, even my life…’

Mengliu did not understand the language of Swan Valley, but did get some impression of the spiritual leader’s meaning from the English phrases mixed into the speech, which used words such as ‘good,’ ‘spirit,’ ‘soul,’ and ‘freedom.’ He had no interest in the spiritual leader and his speech. With so many wonderful women in the gathering, he had, from habit, already been out on the prowl. In this area he had an innate sense, and he quickly homed in on a woman in green. She wore a simple robe, with the hem of her skirt, neckline and waistband all embroidered in blue. Her blouse was low-cut, her bosom full and her neck smooth. Her black hair reached all the way down to her waist. Tiny feet peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

His heart was like a car careening along a mountain road. The bumps and turns of it shocked him.

Just as he thought to go over and make his advances, he found himself surrounded by a crowd. They could tell he was a foreigner. According to their tradition, they were competing for the chance to take him into their care. He stood out like a cherry on a snowy-white cream cake. But they didn’t speak to him at all. As if he were an animal that had strayed among humans, or an item in a bazaar, he was surrounded by heated debate, as if they were discussing whether to send him back to the zoo or release him into the forest. The dispute rushed on, punctuated by expressions of modesty and sincerity, and even some pleading.

Mengliu soon understood that he was the cherry to be plucked, taken home, washed, placed on a clean white plate, and stored in a warm, hospitable cupboard. He was all too used to seeing the cold and ruthless treatment of others, farmers going to the market with their bullock carts overturned and their bullocks slapped around; doctors who had not received red envelopes with payoffs inside sewing their patients’ anuses shut; the elderly left to freeze to death on the roadside, the poor to die at home. People kidnapped children and sold them, demolished homes, abused animals. Now he stood here, a stranger, and he could feel the selfless love of these people. He was completely captivated by their show of friendliness.

They spoke Swanese, the language of the valley, occasionally mixing in English words. He did not know if this was just a fashionable mode of expression or if it was a regular part of their language. They also accented their speech with physical gestures and expressions, shrugging or pulling at the corners of their mouths. Sometimes they stood straight, hands folded at the centre of their bodies. They occasionally lifted a hand, then lowered it back into the same place.

Mengliu only had eyes for the woman in green. He believed she was of mixed blood, with her wheat-coloured skin and oval face, eyelashes like fans and narrow chocolate-brown eyes. Her glances darted here and there, and her lips were like a half-opened rose. She wore a silver ring in her lower lip, and with her mouth turned up, her implied smile was full of meaning. When their eyes met, he felt that this woman and her exotic flavour eclipsed every woman he had ever seen before.

A handsome young man stood up and offered to mediate. In English, he said, ‘Now, please, choose anyone from this crowd. You may follow that person home, and you will be taken care of.’ He looked like a Mexican, dressed in a long shirt zipped in front, his head covered in short curly hair. His teeth were too white and too neat. They had a cold sharpness to them.

Without hesitation Mengliu pointed to the woman in green.

The young man dismissed the crowd, and calmly swept his melancholy eyes over Mengliu, his expression like the dark billows of the sea at night.

Mengliu thought to himself, ‘This young man harbours some jealousy.’

‘Follow me,’ the woman said in English. Her voice warbled like an oriole’s.

8

The woman in green pulled her hair back. Without a word she cooked and brewed tea. Mengliu was like a mute, sitting and waiting dutifully for the smoke to rise and the food to be served. At first, he was a little uncomfortable and his eyes followed the woman’s movements closely. He wanted to ask her something — her name, age, occupation, interests — anything really, so long as it meant he could hear her voice and watch her expressions. But she showed no inclination to chat with him, as if he’d always lived in the house and had been a member of the family for a long time.

He looked around as if bored, taking the opportunity to get a reading of her body. Taking the measure of her with the precise observations of a doctor, he assembled a series of numbers for her height and weight. His estimates suggested that the numbers were in perfect proportion. He smiled, convinced that she was supple in every part of her body, and probably incapable of hiding her solitude and loneliness for long. Sooner or later she would become an exuberant she-wolf, breaking out of her confines and turning the whole world upside down. He concluded that she would be one of those women who liked revolution.

Her chest boasted a pair of loaded coconuts, uniquely lethal weapons with which to wage her revolution. They were a potent pair of aphrodisiac tear-gas canisters. Day or night, if she willed it, she could pull the pin and instantly fill the world with smoke. No one would be able to escape from her.

His fingers bounced in the air as if stroking the keys on a piano. On his fingertips was the warmth and smoothness of satin, the slope of the hills, and his touch made the flowers tremble.

The woman in green suddenly turned and looked at him. At her glance, his mind exploded like a spring thunderstorm, leaves whipping in the tempest around him.

She did not say anything. Her face remaining expressionless as she turned away again.

The leaves danced, and the noise subsided.

Mengliu meekly averted his gaze, reining it in. His heart pounded. He cautiously got a hold on himself and with a flashlight’s beam, he began to sweep the room with his eyes. In a situation like this where he did not know much about a woman, he was used to following external cues, reaching a conclusion based on various sources of otherwise irrelevant information, as if knowing that the body’s systems were closely interrelated, and firmly mastering that knowledge, could help one to move the whole person. This was a strategy he called ‘the village surrounding the city.’

The furnishings inside her home gave him a sense of deja vu. If not for the different murals, he’d think he was back in the place where he’d eaten the pig’s trotter. These buildings that all looked the same were also similar inside, almost the way rooms in a hotel have the same appearance. The only difference was in the detailed decor, like the arrangement of flowers, that revealed the owner’s personal taste. This woman’s home had a lot of flowers and plants. To the right of the door, there was a screen of plants lush with fresh foliage. On the ground were pots of various heights, and hanging baskets above, full of colourful floral vines. He recognised periwinkle, bluebells, marigolds, begonias, petunias, and the short blossoms of morning glory. The plant blooming in the living room window was like a curtain of falling water. On the dining table was a hydroponic orchid with one elegant flower in bloom. The open cupboard held stacks of candles and beautiful silver candlesticks covered with elaborate decorations. Atop them were half-burnt candles. On the floor were several blue and white porcelain vases, and a stone sculpture of an animal head. He also saw flowers that looked like birds. After the meal he learned they were called ‘bird flowers,’ ‘birds of paradise,’ or ‘birds of heaven,’ and their scientific name was Strelitzia.

Practically all the plants were in bloom. The woman in green was herself like a dragon tree, her long hair naturally loose, covering the slender stem of her body and drooping with a finely wrought leaf pattern. Filled with desire, his hands were scheming how they might minister tenderly to her.

His eyes turned back to the woman. Watching how she went about managing the household, he wondered how she could work without making a sound. He too kept silent. It was like a scene from a pantomime.

After a short while, she went into another room. When she came out, she held a stack of fresh clothes, shoes, and socks. She handed the stack to Mengliu and flatly asked him to bathe and dress. Her pronunciation in English had a loose quality, like wind stirring up all sorts of sounds in the dragon tree. It was a flavour all her own. When she uttered an ‘s’ sound, she gritted her two rows of small pearly teeth tightly together and spat an ethereal wisp of air from her mouth, letting it float like a subtle fragrance. When she said ‘I am…’, her rosy tongue crept out and her eyes moved.

The smooth glow of her breast made Mengliu’s tongue stiffen. He politely took the clothes, uttered a terse but sincere thanks, and turned his attention to bathing and dressing.

Incense sticks burned in the bathroom, saffron-scented, or maybe gardenia. They again awakened the desire in him. The wall was tiled with colourful mosaics and the window decorated with tinted wax. The lights were soft, and the room filled with purple flowers. Entering into this space filled with an air of feminine sweetness, Mengliu grew reckless, but at the same time felt the secret joy of such a privilege. His heart filled with sweetness too as he carefully set the clean clothing on the counter. Humming a tune to himself, he undressed.

When he went to urinate, he discovered that the toilet bowl was a chic matte golden colour, and gave out a cool, dark gleam. He leaned his head down and inspected it, carefully running his finger over the surface of the bowl a few times. He tapped it a few times more, and gasped as he came to a tentative conclusion: the toilet bowl was wrought of gold. Taking upon himself the serious, responsible role of a scientist, he continued the exploration, squatting before the bowl and finally lying down and biting on it to test its authenticity. His sensitive fingers found the shallow tooth marks his bite had left behind.

He took the marbles the brown-eyed boy had given him from his pocket, and rotated them in the light for a while, then cradling them in his hand, he created a circle of darkness around them just so he could admire their glitter. He did not doubt that they were genuine. He only found it hard to believe that the people of Swan Valley could value precious stones and metals no more than they would a piece of shit.

He stood for a long time, feeling emotional. Faced with the golden toilet, he felt an inexpressible pressure. The urge to urinate disappeared. He couldn’t even squeeze out one drop. He dawdled as he began to bathe. Covering himself with shower gel, he thought of the hardships of the road, the strange things he’d encountered, the energy of the spiritual leader, the charm of the girls, the beauty of Swan Valley, the simplicity of the people, and he was overwhelmed with admiration.

Distracted, he finished bathing, his pores emitting the fragrance of the gel, dried his fit body, trimmed his moustache, dressed in the loose linen robe, then faced the mirror again. What he saw there was very pleasing to the eye. He felt that he had the look of one of the famed scholars of old. On his way out, he touched the toilet bowl again, rapping his knuckles against it a few times. He took a final look at the mirror and saw that he looked like a man going on a date. He wore a happy smile — the sort of expression a wife might see on the face of a husband who had been gone for a very long time and had now returned.

The meal was served, and a steaming aroma filled the air. In the centre of the dishes of bamboo shoots and salted meat, rose soup, blood tofu and vegetables was a vase of purple flowers. There were skirt-like blue and white porcelain bowls, two blue and white cups, and three pairs of chopsticks. The fragrance of the rice wine evoked a memory in Mengliu. He thought back to eating in a Chinese restaurant, where it was this same type of rice wine that had made Qizi drunk. He had taken her back to the West Wing and they had slept together on the same bed. Even in this state, she was alert enough to guard her chastity. His desire had boiled through the night.

The woman in green poured a milky substance into his cup. Placing it in front of him with both hands, she asked flatly, ‘Where does the gentleman come from?’

‘Dayang. My family name is Yuan. You can call me Mengliu. I’m a surgeon.’ The chopsticks had a pattern painted on their upper ends. He privately wondered what the meaning of the third pair of chopsticks might be. There was a stiffness to his speech. He employed a formal mode of expression, hoping that would weaken his Dayang accent and add a bit of charm to his words.

‘Oh, I guessed you were from there.’ The girl in green wore a gentle expression, but she seemed to be testing him.

Mengliu was surprised. At times like this, he did not want to waste his energy on polite matters. His heart was pounding with the sights and sounds of spring, his face radiant as if love-struck, like a bird rising confidently and joyously to greet the morning sun.

‘It’s actually a very interesting country,’ the girl continued.

‘Yes, it is vast and overflowing with resources. It has a long history. Swan Valley is…?’ Mengliu tried to hide his embarrassment as he sought to gain a little insight into her place.

‘You can call me Su Juli,’ the woman interrupted.

‘Oh…that’s a pretty name. Does it have any special significance?’

‘My favourite number is seven, because God created man on the seventh day. Our poems have lines with seven characters. There are seven treasures in the Buddhist scriptures. The human body has seven openings, seven passions…’ The woman in green hesitated, as if trying to think of what else might relate to the number seven.

‘…There’s the book Seven Epitomes, and there are seven continents on Earth. Which continent is Swan Valley on?’

‘Mr Yuan, what kind of book is the Seven Epitomes?’

‘It’s an ancient library catalogue.’

‘China is a very mystical country. Look, this blue and white porcelain, that animal carving, they are all very ancient. I don’t even know what period they come from.’

Mengliu pretended to look at them. ‘They’re pretty. But, I don’t really know much about these things.’

Unperturbed, the woman asked in a different tone about Dayang’s legal system, the standard of living of its people, who its spiritual leader was.

Mengliu was overjoyed. He felt that this woman in…no, he should think of her as Juli — that what she had asked was intriguing, and humorous, but the expression on her face as she waited for his answer showed that she was not joking. He had to employ diplomatic tactics and recite at length from passages in his textbooks in praise of the motherland. He could not find the English equivalent to some parts, but he finally managed to express himself clearly — not fluently, but clearly. At a certain level, what touched Juli might not be her opponent’s wit, but his awkwardness. Not everyone liked an eloquent person. Sometimes a person’s charm emerged at a point between a pause and a hesitation. Mengliu strove to express himself in a more careful, mature manner, hoping in this way to attract Juli.

At the end of the day, he was a poet, and not a bad one at that. He was never at a loss with women. One might even say that this was his greatest strength. His accomplishments in literature and his interest in philosophy were embedded deep within him, and women always seemed to have a way to draw it out. He would rather waste all his talent on a woman than be hailed a hero by his ruthless motherland.

With an affected dramatic accent that made it sound like he was explaining a disease, he continued, ‘…with the ups and downs and changes in life, our people are wealthy now and very particular about how they live. After dining out on the weekend, they often go and listen to the music of a mega-star, or see a play featuring some famous actor, or appreciate a world-renowned ballet. During the course of the evening they smoke Cuban cigars and sip on vintage wines. The women go for expensive beauty treatments, and their little purebred dogs visit pet salons…’

The longer he spoke the more outrageous he became. It was obvious his vanity was leading him into trouble as he took the upper echelons of society as the norm in his exposition. In fact, only about four percent of the population of his country enjoyed the lifestyle he spoke of, while eighty-four percent made up the bottom of the pyramid, mired in poverty and unemployment.

The woman in green spoke slowly, inclining her head slightly and clasping her wineglass, ‘We focus on liberal education, and our aim is a cultured people. We spend our time developing the mind, engaging in debate and the appreciation of the arts. For example, Esteban — he’s the young man you saw today, the one who has been engaged in debate for three days and three nights — he admires the ancient Chinese philosopher Mozi. He says people should pursue plain living and seek after spiritual wealth, since pleasure and luxury are evil.’

‘Esteban sounds like a wise man.’ Mengliu returned the salute politely, then drank his wine. ‘Where does he work?’

‘He has many identities. He trains future spiritual leaders, scholars and poets.’ The ring in the woman’s lip shook slightly beneath her pointed nose.

Her long lashes tickled his senses, almost beyond what he could bear. He released a little cry. He tried hard to make his ‘oh!’ reflect admiration and feeling. Admittedly this was a difficult thing to bring off, but he did it easily. Going even further, he plunged straight into an elaborate, silent contemplation, and his silence was just perfect, for a long-winded man who sought to get to the bottom of things would have seemed boring and lacking in intellectual prowess.

Mengliu was smart, and he remained completely focused on the woman in green. At the most appropriate moments, he would say things like, ‘Do you engage in the art of dancing?’ as a way of suggesting that her body was beautiful, or ‘You’re like the goddess in The Rhapsody of the Goddess of Luo.’ In this way, he quickly shifted the atmosphere from a stiff awkwardness to more yielding ground.

‘Oh no! No, I’m just a teacher. I teach sculpture and painting.’ She waved him off with a limp hand. ‘I’m just an ordinary woman. But thank you for the compliment.’

Mengliu, sparing no effort, continued to employ his genteel manners in this nauseating play. The woman in green was obviously not the sort whose head would start to spin from the sound of a little flattery. If he did not appreciate the need for moderation, all his efforts would end up being counterproductive. So he used food to stop up his mouth, showing by his expression how delicious it was. He wasn’t very hungry, but he was happy. His knotted feeling from a while back had disappeared, and he went about it all with an easy, carefree manner.

They chatted, and as they entertained themselves, the food diminished and the bottle emptied. With his body swathed in comfortable clothing, filled with the appropriate amount of wine, and faced with an appropriately fair female, everything seemed just right. He glanced at the foliage of the tree in the garden, and his heart overflowed with a special kind of wealth. Just then, the small raccoon-like boy he’d seen earlier jumped into the garden and trotted straight over to the woman in green. ‘Mum,’ he complained, ‘I don’t want to wear these things.’

The woman in green took the diamond jewellery off his body and threw it in the trash. It was as if she was picking strands of grass off him.

‘Shanlai, this is Mr Yuan…remember your manners.’

One can never avoid one’s nemesis for long. Mengliu mockingly prepared to accept Shanlai’s greetings, but the latter gave him a supercilious look and ran out through the front door.

‘As long as there’s a debate going on, he doesn’t bother about anything else.’ She spoke as a mother, and didn’t try to make excuses for her son.

‘That was your child?’ Mengliu knew he had asked a redundant question, but to push aside the surprise he was feeling, he quickly added a second question, ‘Those things…you just throw them away?’

‘Things made of jewels and diamonds are just ornaments children wear to ward off evil.’ The woman in green started to put the dinner things away. ‘Let me clean up. If you’ll wait for a while, we can have tea in the garden.’

Mengliu bowed in her direction. From various details he had deduced that this was a very well-mannered place, and so he too had become more courteous.

The garden was filled with the scent of flowers, and lots of fruit. They were green, red, yellow, round, long, flat — the greatest variety he had ever encountered. A hammock stretched between the trees alongside some lounge-chairs. A stone table, carved with a multi-purpose playing board, was surrounded by four wicker chairs and two round stools. He sat in one of the chairs, and watched Juli carry the tea things over. She was just like Chang’e, the famed Lady of the Moon.

‘Along with their formal careers, all the people of Swan Valley learn a handicraft.’ She put the tea set down and opened the box of leaves. The scent of tea escaped from the box like a pack of demons. ‘I learned how to roast fermented tea over a fire, and how to pick the tea leaves myself. Those picked and brought back before rainfall have the best quality.’

‘It seems you get a lot of rain here in Swan Valley. I didn’t know the weather was so important in tea-picking.’ Mengliu admired the cups and sniffed at the tea leaves with an affected panache, trying to demonstrate some level of expertise.

‘I’ve heard that China’s fermented tea is also pretty good. It has quite a long history there.’ She added plain hot water to rinse the tea set, put in more leaves, then brewed the first pot. ‘Our fermented tea comes from a different strain, but we use the same methods for preparation, heating, crumbling, soaking and drying. It’s not uncommon for us to store the tea in a cellar for more than five years before taking it out to drink. This has been kept for twenty years. Try it.’

‘I don’t know much about tea. I like to drink sorghum spirit. Rice wine is also good.’

‘Swan Valley prohibits the consumption of spirits. Liquor is a source of trouble.’ She had made the tea, and was waiting for its colour to deepen.

Mengliu replied, ‘Alcohol is innocent. To put the blame on alcohol is like a conquered people putting the blame on women for the death of their country.’

Juli said, ‘Your institution of marriage…’

‘According to the law, it is one man, one wife. In reality, if a man’s rich, he can have concubines, mistresses, bastard children.’

She poured the tea into a small porcelain cup. The cup’s surface glistened like jade against the golden hue of the tea. The aroma was light, though the tea was concentrated, and the bottom of the bowl was visible through the liquid.

The young woman was suddenly quiet, taking her tea very seriously.

‘Have you seen an instrument like this before?’ Mengliu pulled out his lady-charming chuixun.

Juli took the flute from him and inspected it for a while. ‘I know it’s a xun, but it’s the first time I’ve seen a real one. It looks very old. Oh! and your name is carved on it.’

‘Yes. It’s an antique. At least six-hundred years old.’

‘That’s priceless. Where did you get it?’ She returned the chuixun to him.

‘My mum left it to me.’ It was the first time he had ever uttered this strange word ‘mum’ in the presence of a woman he hardly knew. He was surprised by it. He almost went so far as to share his most personal information, that his mother had given him the instrument at the time when she abandoned him in his swaddling clothes.

To rescue himself from further embarrassment, he said, ‘You want to hear it?’

She nodded, and he began to play the soothing notes of his old favourite, ‘The Pain of Separation’.

As he played the low, sad melody, the night fell quietly about them, as if the dark eyes of a multitude of small animals were peering from the shadows.

9

His bedroom was next to the garden. Its decor was simple and it smelled like it had been vacant for a long time. The smell of loneliness resembled that of a dried melon. But when Mengliu walked in, that smell disappeared, and the room became warm and pleasant. He paced slowly around it, a smile on his face, knowing that he already liked it here. He looked about him and noticed a moderately-sized painting on the wall. It was of a white cathedral, its steeple covered in red tiles and its windows filled with gorgeous colourful images. The cathedral was surrounded by trees with golden leaves and white clouds billowing overhead. A bust of crude appearance sat on the wardrobe, its hair bristling and a rough beard curling beneath its protruding chin. Books rested on a small bookshelf, alongside a stack of blank paper. On the desk there was a framed photo, and the back of the frame bore the name Juan. Mengliu turned the frame around again, and saw that the soldier had a commanding presence with his long face, deep-set eyes, bright teeth and glossy dark skin, holding a hat under his arm. He was dressed in riding breeches and black boots, and his legs were very straight. He was young, about twenty-four or twenty-five.

His bedroom and that of the woman in green faced each other from opposite sides of the living room, which was filled with baskets of flowers. This put a fascinating distance of about fifteen metres between them. Mengliu left his door unlocked and stayed in his room for a while, but he did not sleep. He thought of the soldier in the photo. It must be Su Juli’s husband. Was he alive or dead? How had he died? If he was alive, where was he? After a while, he became bored with these questions, and picked up a book in English and flipped through it. His mind grew sluggish.

He lay on the bed. The sheets smelled of apples and his body felt like water spreading comfortably outwards. He listened to the fruit swelling and the shoots popping out of the earth, like someone who was pulling a string and setting off a series of vibrations. Stirred by the wind, his orchard reached the climax of its symphony of sharp, bright, low, and short notes, all alternating in a pleasing mix of sound. After a soft adagio movement, the silence resumed.

Mengliu dreamed, and in his dream he saw three people playing basketball. It was a fierce contest, and when the ball fell into Hei Chun’s hands, it turned into a pistol. Hei Chun pointed the pistol at him, forcing him all the way to the centre of the court, where there was no way out. His assailant interrogated him, ‘Why didn’t you participate in the poetry readings? Why don’t you write poetry any more? If a poet doesn’t write poetry, what meaning is there to his life?’ Bai Qiu suddenly appeared out of nowhere and blocked the pistol with his badly mangled face. His mouth was against the muzzle. He said repeatedly, ‘Poetry is no use; poetry isn’t as fast as a bullet; poetry is not as cruel as the muzzle of a gun.’ Blood and tears flowed from Bai Qiu’s empty eye sockets onto the muzzle of the gun. Blue smoke rose from the muzzle. The pistol turned into a white dove, its dark eyes looking gently at Mengliu. Seeing that the eyes were Qizi’s, Mengliu’s spirit soared. The dove circled the court a few times, and with a cry rose into the sky, shooting upward like a bullet into the glare of the sun. People crowded around, looking at him contemptuously. He was so humiliated he wanted to die. His body became so light it left the earth, hovered in mid-air, then abruptly dropped to the ground.

When he awoke, he was drenched in sweat, even though his heart was chilled.

10

It was raining in Beiping. When the sun broke onto the scene, it warmed things up, and those who braved its heat soon had patches of sweat under their arms. They stripped off their jackets, showing off their physiques — strong, scrawny, stout, or slim — giving the spring a little more flourish.

Mengliu was in a bright mood as he cycled the ten miles to the Wisdom Bureau. He hovered at the entrance to the Physics Department library, a collection of poems clasped in his hand. He glanced over a few lines, then looked around. The peach tree in full bloom above his head occasionally let a few petals flutter down. He saw reflected in the building’s glass facade his ruffled hair and finely chiselled features, and the beard he had specially trimmed for the occasion. His old black V-neck sweater was presentable enough, and his newly-washed jeans had a slightly cloying soapy smell. They were a little long, so he had turned them up at the ankles, allowing the cuffs to rest on top of his canvas boating shoes.

To tell the truth, he was quite satisfied with his image.

Qizi was especially striking in the crowd. She wore a blue shirt with a grey skirt and black flat-soled boots. Her feet clacked as she walked down the steps of the library, clutching a large book to her bosom, blocking it from view. Her chin rested on the book, and it was clear she was lost in a state of mental and physical pleasure. Her skin was even fairer than it had been on the day of the procession, her short raven-black hair flowed around her face, and her slanting fringe especially captivated Mengliu. She was always so beautiful. He only learned later that the day they had met, she had just cut her hair. The way a girl wore her hair always had something to do with what was on her mind.

He stepped towards her and took the book from her arms. It was another book about physics. She was wracking her brains over that machine of the future.

A group of young people walked by, laughing. They wore white T-shirts with the word ‘freedom’ printed across their chests in black. Seeing Qizi, someone whistled cheekily. Mengliu smiled and raised his middle finger toward them.

‘We’re meeting Shunyu. She’s got tickets to see a Chinese opera performance this afternoon at two,’ Qizi said, slapping his hand down.

‘It’s her father’s idea, again. He worries too much. He’s afraid she’ll join in the march, so he gets her tickets to the ballet one day, a concert the next. This time it’s a Chinese show.’ Mengliu shook his head, a wry smile on his face. ‘You and I won’t understand it all. It’s just a novelty, a way for us to have a good time. We’ll have to make the best we can of it.’

‘Her father has good intentions. You’re benefitting from them, but you act like it’s a hardship. Don’t you think you’re being a little unkind?’

‘Poor old man…We should hope that the unrest will go on for a while. Before it started he didn’t even invite us to a movie. Once things settle down, that will be the end of our cultured lifestyle. I don’t know if I could get used to that again!’

Qizi smiled and pinched him. ‘I’ve heard that a lot of people in Round Square have fainted from hunger. If the hunger strike costs someone their life, they’ll be paying too high a price.’

‘Are they really going without food and water? That’s playing too straight…They should sneak a bite, or is just sitting there quietly not eating or drinking supposed to be performance art?’

‘You’re talking nonsense again.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s still two or three hours before the show. Where do you want to go?’

‘Do you want to come back to the West Wing with me?’ Mengliu blurted out. ‘You’ll have to prepare yourself. It’s a mess.’

When he and Qizi appeared in the bar later, they were holding hands and kissing. Love blew on the spring breeze, and their happiness was like flowers bursting into bloom. It was as if their earlier intimacy at his place had propelled them all the way to the bar.

‘Hasn’t that plant ever known a woman’s touch?’ Qizi had been hit by bird droppings when she first stepped into the courtyard, and so had changed into one of Mengliu’s thin sweaters. She stood in the doorway, her posture open and relaxed, watching him wash the bird shit off her clothing. She turned to the half-dead rose bush on the windowsill and started to toy with it, poking it here and there with a stick she had found.

‘No. It has never flowered.’ The old acacia tree flourished in the courtyard. Mengliu hung the blouse out to dry, causing the wire to shake.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I’m the first?’

‘You’re the first.’

Satisfied, she smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it to bloom with fiery red flowers.’

‘What makes you so sure they’ll be red?’

‘I want them to be red. It’s the colour of passion.’

‘I like white ones. They’re pure.’

‘Let’s bet on it.’

‘Bet what?’

She leaned over and whispered a private message in his ear. Her words filled him with joy — a joy that lasted many years.

He took her and carried her back into the room. They made out for a long time, which made them burn with desire, but they conquered their carnal nature, and their hearts were filled with a sacred purity. He knew she was his, and he was hers. They belonged to each other.

‘It looks like I’ll have to wear your sweater to the show. It’s so embarrassing. Shunyu is sure to laugh at me.’

‘She’ll just be jealous that you’re wearing your boyfriend’s clothes…’ He kissed her. ‘Ever since Shunyu went into the Plum Party, it’s as if she’s been brainwashed.’

‘She’s still herself. If we don’t go abroad, let’s apply to join the Party too. What do you think?’

‘I won’t. I’m a poet. Poets have to be independent and free, without connections to friends or parties…But of course, I won’t object to whatever you decide to do.’

‘I guess I can’t put it off. To tell the truth, for scientific research, the environment overseas is a hundred times better. If our country were rich and powerful, everyone would be scrambling to come here. We wouldn’t need to go anywhere else.’

The sun fell on top of the acacia tree. A bird with a white head twittered in the trees. Patches of sunlight and bird droppings filled the courtyard.

A scarlet curtain was draped across the stage, with several spotlights shining on it. The café offered an array of snacks. The waiter moved to and fro between the tables, adding water to the teapots. After finding a good seat, Qizi downed half of her tea in one gulp. Mengliu focused on the playbill. It read Lady Zhaojun.

Just as he asked why Shunyu had not yet arrived, he looked up to see her lifting the bead curtain at the entrance and walking through it to meet them. She wore a Chinese-style outfit topped with a thin jacket lined with embroidery. It made her look like one of the actors.

From behind the curtain on the stage, the big gong boomed, accompanied by tinkles on the smaller gong, marking the beginning of the performance. They watched the actor spin in a full scarlet cloak, pheasant feathers in her hand, her arms snowy white and her costume shimmering. They were captivated by the glamorous apparel.

But that was all there was to it. Before long, the spectacle became boring.

‘Traffic in Beiping has been blocked and the city is practically in a state of siege. I made a detour on a trishaw to tell you the news. Reports on the double-tracked wall say that people in the square will soon pass out from hunger. They are in urgent need of bread and water.’ Shunyu leaned in toward the centre of the table and whispered. ‘The troublesome shit…Maybe there really is a monster out there.’

Qizi waited for the actor to finish singing the line, ‘Even a huge pool of civilians is no use, and all the generals fight in vain,’ then asked whether anyone had sent food over. Shunyu said she didn’t know. She had finished reading the news on the wall and then come straight to the theatre.

The actress held a horsewhip and walked swiftly onstage. She struck a pose, her gaze determined and the pheasant feathers in her hair quivering ceaselessly.

Mengliu, pretending to be very committed, would have rather stayed where he was and be bored than go and plunge into the events in Round Square.

‘Are they all from the Wisdom Bureau?’ Qizi rolled the playbill up into a cylinder, using it like a telescope.

‘Most are. My father said something really bad is going to happen.’

The actor sang to the climax, struck a pose, and won loud applause from the audience. When the scene came to an end, the scarlet curtain closed. The café burst into a small commotion.

The curtain reopened to the pathos of an erhu being played over a snowy background. At this point, Qizi and Mengliu abandoned Shunyu and left the theatre.

‘When we go abroad, don’t get any funny ideas — not even out of curiosity — about those foreign girls. You can look once, or at most twice, and for no longer than two seconds. If it’s more than two seconds, it means you’ve got some funny ideas in your head. If you’ve got those ideas, then just go with them. I won’t stop you. But it’ll be over between us.’

Clumps of trees grew by the roadside. A well-proportioned foreign girl, fresh as spring, walked by with her breasts showing in a provocative fashion. Qizi, watching her as she passed one tree after another, elbowed Mengliu and said, ‘Hey! Did you hear what I said?’

‘You’re telling me what isn’t allowed, while you’re blatantly doing what I’m not supposed to do. Whatever you look at I can look at too.’ He purposely stared at the foreign girl for a good while longer. ‘Well…she’s still not as cute as our girls.’

‘No double talk from you. I should wring your neck.’

‘I’m just trying to make a responsible, detailed observation. If I don’t look carefully, how can I give an accurate analysis?’

‘You’re such a horny little thing.’

‘If I wasn’t horny, how would I have been attracted to you?’

When they got back to the West Wing, Mengliu pulled a wallet from underneath his mattress, took out a few notes, thought for a second, then took out the whole lot, saying he would have to tighten his belt for a while. He put the money into his pocket, took Qizi by the hand, and they went to the supermarket to buy bread and water. From there, they went straight to Round Square.

Wherever they looked, the streets were packed with people. There was garbage all over the place.

A banner hung on a truck painted in bright colours. It read, ‘Brothel Support Group’. The bed of the truck was filled with prostitutes, all richly attired and heavily made up. They leaned over the sides, waving colourful handkerchiefs and calling cheekily, ‘Come on, gentlemen! If you’ve got money, spend it. If you have strength, then spend that. It’s all in support of the Wisdom Bureau. Come on now!’

At the same time, they distributed scented flyers. ‘The faeces issue is a hoax. The people demand the truth…Protest by petition, not by violence.’

A voluptuous prostitute hung onto Mengliu and said earnestly, ‘Mister, dedicate your passion to the cause. Fifty kuai each time. Just put your money in the donation box…We can do it in the cab…Or we can go to a hotel if you want.’

‘Er, just fifty…to support…’ Embarrassed, Mengliu remained deeply affected as he walked on. It took him a long time to settle down again. His mind kept going back to the prostitute’s words. Why did she say it was in support of the Wisdom Bureau? Could it be that the Bureau had taken an important role in the rally?

As he pondered, he ran across another team, the ‘Writers’ Support Group’. In direct contrast to the prostitutes, they sat smoking, chatting, and casually wiling away their time amongst themselves.

One young fellow sporting a red bandana was carrying a banner across his body that practically screamed, ‘I am Yuan Mengliu!’

Mengliu walked over and asked, ‘Are you really Yuan Mengliu?’

The fellow ignored him.

Mengliu said, ‘I’m Yuan Mengliu.’

The guy took a long, disdainful look at him. ‘Dude, stop pretending! Just take the opportunity to have a good time.’

Mengliu and Qizi exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.

As they made their way through the crowd, it parted like water, then closed again.

In the square, Hei Chun stood, dressed in a black trench coat and with his legs splayed. His hair was tied in a ponytail, revealing the word ‘love’ written across his forehead in red ink. As the ink dripped down his face like blood, he recited his new poem.

It’s time, young people,

to let loose and sing!

Take your pain, your love

and spill it all on the page.

Don’t hide your feelings of injustice

indignation and sorrow —

let the pain and joy in your heart

come out and be seen in the daylight!

In the face of your critics,

their accusations pelt you like rain

— only then will new growth sprout,

fearless in the sun’s light!

My verse is a torch,

burning down all the world’s barriers.

There was warm applause that lasted a long time. Some people took photos, some shouted, others whistled, and threw hats, shoes, or empty bottles in the air.

The air was polluted, a mix of many different odours. Dizzy and headachy, Mengliu and Qizi went to an open space for fresh air. Then they saw a commotion breaking out, people running, shouting, and falling over one another. Suddenly all hell broke loose. The pair backed onto the sidewalk, and sheltered by a tree trunk. They managed not to be separated by the crowd.

At that moment they saw people walking arm in arm, forming a tight horizontal line spread across the street to the walls of the buildings on either side. Like a bulldozer, the line advanced, occasionally issuing a brief, dignified cry. About ten metres behind them, another line of people followed, advancing in identical fashion. As they moved forward in unison, the street cleared. The afternoon sun fell serenely on the scene. In the distance, the boundless sky stretched as far as the eye could see.

11

Mengliu remembered very clearly how his newly-appointed surgical assistant had taken the initiative to ask him to lunch that day. He had even gone out to the mall the night before and bought a new pair of red boxers — a girl had once said that when he wore red boxer shorts, it gave him an air of gentleness mingled with a ravaging sexiness, and he had taken it to heart. After that, he went to the salon for a haircut, shave, ear-wax removal, and trimming of his nose hairs. His nose hairs had never needed to be trimmed before. His over-zealous approach illustrated just how important the date was to him. It was the first time since his relationship with Qizi had ended all those years ago that he had taken a date — or a girl — so seriously. He made a ritual of cleaning himself, taking longer than he ever had before. He cleansed himself inside and out and, just for the sake of it, abstained from eating garlic. But still his mind floated to Qizi, and he kept confusing her with Suitang. He even found himself wondering if Suitang might be an assumed name under which Qizi had come to test him.

He dug out a designer suit he’d worn the year he attended a medical school exchange program, matching it with a good shirt and tie, and polished his shoes. He remembered how he had once elegantly laid a young foreign girl face down on his bed, caressing her back, simply because it reminded him of Qizi’s petite, pliable form. Just before going out the door, he changed everything, except the red boxers, taking pains to dress in a manner more in keeping with his professional standing. He was now dressed casually in sports shoes, white shirt under a black jacket, light grey trousers, and a subdued expression.

That day, Suitang similarly came without makeup, looking simple and pure. She was one of those girls who was all the more eye-catching in the simplest attire, like a pearl just pulled out of the water. The left side of her hair had a fiery red hairpin clipped to it. This tiny, seductive dot made Mengliu think of a widow dressed in black with a white flower pinned to her breast, but he quickly wiped that inauspicious image from his mind.

It was the first time Mengliu had gone to the restaurant. The waitress was dressed like a flight attendant, her face as welcoming as a spring breeze, eyes as brilliant as peach blossoms, her curves churning like waves, her mouth as fresh as the scent from a basket of flowers. She was respectful, caring and humble — almost ingratiating — at every moment trying to satisfy the vanity of her customers. The charming waitress, knowing it was Mengliu’s first visit, introduced him with a high degree of professionalism to the quality of their steaks, which were better than those he would find elsewhere. In their restaurant, meat from a single cow was served to only six patrons, and only the sixth and eighth ribs were selected, and after soaking for three days and three nights in the chef’s special marinade, cooked over a fire.

‘Do you know who our chef is? He is Chef Xieyong, who was employed by —!’ The charming waitress uttered an intimidating name.

Mengliu asked what was so special about the sixth and eighth ribs. The girl smiled, her look as mysterious as God’s would have been when creating humankind.

The French bread arrived on a luxurious covered tray, with little pieces of goose liver floating in glasses of wine, like beautiful girls lying on red velvet couches. The portions looked like they had been measured out for a cat, but it was all gorgeous and its extravagance was a feast for the eyes. They opened a bottle of Black Label whisky, poured it over ice, and slowly sipped at it. Suitang’s pale skin gained a rosy blush.

The steak was delayed. Mengliu and Suitang’s conversation sputtered. They talked on and off, sometimes seeming very close and sometimes very distant. The few topics they tried had short lifespans, either because she killed them or because he couldn’t manage to keep the talk up. Mengliu’s eyes fell often to Suitang’s cleavage. To call it cleavage, however, is only to describe his fantasy of it. In fact, only her collarbone was visible to him, slim and exquisite, just like the two curves of a peach on a canvas, inviting someone to add a few artistic strokes to it. Their conversation didn’t wander beyond the confines of the hospital, and from beginning to end, everything was somehow connected to illness. Of course, everyone has his or her own circle of interest, and those inside the circle rarely talk about anything outside of it. Politics, war, economics, nuclear weapons…it was clear Suitang was not interested in those things. Mengliu had a feeling that there might be words sitting in Suitang’s mouth, just waiting for her to find the right time to spit them out.

Finally the waitress came to them, poised as she swung her hips, balancing the plates. She arranged their forks and knives, gracefully poured the black pepper and onion sauces onto the few pieces of beef, her movements elaborate as those of an opera singer.

She asked, ‘Would you like me to cut it for you?’ Upon hearing Suitang’s reply, she set about with an impressive exhibition of swordplay, reminiscent of the murderous landlady Sun Erniang in Shi Nai’an’s novel Water Margin. The knife whizzed as she attacked the meat, slicing through the flesh and leaving it in a pool of gravy.

Mengliu tasted one of the slices. When he offered his heartfelt praise, the waitress’s chest swelled all the more with her pride.

The blues played in the background, mournful as a dying patient, the lingering phrases long and drawn out.

A man and woman sat at the table next to them, neither speaking to the other. They sat gloomily puffing on their cigarettes.

Several businessmen chatted on the other side. Their eyes also slipped slyly toward Mengliu’s table to catch a glimpse of Suitang’s collarbone.

When the waitress came to collect their plates, Suitang glanced at her retreating rear, wiped her mouth, and said, ‘Before, there was a man who always brought me here. I never got tired of the food, despite coming so often. Every time we ate, it was like tasting the food for the first time. I began to wonder whether they added opium to it.’

‘When love is sweet, the appetite will be good. In many senses, love is like a drug,’ Mengliu said casually, then sat silently, waiting to hear the man’s name.

‘I was pampered by him. He let me have my way in everything.’

‘A woman should be pampered.’

‘But there was one thing —’

‘What thing?’

‘Marriage.’

‘You were a mistress?’

‘No, I was a third party.’

‘There’s not much difference.’

‘There is a difference. A mistress is willing to stay a mistress. A third party has to work much harder to become a wife.’

‘When you put it like that, it makes sense.’

‘Shouldn’t this also be considered as love? Is there really a need to brand us as fornicating dogs?’

‘With love, you can never really say. As far as I know, the breakup of marriages is at an all-time high. That should be good news for a third party.’

‘He’s got too much money. Divorce would bankrupt him.’

‘Maybe love will mean more to him than money.’

‘You tell me, do you think he loves me?’

‘Maybe he’s not even sure himself.’

‘Well, if he doesn’t care for my feelings, I’m certainly not going to be the one to let things go. He thinks he’s the king, a monarch who can bestow favours on whomever he pleases, a little here and a little there, so everyone will be happy and will remain loyal to him without any will of their own.’

Does this mean Suitang is one of those women who loves revolution? Mengliu thought. But to Suitang he only said, ‘In times of revolution, one must revolt. The rebel has no choice but to rebel. But what will you use in your revolution? What sort of bargaining chip do you have? If his marriage is solid, then your attempts to break it will be like throwing eggs against a rock. Haven’t you had enough of such teachings?’

‘You mean all I can do is be led around by the nose? I’m a human, you know!’ Suitang looked just then like a human-rights crusader.

‘That’s right, you are human, but if you threaten his security, his benefits, his happiness, he’ll have no choice but to cut you off, and wash his hands of you.’

‘So now you’re speaking up for him? You men, you always look out for each other’s interests.’

‘To tell the truth, I’ve never been married and I don’t know how married men think. But I do know that whether a person does good or bad…either way, it’s natural and normal.’

‘Mengliu, do you think you’re here to give me a lecture me about the Confucian Golden Mean? You’ve got no middle ground, only vul…vulgarity, no moral standing, no character. Surely you’ve been in love before.’

Suitang’s words were sharp as a sword. Overwhelmed, Mengliu paused for a moment, slumped back in his chair, and said weakly, ‘Of course. I’ve been in love. And I’ve been hurt. Heartbroken.’

When he had finished, he straightened up again and took a sip of wine to wet his throat, as if he was preparing to let the whole story spill out.

Suitang’s brow tightened. She stared at him strangely, as if a horn had sprouted from his forehead.

‘Go on,’ she said, stealing another glance at him.

‘With what?’

‘Your love story.’

‘Even if I go on, you won’t understand.’

‘You’re so self-righteous. But, if Jia Wan hadn’t overtaken you, maybe…Suitang’s tone was as casual as if she were polishing a nail, and just as casually, she unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and shoved it into her mouth.

‘Jia Wan…? That celebrity?’

Of course Mengliu was familiar with Jia Wan. In the year of the Tower Incident, just as spring turned to summer, the atmosphere had been tense as a guitar string. It took very little in such a charged setting to trigger an incident. Summer came early, withering the new leaves and buds, which were growing together on the same tree. At that time, there were poetry readings everywhere, with a major event happening every few days. The double-tracked wall at the Wisdom Bureau often attracted a crowd. On the trees, the wall, the iron railing — practically even hanging from the roofs — there were people everywhere you looked. As they recited Neruda, Miłosz, Whitman, Tagore, Jia Wan often made an appearance as well.

‘Doctors are always getting involved with patients. How much do you know about him?’ Mengliu asked.

‘I have an in-depth understanding.’ She emphasised the word ‘in-depth.’

‘Strictly speaking, Jia Wan is not a poet.’

‘You’re just jealous.’

Mengliu did not say anything. He had never liked Jia Wan’s poetry, and he liked the person even less.

‘Of course, he couldn’t compete with any of you. I’ve collected the poems of the Three Musketeers from the newspapers, and I’ve listened to your readings. Your poetry is like Whitman’s…or was. Why did you stop writing poetry?’ Suitang let him off.

‘Whitman? Times have changed.’

‘“One’s-self I sing — a simple, separate Person; Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.”’ She recited a few lines. ‘Poetry will not hinder your life. When I chose to be your assistant, it was because I liked your poetry. It’s a shame. If you don’t write poetry anymore, don’t you feel it’s a waste?’

As she spoke, she smiled sweetly and tilted her head. The red hairpin flashed, catching the light’s glare, and suddenly it was as if the sky was on fire. There was gunfire, fighting, killing, blood, tank-tracks rolling, and smoke.

Suitang smiled through the bloody scene. In consternation, Mengliu sat without making a sound. His expression resembled Round Square after it had been washed clean, and was suffused with a moist sheen of sorrow.

Driven by complex emotional forces, Mengliu left the Wisdom Bureau, went to medical school, and became a doctor. He intentionally distanced himself from his old acquaintances, and soon lost contact with them. After that, he didn’t form any new relationships. Patients, on the other hand, he had in abundance. They trusted him. In times of illness, patients and their families tried to curry favour with him. Their enthusiasm was often rewarded with a cure. Mengliu grew accustomed to the life. Occasionally someone would report him, accuse him of having a bad lifestyle. They especially questioned his past, pointing to some hidden errant political activity. Of course, that was all a load of rubbish. Even when they tried to get to the bottom of it, other than finding out that he had been quite a good poet, no one could come up with any kind of evidence.

All the same, he realised finally that sometimes you had to sell your soul to maintain your innocence. Being ‘without incident’ didn’t mean he hadn’t had any pleasure or glory. He’d even endured some suffering. His leather-covered diary contained this entry: ‘I think that there is no such thing as a healthy person. The heartbeat of one person may thump in the chest of another. Some only have half a liver or one kidney. Some people are without uterus or breasts. Some are bald. Most have no conscience, and many are utterly wicked. The lungs of even the most upright person may be coated with oil like a kitchen hob…Even so, they will not, for the sake of some gain, give up the fight. They want to dominate others, they want love and sex, they want to take control of their lives and seem normal. I include myself in this. I’m a coward, just dragging out an ignoble existence, a louse lying on the gigantic body of the nation.’

Sandwiched between the pages of his diary was a photo of the Three Musketeers. In the picture, Bai Qiu’s arms were crossed over his chest, the very image of an independent, eccentric spirit, with a sort of uncertain, confused look in his eyes. A renowned literary critic once said of Bai Qiu’s poems that he heard a trumpet sounding in his lines, which was perhaps the most poetic appraisal that could be made of them at that time. Bai Qiu had an innate fascination with the grave, and his poetry was full of death, corpses, skulls and other such imagery. For him, death was not something that came by chance.

On the afternoon of the dissolution of the Dayang Poets’ Society, all five or six of its members slunk off to the Green Flower to drink in the gloom. Up until then Bai Qiu’s poetry had merely served as criticism or warning, and it had not been appropriated by people who operated with ulterior motives. Now it was all completely banned — though the word ‘banned’ may be too politically charged. To put it more precisely, no media source would publish his work. The editors stammered and stuttered, dodging behind various pretexts. Even those intellectuals who had previously valued Bai Qiu’s poetry quite highly now began to have reservations.

‘Hey, Boss, I’ve come to recite some poetry. Can you send a jug of wine over?’ Bai Qiu said to the proprietor, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He took a slim little notebook from his pocket. In it were three poems he had just composed. It was exciting then to listen to a poet recite his work, and many in the audience counted it an honour to have their photos taken with him. Poets were like movie stars. If a poet tried to board a train without a ticket, the conductor was likely to let it pass in exchange for an autograph. He would even try to arrange a comfortable seat for him, free of charge.

‘The jug of wine is no problem, but please don’t recite poetry here,’ Shunyu’s father answered, surprising them. Everyone took it as a joke.

A few days later on a hot rainy afternoon, all sorts of rumours were circulating, and it was hard to verify which were true. Bai Qiu invited Mengliu to travel back with him to his village. On the train, he spoke at length about poetry, saying that death was the best subject matter for it. The next day just as the sun rose, they reached their destination. They walked along the narrow country lane, noting all the peaceful details of the village. Dewdrops formed on the tips of the grass, the vegetables and crops grew plump and full, the chickens and dogs were content. In the midst of this tranquil scene, a peasant woman sat at her door feeding her infant, her powdery white breast announcing that the world was sweet as a dream. The dream was limited, however, to this remote village. Mengliu had no inkling that this would be Bai Qiu’s final farewell to him.

12

Wrapped around the outer wall and roof of the house were many creepers. In front of the windows, where there was no surface to attach themselves to, the creepers gave way to stalks of rattan, their shadows dancing along the floor as they swayed in the breeze. The faint fragrance of flowers floated all over the house. The window frames, timber doors, and the different pieces of furniture were carved with complex patterns, flowers, birds, fish, all sorts of living creatures, each showing traces of the Chinese Ming-Qing style. A pair of lion snouts with rings through their noses served as door handles on the wardrobe in the living room, looking dull and cold. The doors opened at Mengliu’s touch, releasing the scent of sandalwood. He found himself faced suddenly with a hidden library set in a recess in the wall with books placed neatly on the bookshelves, and arranged according to categories. This huge library took his breath away. Some of the books’ covers had been repaired, and others wrapped in craft paper. It looked as if they had been handled with great care, like the care a wounded soldier would receive from a nurse. They were arranged in terms of history, politics, literature and philosophy, with not a single extraneous title grandstanding there amongst them. There was one work in the original English version. It was Su Juli’s doctoral dissertation, and it was very thick.

When Mengliu had looked the dissertation over for a while, he felt a tightening in his chest and shortness of breath. Seeing that the window was closed, he pushed it open. The fresh breeze buzzed into the room like a group of lively young girls. He almost thought he could hear their laughter as they frolicked.

Feeling a little more comfortable, he looked out the window at the beautifully delineated landscape. Above was a pale blue sky without a cloud in it. A touch of snow covered the expansive green mountains, which were skirted with a thin fog. The colour of the trees was well-distributed too, growing in light yellows along the slopes, orange at the peak, and green near the base of the mountains. Most beautiful of all was the river flowing at the foot of the scene, a bright, sparkling ribbon — for Juli had rolled up her skirt and was wading in the water. Her smooth legs seemed to wade right into Mengliu’s heart. He settled his elbows on the windowsill, rested his chin on his arms and enjoyed the moving sight of her figure.

He saw her hair, with drops of mist clinging to it, and glimpsed the shape of her body through the sheer skirt as it dragged in the water. The light shone on her, highlighting the fresh round breasts that hung from her body. Due to the weight of the fruit it bore, her slender waist seemed especially pliable and strong, as she bent over and straightened up. As the skirt brushed against her skin it showed the curve of her buttocks. In this way, her shapely form rose and fell as she rinsed out the laundry with her hands.

‘You aren’t supposed to open the windows. The books will get damp.’ A voice emerged from the corner of the room.

Mengliu flinched, and the lust he’d harboured inside him leapt out of the window like a startled cat. He turned and saw a tiny figure sitting on the floor in the corner.

‘Oh, Shanlai, you little scholar…what’s that you’re reading?’ Mengliu closed the window, though the tender feeling inside him hadn’t quite cooled. His theatrical tone was gentle and pleasing to him, and he instinctively felt that this was his chance to initiate a positive relationship with the raccoon-like child.

The little fellow propped the book on his knees, nearly covering his whole body. He didn’t say a word.

‘You want to learn to speak a foreign language? I understand some Chinese, Japanese, and French. I used to write poetry, then…’

‘Poetry isn’t something just anyone can write.’ The little raccoon, beady eyes fixed on the book, continued arrogantly, ‘It’s much easier to be a doctor.’

‘You’re right. It’s not just anyone who can write poetry. You put it very well…Many people aren’t suited to be poets. They would only tarnish poetry.’ Mengliu drew his right hand into a fist, stuck his thumb into his hair, and casually scratched his scalp.

‘So are you not suitable to be a poet? Do you tarnish poetry?’ The child turned to the next page of the book as he spoke.

‘No, it wasn’t like that. No…well, all right, let me tell you. I had two good friends who wrote poetry, and together the three of us were known as The Three Musketeers. Then, one died, and the other went missing…You tell me, what could I write after that? There’s an old phrase, “burning a lute to cook a crane”. If you do that, what’s left that’s worth writing? You don’t understand, but I feel that everything is empty. What’s the use of poetry?’ Mengliu mumbled, but continued on, lost in his own ramblings. ‘For instance, say there’s a horse-drawn carriage. If the horse falls, the wheels also fall from the cart. How can it move anymore? Where would it go? It won’t go anywhere. It can’t express anything… especially since when they needed me, I didn’t stand with them… There’s a sort of loneliness that you can’t understand…’

Mengliu talked about the most enjoyable times with the Three Musketeers, the salons, the readings, the debates and the beautiful girls…Unfortunately, the Tower Incident had ruined it all.

‘Hei Chun wasn’t handsome, but he had a certain charm. He was a bit like an ape, with a prominent forehead and loose, coarse hair. He played basketball pretty well. But the main thing was his poetry. Sometimes it was like a flame, burning you all over suddenly. Of the three of us, he was the only one without glasses. He had good vision, and strong teeth too. He could always see right to the essence of things, and his teeth seemed capable of cutting through anything, no matter how hard. He was decisive, and efficient. To illustrate, if someone slow to anger or with a soft temperament is a rowing boat, Hei Chun was like a speedboat, crossing the water in a burst of spray. He wrote poetry, read philosophy and studied politics. He liked Rousseau, Plato… He fingered the pages of Thomas More’s Utopia until the book was as fluffy as if yeast had been added.

‘He said if he were president, he’d make sure everyone had food and clothes, not just an example here and there, when there is such disparity between rich and poor. If he were king he would govern by a system of virtue and punishment. Rebels would be cut down, and the law-abiding would be rewarded. The forms of punishment used in ancient times should not be discarded. He would bring back the old punishments like dismemberment, drawing and quartering, disembowelling, flaying of the skin, boiling in oil…For officials who committed petty theft or small-scale corruption, he would punish them with permanent scarring… Anyway, when he had some free time, he intended to write a book on The Genetic Code of the City-State. He said he would create a template for a city-state with excellent genes, and implement the reign of virtue…Sometimes, we would talk about criminal law, institutions, democracy, freedom and so forth, talking until the middle of the night. Sometimes we carried on until well into the next day. Heh…I said that in his heart of hearts, he was a tyrant. Of course, the nature of one’s blood — hot or cold, sticky or dense — is nourished by one’s natural environment and the climate. All of us born in the 60s were born with a sense of responsibility, of throwing in our lot with that of the nation. We were born for hardship…Those who came after us were more individualistic, with nothing inside them except a desire for material gain. They were heartless. Then again, moral standards had stabilised by then, and the economy was more developed, the country bigger and stronger, and the people had grown fatter. It’s only natural that the people felt they had nothing to worry about.’

13

The canteen in the Wisdom Bureau wasn’t the normal noisy sort of cafeteria. The food didn’t look good, and the staff wore no expressions under their white caps. The ladle scooping the food was always precise — no matter how tasteless and bland the food was you couldn’t expect to get a generous portion from that ladle. As a result of eating the canteen’s food your appetite grew larger, and eating more left you feeling hungrier than ever. You grew hungrier, in fact, from eating there than from foregoing food altogether. Even the girls couldn’t be bothered with good manners. Only Shunyu thought the canteen’s food was all right. She especially loved the braised pork, saying it was even better there than in her father’s bar.

The queue moved slowly. The only sound was the banging of metal on metal, like ping-pong balls bouncing back and forth, as the staff knocked their ladles against the edge of each plate after asking loudly, ‘Do you want baozi or mantou? ribs or braised pork?’ The faces of the white-clothed, white-capped workers shone with an oily sheen. There was even more grease on their faces than on the food. Wearing plastic gloves, they proudly ladled out the food, scratched their chins, and handled the meal tickets. Rats’ tails, dead cockroaches, wire, grass clippings and hair were found regularly in the food, but for the young diners it was just business as usual as they made their way through the long queue.

The food at lunch was better than at dinner, when it was mostly leftovers. Meals on the weekends were simpler, since many students travelled home and others went out to restaurants. Only a few remained for the canteen to deal with, most of them ‘country folk’ and some from a background of poverty. They insisted on eating mantou, or maybe pickled vegetables with rice. Putting all their efforts into their studies, they could often be found at the library, sitting until their legs were numb. They rarely went out.

The midday sun beat on the cherry trees, the flowers had already dropped from the branches, and the leaves were all new and shiny. Mengliu had just got his meal and was sitting by the window. The glass was covered with a layer of dust, forming a halo around the glaring sun. When he’d taken a couple of bites, he saw Shunyu walking toward him. She sat her tray down, took a seat, and said, ‘How come you’re having tofu and spring onions again? Here, take some of my braised pork.’

She was wearing a white long-sleeved silk shirt, and a low-collared black cashmere Chinese-style unlined jacket, secured by silk ribbons tied in a bow at her chest. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, and almost into her plate. She used a finger to slip a hair band off her wrist, and pulled her hair back into a bun, all in one neat movement.

‘Your braised pork? You shouldn’t try to bribe me. I don’t know anything about what Hei Chun has been up to.’ Mengliu laughed. ‘These past few days I’ve seen him in the square writing poetry. He looked a little deranged.’

Shunyu replied, ‘Don’t second guess my intentions. I saw you sitting here alone looking bored, so I came over to keep you company. Anyway, I’m also a part of the Dayang Poets’ Society, and share its joys and sorrows. If you feel you owe me, you can dedicate a poem to me some day.’

‘When it comes to writing poetry for pretty girls, Hei Chun is much better at it than I am.’

Shunyu gritted her teeth, and appeared ready to beat Mengliu over the head with her chopsticks.

‘The most beautiful thing about you is that pair of canines.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense. Do you think Hei Chun will get arrested? He would have to go back to sleep at the dorm, wouldn’t he?’

‘Even if he gets picked up, it’s nothing to worry about. You go and check on him tonight. I bet he will be in his bed snoring.’

‘I’m just asking. I don’t really care. It’s not my business. He’s so busy, he doesn’t have time to waste looking after anyone else.’

‘Well, look who’s showing her temper again! I’ll organise a little dinner party to create an opportunity for you. After that, it’ll all be up to you.’

Shunyu glared at Mengliu, then took the braised pork from her plate and plopped it onto his.

Just as Mengliu finished up and was scraping his plate, Qizi came into the cafeteria. He waved to her. Her pale face suddenly turned an angry scarlet. She marched over to him, scattering everything in her path.

‘Yuan Mengliu, please explain what’s going on!’

As she said his name, she raised a hand and dropped a piece of paper onto his tray. It had apparently been torn from the double-tracked wall, and the glue still stuck to it. There were tears in her eyes.

Mengliu’s mind was in a haze. He picked up the paper and looked it over. It was a list of activists in the Wisdom Bureau, the so-called Core Group Unit, and his name was included. He was stunned. Then, in some confusion, he stood up and said, ‘What is this? I really have no idea what is going on!’

Qizi retorted, ‘You’re lying! If you didn’t agree to join the rally, why would they add your name to the list?’

Mengliu couldn’t utter a word, but inside he was overwhelmed by a new sort of joy — as if his talent was being recognised — and also a little vanity. In no hurry to justify himself, he humoured Qizi. ‘It must be that those sons of bitches liked what I had to say, and so they thought they’d just act first and then consult me later. They’re a bunch of jokers. They play an autocratic hand, shouting about democracy all the while.’

‘You’re still lying to me. How long are you going to keep on with this deception?’ Qizi had raised her voice.

Shunyu tugged at her, signalling that perhaps the pair should move somewhere else and try to talk reasonably.

Qizi wore a brown hooded pullover that fell over her buttocks, brown canvas sneakers, and black tights, which made her legs look as scrawny as a little chick’s. She walked along the green belt, a lonely and lost figure with tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘If you really want to join the rally,’ she said, tears still falling, ‘at least you should discuss the matter with me.’

‘I never thought…I just gave them a few suggestions. I didn’t expect them to…’ Mengliu said softly.

‘You know my father will be the first to object, and my mother will certainly stand by him. It will be no use trying to explain it to them.’

‘I won’t join. I’ll do whatever you want me to.’ Mengliu went to embrace Qizi, but was pushed away.

‘You wanted to go. Early on, I could already tell.’

‘If I wanted to go, I’d be a son of a bitch.’

‘You are a son of a bitch, so you wanted to go.’

‘What is going on here? I really don’t know what I can say to you.’

‘…You lied to me. I can’t trust you anymore.’

‘How come you sound like a housewife? So unreasonable, and so demanding?’

‘Me? I’m just crude. Not good enough for an elegant poet like you…Let’s end it here.’ Qizi, really angry now, jerked her arm from him and walked away.

Mengliu caught up with her. ‘Qizi, listen…No matter what, you have to believe me…’

They walked noisily along the path, tugging and pulling at each other. As he continued to explain himself, Qizi’s anger faded a little. They reached a vine-covered walkway, but the long bench there was already taken by another couple, so they walked through to the lake. They sat on the grassy bank. A few young lotus leaves, not yet fully flourishing, hovered over the water, and the mandarin ducks swam between them.

‘Qizi, when you get angry, my foot hurts.’ He showed her where he had twisted his ankle while teaching her to skate. He took her hand and went to place it on the injured part. When he saw that his sock was dirty, he put her hand back where he had taken it from.

In spite of his best efforts at humour, she would not laugh. The shimmer of the waves reflected on her face as she stared at the surface of the water, looking like she was about to make a momentous decision. Tears flowed continuously down to the tip of her nose and then dropped onto the back of her hand.

‘Qizi, I’ve really been wronged. I’m really furious with those sons of bitches. It must be Hei Chun’s doing. I’ll go find them and tell them to take my name off the list, and I’ll tell them that if they mess with me again, they better watch it.’

Mengliu stood up. Qizi grabbed at him. Still looking at the surface of the lake, she wiped the tears from the tip of her nose.

‘You ask other people to take this risk, but then you’re so faint-hearted yourself. Aren’t you ashamed?’ She suddenly looked up and stared at him. ‘You can’t say one thing and do another. There is no way out.’

‘I didn’t say one thing and do another. You know I won’t join an organisation. Don’t worry. I’ll turn it down. I’ve still got a lot that I want to do.’

‘It’s no use turning it down. Maybe you’re already being monitored.’

‘Right now, I just want to kiss you. Let them watch us through whatever telescope or binoculars they want to use.’ He embraced her.

‘We’re finished,’ she said feebly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Over.’

‘Breaking up?

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s no future for us…anyway, I want to leave the country.’

‘Of course. But Qizi, we planned to do that together.’

‘What I do is none of your business.’

‘You’re my future wife!’ He took her hand and pulled her around to face him. ‘Qizi, nothing is as important to me as you are. I don’t want to lose you. I’ll go and clear it up with them right now.’

As she looked at him she slowly moved into his embrace. ‘I don’t want to lose you either…I want to be with you.’

As she buried her face in his chest, the friction between them sparked promises of love. The sparks lit up their faces and eyes like the midday sun. They looked at each other, eyes locked together, oblivious to everything around them. He held her tightly to him, as if he wanted to press her through his skin and into his internal organs. He leant down and kissed her hard, and everything between them was renewed in the kiss.

‘I want to hear you play ‘The Pain of Separation’ again,’ Qizi said.

‘I didn’t bring it.’ His mouth was unwilling to do anything but kiss her.

She reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the xun. ‘Everyone knows. Wherever you go, the kazoo is with you.’

‘Can’t we do a different song?’ he asked. He was thinking to himself, We’re so good together, why would we want the pain of separation?

‘No, play that one. It’s my favourite.’

‘Why don’t I teach you? It’s actually very simple.’

‘I don’t want to learn. I just want to hear you play.’

‘What’s my reward?’

‘See how well you play.’

‘First, just one kiss.’

14

In his desire to speak to the little raccoon, Mengliu lost control of himself, as if he’d just run into an old friend he had not seen for years. He did not hope for any response from the child, but simply said what was on his mind. It was like opening a release valve, letting out all kinds of grief, wallowing in guilt and a convoluted assortment of emotions. If the past was a woven garment, then Mengliu had found the end of a thread and was now unravelling it.

‘Someone like you can’t understand. Let me tell you Shanlai, Hei Chun was the best poet, and he looked just like he does in that photo — he was his own imagined king, and imagined… all kinds of crimes. Some of his ideas had merit, but some were unconscionable…Is he alive or dead? Has he turned to ashes? Who knows? No one knows, there’s no news…I cleared out all his things, returned them to his parents, basically treated them like relics. We all thought this way, because he certainly wasn’t the only one who disappeared. Hospitals, roadsides, funeral homes… we looked everywhere. The mothers of the missing youths were wailing day and night.’

‘Why did you run away?’ the little raccoon interrupted, looking at him with cold questioning eyes the colour of chocolate.

‘Um…I didn’t run away…’ Mengliu couldn’t explain clearly. He made a fist and slowly bit his knuckle, as if he could somehow find the answer there.

The little fellow put his book away. ‘You’re a weakling. You’re just a coward who’s afraid to die.’

Mengliu nodded his head woodenly, still lost in his thoughts. He folded his arms and rubbed his hands along his skin, as if he felt cold.

‘You’re right, that is the fairest, most accurate evaluation of me I’ve heard so far…My reputation in the medical community was all in vain. Those who lived by my scalpel were fewer than those who died under it. Publishing academic essays in authoritative journals, posing as a sanctimonious expert engaged in professional analysis, blatantly seeking publicity…All I did to achieve all that was spend a little money and buy space in a few journals. So we produce in abundance professionals without acumen and wicked drunkards. Authority? That never crossed my mind. And as for being a poet… Eh! I am very self-aware. In a money-minded society like ours, you can pass off fish eyes as pearls — there’s always some rubbish mixed in with the good stuff. Just because it’s gold, there’s no guarantee it will shine. How many layers is gold buried under? What I’m saying is…there’s too much garbage with this generation…there are no elite sensibilities. If you want to talk about strength of character, you’re just trying to live on air, bone-chilling air.’

Mengliu wiped his nose with his index finger. Resuming his posture of hugging himself, he continued to ramble.

‘That was really a super-chaotic time. The greed of the masses was shocking. Toilet paper, batteries, clothing, electrical appliances…everyone was crazy. They hoarded everything at home, some even bought two hundred pounds of salt. How many years would they be eating that? I knew someone who bought eight hundred boxes of matches, and another who stocked up on laundry detergent…The stores did not dare to open for business, they just accepted payments through a gap in the door, exchanging cash for merchandise. While they queued, people cursed each other, some even got into physical altercations…And don’t think I’m just making this stuff up. If you don’t believe me, you can go and ask…er…

‘Anyway, another ten years went by, and public morals were declining each day. I’m pretty clear about the hospital’s business today. Patients should be careful when receiving prescriptions. It’s like a private challenge, different from bargaining for the best price at a farmer’s market. The buyer’s the one taking the initiative there. What you’re looking for, at the hospital, is a speedy and thorough recovery, and what drugs you get depend on the doctor, so you hang on his every word. You need to speak very cautiously, and not have any illusions about the doctor’s kindness or compassion or integrity, or that he holds to some high-sounding code of medical ethics…Public health care has become a business. Individual officers scramble in pursuit of lucrative contracts. Whether through departmental contracting or single commissions, the rebates the doctors get from drug companies go toward their personal wealth. As long as something is profitable, then it’s pretty much “anything goes”. They opt for expensive drugs…meaning that cheaper, more effective treatments are now harder to come by. And then there are the substandard medications, which lead to malpractice. People have lost confidence in medicine. It’s becoming a crisis…’

‘It’s as if you’re saying that the country has gone bad because it’s taken bad medicine,’ the raccoon-like child showed a change in attitude, and seemed to be taking some interest in the conversation now.

Surprised, Mengliu stared at him. He seemed to have just noticed that the boy was there.

‘If everyone is like you, then things will just get sicker,’ the little fellow said earnestly.

As usual, the weather was fine, and they ventured outdoors to enjoy the afternoon sun. The bright-eyed raccoon wore a sapphire blue robe with a standing collar and the sleeves turned up a couple of times. He folded his legs under him on the swing, looking like a cat curled up before the fire and wearing a serious expression, making his fat baby-face look even more childish.

‘Two-thousand six-hundred years ago, there was a ship that met with a storm and it was wrecked on a desert island. People from many races, including Chinese, the non-Han nationalities, the Miaos and the blue-eyed people were washed ashore. Left on the island, they settled and multiplied. These were the ancestors of Swan Valley. Later…’

A young man with teeth as shiny as a steel blade came out from beneath the shadow of the trees, saying, ‘Shanlai, it’s been a long time since I heard you tell these stories.’

Shanlai, as startled as if he had heard a bomb explode nearby, dropped his feet to the ground, stood up, and said politely, ‘Señor Esteban!’

Esteban smiled. He was tall, stately, handsome. His well-proportioned build could stand up under any form of measurement, an impeccable specimen amongst humans, evoking a feeling of profound respect.

Mengliu was as confused as if he had been struck by a surging wave but, not forgetting his manners, he greeted the newcomer. ‘Hello, Esteban. It’s nice to see you again.’

The impeccable specimen conjured up a vague impeccable smile, offering it to Mengliu as if it were a sweet on a plate.

‘Mr Yuan, sir,’ — Mengliu noted the use of ‘sir’, both polite and cold — ‘I hear you are a poet. Poetry is the heart and soul of Swan Valley. It seems, sir, that you have come to the right place.’

Mengliu’s heart, like a sensitive scar registering a change in the weather, began to feel a dull aching soreness. He looked around carefully, noting the dancing vine leaves, the falling pomegranate flowers, and the layer of red that carpeted the grass.

‘It’s more accurate to say that I am a surgeon,’ Mengliu replied, straightening his back. Then, somewhat dramatically, he added, ‘If I reluctantly admit that I was a poet, it is only because I have performed some artistry on the bodies of my patients. But the employment of medical technology does not require the daring application of the imagination.’

‘Between diseases of the flesh and sicknesses of the soul, which do you think is in more urgent need of treatment? Which of the two types of illness does more harm?’ The gentleman seated himself on the swing. He lifted Shanlai, whose ears were pricked up, and seated the child on the swing beside him. With his feet against the ground, he gave the swing a push.

‘Neither is as serious as the sickness that infects the state,’ Mengliu muttered, obviously preferring not to discuss the subject. He crushed the petals on the ground with his foot, watching them turn into powdered soil. Their fragrance blended with the smell of the earth, and rose up in an aromatic blend of fermented grains. He knew Esteban had not come by to wile his time away in idleness. From the first time they had met, he knew this was not a person who could be dealt with easily.

Esteban listened, then put his left foot on the ground, stopping the swing. He seemed surprised by Mengliu’s answer.

‘Surely your own country isn’t terminally ill?’ he asked, sucking in his breath as if dragging on a cigar. The swing started moving again as the child got down to give it another push, then clambered back up onto his perch.

‘That’s right! Their country has taken so much medicine that it has become even sicker,’ Shanlai said, one hand clutching the rope at his side and the other pointing at Mengliu. ‘And he is wallowing in the mud of cowardice!’

‘Shanlai,’ said the gentleman, pulling the child toward him and putting an arm around his shoulder. ‘You need to listen first and only comment later.’

Mengliu felt as if he had turned into a turtle, rolled up in its shell and tossed back and forth between two children. He was annoyed, but controlled his irritation as he replied in his usual prudent tone, ‘There are idle people all over the world who sleep half the day. A lot of people spend their time gambling, visiting places of pleasure, amusing themselves to pass the time, without giving a second thought to society and those less fortunate than themselves. They don’t have pity for their parents or compassion for their siblings. They don’t have a soft heart at all. In their eyes, all that matters is their own gain…’ Then he looked as if he wanted confirmation of his ideas from Esteban and Shanlai. ‘I think human nature is the same everywhere you go, isn’t it?’

‘That’s not necessarily true, Mr Yuan.’ The gentleman put his feet on the ground and steadied the swing again. His bright eyes bore the look of one who loved a good debate. ‘When a nation goes crazy, it wields the scalpel on intellectuals. There will be both natural and man-made disasters, culture will regress…’ He shook his head helplessly, then continued in a despairing tone, ‘Do you know how lethal the Great Famine was, how many people it destroyed? It was the equivalent of more than four hundred and fifty times the number of people killed by the atomic bomb that was dropped on Nagasaki. It was a tragedy far greater than the Second World War. I’m not exaggerating, not at all.’

Mengliu did not doubt the information, for this fellow had the sort of charisma that made people trust him unconditionally. His views, like his person, were real and tangible. But as the words came flooding out of his mouth, it was as if a spy had stolen state secrets and was putting them on display in front of you, in order to let you know how naive you had been to be deceived. It sounded like an insult.

‘History, after the period when it was being dressed up in all sorts of fancy attire, will eventually reveal its true colours…’

Mengliu, trying hard to hide his inner turmoil, suddenly felt an inexplicable pain. It was as if he were a husband who one day came to hear from the mouth of another that his virtuous wife had been unfaithful to him for a long time. He had to express his confidence in his wife, not only in order to protect her reputation, but also to preserve some sense of manly dignity for himself, at least in the eyes of others.

Mengliu felt extremely uncomfortable, like his heart was being scrubbed with a brush, and he said distractedly, ‘Mozi contributed not a small amount to cosmology and mathematics, but his asceticism was contrary to human nature. His impoverished approach to life was his own business, but to expect others to live like that was unreasonable. But then, the old gentleman thought that eating to one’s satisfaction, dressing comfortably, living in a house with sufficient space, and having a car to get around in was enough. Everything that has no practical value, and excessive enjoyment, should be abolished. That’s not unreasonable. The problem is that during his time, most didn’t have enough to eat or sufficient clothes to wear, so houses and cars were all the more out of the question…All kinds of health care, employment, education, and legal systems were imperfect…The public’s grievances piled up…’

‘You talk like a dumb government official.’ Shanlai jumped off the swing, landing on his tiptoes next to a dragonfly resting on a leaf. The dragonfly flew away, and the child watched it land on a leaf higher up on the vine. ‘The emperor made new clothes, just to make himself more comfortable. It kept him warm, it wasn’t to display luxury or for showing off. When people make clothes, they use gold thimbles to guide their needles, and precious beads to make ornaments. That is living luxuriously. It doesn’t help the state, and may even cause serious harm…There’s materialism, moral decline, and everyone tells lies. Everywhere you go, there are false Christians…’

He jumped up and tried to reach the dragonfly, following it as it flitted away.

‘Señor Esteban, Shanlai…does he know what he is saying?’ Mengliu asked cautiously.

The gentleman once again offered an impeccable, sly smile, but this time something new was added to the platter — a look of disdain that was like a worm after feasting, lying on the leaf, mind blank while it basks in the sun and wind, lazily squeezing out a few blobs of black shit.

To link insect shit to the smile on that perfect, youthful face did not seem quite decent, but it was how Mengliu felt. Later, he came to understand that Esteban’s smile held a much deeper meaning. In Swan Valley, a child of seven or eight often had the intellectual capacity of an adult. Their thoughts were fully mature before they turned ten years old. This was an amazing rate of brain development. It proved that Swan Valley’s approach to genetic development was correct.

15

Swan Valley, with its pleasant and impeccable environment, was a good place to live. It was full of fine women and men of excellence. In Beiping, it was only at upscale nightclubs that you would see such neatly turned-out people — highly educated good-looking call girls, busy young gigolos with qualities that surpassed those of Alain Delon or Gregory Parker. If you were not a big spender their supercilious gaze might sometimes float by you as gently as a feather. Of course Mengliu was not a patron of such establishments. His interest in places of pleasure fluctuated, and though it sometimes grew into an addiction, it also became jaded after a while. Once, a patient whose outlook took a rapid turn after having his gall bladder removed, decided that he should seize the day and enjoy life, so he invited Mengliu to ‘a very special place’ as a reward. It was a man’s paradise, providing a range of services that included threesomes, foursomes, bondage, suspension, inversion, water treatment, air treatment, and of course the deflowering of a virgin. But when men come into contact with women who possess a cold charm combined with beauty, and topped by an overwhelmingly elegant disposition, they are reduced to the state of a weak country facing a superpower. Under such enormous psychological pressure, they often become impotent.

Mengliu was drawn to a particularly stunning woman and planned to take a room with her. When she told him that she drove a Ferrari, he found he wasn’t up to the task. He couldn’t muster the courage to engage such an extravagant and alluring creature, so he dug out all the cash he could for the woman and slunk away. From that moment on, he knew that he would always be like a fish out of water in Dayang’s high society. It was infected with skin disease, and seriously ulcerated inside.

This was why he liked Swan Valley so much, its fresh fertile nature, its simplicity, innocence, and peace. Even the breeze seemed to bring with it a nourishing power. His skin felt moist and smooth, his mood was like a wandering shapeless cloud, free of the burden of the past. At the side of this beautiful woman, accompanied by an intermittently racing heart and the secretion of hormones, he lived every day as if in the early stages of love. A noble temperament was slowly taking over his whole being. The prospect of leading a selfless magnanimous life, away from worldliness and beyond the mundane, permeated the atmosphere. He found it in Su Juli’s neat appearance and style of conversation, and in the calmness and accomplishment of the people of Swan Valley.

In the morning, like a married woman who had spent all night amusing and pleasing others, the sun was late in rising. It was nearly nine before it roused its lazy body, fatigued and weak, to glance at the world, before going quietly back into hiding to wash and dress.

Esteban had invited Mengliu to watch the rice-planting ceremony. The scenery as they walked along was glorious, and Esteban urged him to compose a pastoral idyll, in the hope that he would slowly recover his identity as a poet. He even recited one of his own, and invited Mengliu to critique his composition.

Looking back at his own messy footprints as he trod along the muddy path, Mengliu thought what a foolish suggestion that was — to rattle off a few simple pastoral stanzas and recover his fucking poetic identity. Only the people of Swan Valley had the idle time to treat poetry — a bold and powerful mastiff — like a pug. Poetry was a raging fire, not a rhetorical game. When the Dayangese composed verse, they never went about it like a girl with her embroidery.

Saying nothing, he bent his head and continued walking. He had no power in his lungs to say anything.

The scenery was like nothing he’d ever seen, heard about, or imagined. It was perfectly suited to a dissatisfied government official turned hermit or recluse, putting up a hypocritical show of farming while, at the same time, waiting to hear the hoof-steps of a courier from the imperial government. On both sides of the road, the hedgerows were covered with tiny blossoms, punctuated by the occasional fiery-red wild rose. The sides of the ditches were scented with wild celery. The distant hillside was covered with flowers and grasses and white mushroom-shaped houses which popped up in the landscape here and there.

Mengliu refused to discuss poetry with Esteban. They had nothing to talk about. They silently passed a lotus pond full of blossoms, and came to a gathering of fruit trees. Here in a sea of flowers, bees, butterflies and birds fluttered about busily. The orioles were warbling, filling the air with the scent of pollen. It was like a produce market or some sort of meeting place; in the midst of the dazzle, all that was left to Mengliu’s ears was a roar, the sound growing more intense and more immediate, as if it was pressing closely towards him, and would soon roll over his body. Ashen-faced, he reached out and steadied himself against a tree, then leaned his whole body against its trunk. The petals upset by his movement dropped like snow, there were so many of them.

‘Mr Yuan, you don’t look good. Is something wrong?’ Esteban’s voice didn’t hold concern for Mengliu’s person, though he seemed interested in the cause of his discomfort.

‘Sorry, I’m just allergic to pollen.’ Mengliu recovered, pretended to sneeze, and tears started to form in his eyes.

Esteban turned up the corners of his mouth, putting on a smile that seemed to indicate an insight into how things really were.

Mengliu guessed that the other man must have seen through his lie. It wasn’t that difficult, really. After all, he hadn’t had any problem with the pollen at Su Juli’s house.

Esteban continued to walk at a leisurely pace, as if he were deliberately torturing his companion. He picked a flower, curled his upper lip, placed it beneath his nose, and took a long sniff at it.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Mengliu continued with an affected casualness, ‘It’s not an allergy to every kind of flower. I’m not even sure which flowers are my natural enemies. It might not be just one kind, but perhaps a combination of several kinds. I haven’t been tested…But it’s nothing serious, just an allergy. It’s not a big deal.’

Esteban lifted the edge of his robe and strode across a gully. ‘From what I know, allergies are the body’s exaggerated reaction to stimulation. Of course, that also includes mental stimulation.’ He stood across from Mengliu, looking at him with stormy eyes.

Just then the raccoon-like child jumped out of the forest in front of them. He stood in the middle of the path, hair strewn with petals and body covered in pollen. In his right hand he held a long stick, sharpened to a point. A fire wheel made out of green bristle grass wound around his left elbow. He wore an expression of superiority.

‘Shanlai, did you go to see the peonies?’ Esteban asked.

‘Yes, the peonies have really opened up now. Those fellows are really plump,’ Shanlai answered.

Before long, Mengliu came across ‘those fellows’ that Shanlai had mentioned. There were worms on the peonies. The ‘peony silkworms’ were Esteban’s innovation, the result of a breeding method he had discovered. Their silk was very strong, able to withstand fire, radiation, even bullets. It was lightweight and warm. And it retained the smell of the peonies themselves.

It was hard to believe that Esteban could be credited with this discovery, but such a thing should not have been surprising in Swan Valley. There was no distinction between farmers and intellectuals here. Every farmer was himself an intellectual, and every intellectual was also a farmer or a craftsman. Everyone was a manual labourer and a thinker. Occupational discrimination did not exist. Everyone was equal. They advocated learning, and focused on nurturing a comprehensive sort of intelligence. One didn’t just become an expert in nails and screws, or understand a specialised, one-dimensional field of knowledge, while remaining an idiot in all other fields. In Swan Valley, there was no monopoly on a profession or authority. They had none of that so-called authority crap, where everyone had to listen like a fool, and take notes, without the ability to doubt or object.

The bulletproof peony silk made Mengliu think of artillery. The peony silkworms were manufacturing munitions for the citizens of Swan Valley. There was no need to pay them a salary or provide them with benefits or accommodation. There was no risk of these workers engaging in processions, protests, strikes, or violating law and discipline. The life of the silkworm ended when it stopped creating silk. From birth to death, they were the most law-abiding citizens in the world. He thought of Dayang’s vast area and abundant resources, with so much land available to cultivate not just peonies, but chrysanthemums, peach blossoms, pear blossoms, lilies…assuming everyone wore silk made from worms living on these flowers, thin as the wings of a cockroach, they would all be invulnerable, and their personal safety, and their quality of life, greatly improved. They would even have time to spend researching the use of Chinese herbal medicines to feed the silkworms, and then who could say what sorts of cures they might come up with for all manner of diseases. It would drop a bomb on the medical profession. They could apply for a scientific patent for the findings. A Nobel Prize would be given, and a legacy would be born.

The two men made their way out of the orchard and across a terraced field where some girls were picking tea.

They were still wary of one another. They had nothing in common to talk about.

Women’s voices raised in song wafted over to them. The bright clean voices melted the clouds and dispersed the mist.

‘I’m sorry. We’ve missed the planting ceremony. They’ve already started,’ Esteban said.

Girls dressed in red and green were lined up in rows across a paddy field, singing as they planted. Their hands rose and fell, quick and smooth, with a steady whooshing rhythm. The splashing produced a metallic sound.

Esteban said, ‘Rice isn’t the main crop. In Swan Valley planting is a leisure activity — please note that, it is for leisure. These ‘farmers’ are teachers, musicians, songwriters…They’re not the sort of farmers who toil with their faces to the earth and backs to the sky. You can enjoy beauty and art in their labour, and in their happy lives. It’s not just toil, and they are neither poor nor ignorant.’

Dayang had a lot of people who spent their lives being neither warm nor well-fed. They were only half alive. They had no money, and even when they died, they had to pay out of their arses to clear their debts. The demarcation between rural and urban brought with it discrimination, prejudice, injury, and all sorts of harmful consequences. All of these were compressed, hidden in the silent spaces of individual fate.

Reclining against a mound of earth and chewing on a stalk of grass, Mengliu asked the raccoon, ‘Shanlai, what grass does the lion eat? I hear that the grass lions chew on has healing properties.’

The little creature had grabbed a handful of clay and was sculpting a portrait of someone. It looked a little like Esteban’s silhouette. He answered, ‘It’s hard to say what kind of grass lions like. There are lots of different kinds of grass in Swan Valley — Kentucky bluegrass, tall fescue, perennial ryegrass, Bermuda grass, bent grass, white clover, red clover, weeping lovegrass, Bahia grass, creeping dichondra…some kinds of grass don’t even have names. The lion has to nibble on hundreds of them, and maybe the miraculous healing power comes from the mixture.’ The creature paused, then went on, ‘You’re a doctor. You should learn from the legendary farmer god, testing hundreds of types of grass to find a way to cure sick people. If you keep thinking about reaping without sowing, you’ll just be a good-for-nothing.’

Mengliu spat out the grass. ‘That would be going back to barbarism. If all the good doctors went up into the mountains and started trying herbs together, then all that sick people could do would be to sit and wait for death. Moreover, hospitals have set procedures and a certain mode of operation. A single person can’t be picking herbs and handling pharmaceuticals, as well as seeing patients and performing surgery…That’s not practical.’

‘What I’m talking about is the spirit of the legendary farmer god. The spirit, you understand?’ The boy finished sculpting the nose, picked up his work, and took a closer look, as if lecturing the face he had created. ‘What you lack is “spirit.” You can’t even discover the vast majority of illnesses, and when you discover an illness, you can’t find a cure. For the illnesses you can cure, the patient has to wait a long time for you to treat them. With difficulty, he finally takes a number, then when he gets to see you at last, you don’t even take the pains to cure him. Sometimes the cure comes just because the patient has endured the disease and let it run its course so the body can heal itself. But when the patient recovers, you get the credit for curing him. When they die, well, you’ve done your best. So it seems like doctors don’t do anything.’

The public cafeteria was housed in a stand-alone building surrounded by a grey stone wall covered with carvings of animal figures, water buffaloes, dogs, birds, and goldfish. The door was propped open, and the windows had coloured wax drawings on their panes. The cafeteria wasn’t large, and had timber walls, floors, tables and chairs. The atmosphere was rustic and warm.

A stream of people wandered in and took their seats. Some poured rice wine from a large jug into smaller jugs, cups or bowls. When the food was served, there were buckwheat cakes, corn on the cob, cubes of jellied blood, sour fish soup, bacon, fruit salad, salmon, sushi, and rice dishes. Mengliu had learned the names for many of the dishes. He liked the buckwheat cakes and salmon. He had been hungry for some time, and he eagerly took up his chopsticks and was about to pick at the dishes. But no one else had moved to do the same. As it turned out, there was a ceremony to be observed before the meal.

A man who looked like a pastor took a small book from his breast pocket. His beard quivered as he cleared his throat, and began reading from his bible.

A young man beside Mengliu started playing a flute. It was a sparkling melody that brought to mind harvest festivities. The atmosphere was relaxed but dignified, and everyone spoke lightly as they ate. They were gentle and polite, and the sound of chopsticks striking against bowls was seldom heard. Some used a fork and knife. They conversed in Swanese, sometimes mixing in a bit of Chinese, such as the words for ‘soul’ and ‘reincarnation’ and the like. Their laughter too was typical of Swanese, used sparingly, with their merriment more evident in their soundless smiles. Occasionally there was a monosyllabic utterance, such as ‘eh’, ‘huh’, or ‘hey’. There were dozens of diners, but it wasn’t noisy or disorderly. Unlike Beiping, where restaurants were always full of a wanton clamour, everyone here ate and behaved moderately, with movements as careful as if they were meant for feeding a baby.

They discussed the soul and death, the spirit and its ideals. This was their version of small talk.

The raccoon-like child raised the question of the immortality of the soul. No one treated him like a child, and his question was taken seriously.

‘God started with the body and breath. When he put these two elements together, the soul came into existence. When a person dies, the spirit goes back to God, and the body to dust. The Bible never records anywhere that the soul lives on after leaving the body and walks about here and there. The soul or spirit cannot exist apart from God’s living power in the body,’ the man who looked like a reverend said.

The small fellow didn’t even blink as he looked at the speaker, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Suppose I have boards and nails, and I hammer the nails into the boards and make a box. I have three things — boards, nails and a box. If I take the nails out, I’ll only have boards and nails again. The box will be gone because the box only exists when the nails and boards have been brought together.’

The raccoon glanced at Esteban as if looking for encouragement or expecting praise, then carefully concluded, ‘The soul is a box.’

‘The soul is indeed a box,’ Esteban said, nodding in agreement. He commented that Shanlai would be a distinguished philosopher in the future then, changing the subject, said, ‘Now let us listen to the great poet’s thoughts.’

He turned to Mengliu and said graciously, ‘Mr Yuan, Buddhism teaches that there is reincarnation. What is your belief about life and death?’

Mengliu did not believe in reincarnation, but he could not deny that life was indeed a misery, and that both rich and poor endured suffering. When the mind became derailed, ideals vanished, then the spirit became an empty box, and no amount of talk could fill up this gigantic void. He did not want to lose face, so he began with the caution of a surgeon in an operating theatre.

‘Where there is life, there must be death. The Chinese philosopher Laozi says that every person must walk the path of life before he can attain immortality. Some people cling tightly to life, and they fear death. Sometimes, the value of life is to be found precisely in death. For some, beliefs are more important than life, and ideals greater than any individual. There’s an idiom, Some things are worth dying for. For example, there’s justice, enlightenment, democracy, freedom, and so on. That would be the best way to understand life and death…’

Mengliu had begun with an attitude of diplomatic sincerity, but as he spoke, numerous English terms welled up in his mind. They were like a red-hot iron poking into his bloodstream, and making his whole body feverish. ‘Because of justice, enlightenment, democracy, freedom,’ he spoke so eloquently and expressed himself so boldly! He was moved by his own speech. Someone led a round of applause, and everyone joined in. The applause turned into a rumbling sound, a pressure closing in from all directions. He felt a bit weak, as if he were going to fall to the ground in a faint. He grasped the edge of the table with both hands. The action restored him to a more assertive disposition, and he steadied his emotions. His strenuous tone and attitude made what came out of his mouth next seem extraordinarily solemn.

‘If you don’t mind my asking, here in Swan Valley, has there ever been bloodshed and sacrifice?’

16

As Mengliu and Qizi approached the dorms in the Literature Department, they heard Hei Chun’s voice talking about the current political situation, as it had arisen from the Tower Incident. The light in the room was dimmed by smoke filling the air. Cigarette butts were littered all over the floor. The people inside could only be vaguely made out, a pair of legs here, half a head there, and some moving shadows. It was a gathering of scruffy-looking ghosts.

Hei Chun hopped down from the windowsill and, as if passing through a smoky battlefield, walked across to meet Mengliu. He grasped Mengliu’s hand and cranked it up and down several times. He smiled and said, ‘The Unity Party welcomes you,’ ridiculing him for hiding out at Qizi’s. They could not find him, so they had to have the meeting without the VIP, and hoped he did not mind.

The cigarette Hei Chun held had burned down nearly to his fingertips, so he threw the butt on the ground and stepped on it with the toe of his shoe, then turned to shake Qizi’s hand. He observed her crimson cheeks, her slightly parted lips, and the length of her white neck where it met the boundless expanse of her alluring chest. His gaze could only go down. He stretched out his hand for hers, as if he were waiting for a hand to slide into a glove, a fish to swim into a net, or a bird to fly to a nest, like a young woman walking into her own house, which contains everything she loves and values. But the little hand he held bounced and jumped, shattering all of his fantasies. Qizi said, ‘Nonsense,’ and slapped his hand away, laughing at his addiction for meetings.

Hei Chun shrugged and ignored her. He invited Mengliu to take the seat of honour — the windowsill — saying that everyone wanted to hear him speak.

Mengliu had come to extract himself from the party, but before he could say anything, he had been pushed onto the seat of honour, and he found it difficult to get out of it. By this time, he had a clearer view of the people in the room and noticed a few familiar faces amongst them, though he could not recall their names. He was sure they were all from the Wisdom Bureau. He shook hands with Quanmu, who looked like he had been through a lot since they last met during the interrogation in the basement, and had become more experienced. Perhaps it was due to the lighting, but the eyes of everyone in the room seemed to glow, as if they had already been through an intense discussion or dispute. The air was still tense.

Mengliu thought, Since I’m already here, it won’t hurt to contribute a little wisdom. Qizi won’t blame me. But he didn’t have a chance to discuss the matter with Qizi, for she had long since squeezed her way to Shunyu’s side and both were busy whispering. So he sat on the windowsill with Hei Chun, propping one foot on the radiator and placing his elbow on his knee. Behind him, he could hear the leaves of the gingko tree rustling in the darkness.

‘I don’t think our meetings should be held in salon style like this. The Unity Party has been established, and the list of names publicised, so now it must create a structure and recruit talent. Democratic mechanisms will be the key to success,’ Mengliu began. ‘An organisation must first learn how to hold meetings. This haphazard style — smoking, reading books, eating food and everyone chattering on their own — it lacks discipline. There’s no agenda, and it’s just a waste of time.’

The room fell completely silent.

After a brief pause, several people closed their books, put out their cigarettes, or put aside their snacks. They sat up straight and turned all of their attention on Mengliu.

Hei Chun voiced his approval. ‘This is our first party meeting, and we are all inexperienced. We need to develop a process.’

‘Right,’ said Qizi, ‘I suggest everyone read a couple of books. The first, written by an American, is Robert’s Rules of Order, and the second is Preliminary Comments on Civil Rights, written by a Chinese. Both teach how to go about meeting to pass resolutions. When I was a junior at the university, I flipped through them, and found them very interesting.’

‘I’ve read those books too. I didn’t know it took such a lot of knowledge just to hold a meeting.’ Shunyu raised her hand in agreement.

Mengliu, surprised and distracted, immediately adjusted his mood. ‘Shunyu, can you find those two books and give them to Hei Chun?’

Shunyu blushed.

After he had spoken a little longer Mengliu slid off the windowsill. When he said he was leaving, the room was suddenly engulfed in a bright glare. All eyes were trained on him, and the spots, blackheads, acne, pimples, disappointment, surprise, regret, and discontentment on his face could all be seen clearly.

Quanmu was the first to stand up, his shadow falling across the floor. ‘Mengliu, we’ve all put our personal matters aside. You can’t just go like this. The Party needs you.’

Some people blocked the door.

Mengliu’s eyes flew to Qizi and he said, ‘I came today to ask you to take my name off the list. I have never wanted to participate in any organisation, or anything other than literature. But this does not mean I don’t support you. If I have anything to offer, I will certainly tell you.’

Qizi stood up too. ‘We’re planning to go overseas. We don’t have time.’

Hearing this, Hei Chun’s face suddenly went cold. He turned to look out the dark window. His hair formed a messy canopy around his slumped shoulders.

‘Yuan, give it more thought. The Party needs your wisdom.’ Quanmu, with his high forehead and delicate handsome look, tried tactfully to persuade him.

‘Those who escape are cowards,’ Hei Chun suddenly spat out in a strong Southern accent. ‘Who doesn’t want to save his own skin? If the nation is rotten, how can individual lives flourish? And what is the point of feasting then? Of the young people now in Round Square, who does not have his own ideals and future?’

His words left no room for equivocation. Mengliu went off in a huff amidst the smell of gunpowder.

He vented his frustration as they walked. ‘The most annoying thing is to have a person acting with a mysterious authority, and telling me how to live my life and how to do things. Now that he has set up the Unity Party he thinks he’s quite a figure! He’s lost his sense of direction. Am I just saving my own skin? Well, what’s that got to do with Hei Chun? Who does he think he is? Why should he humiliate me in public like that?’ Mengliu did not quite know where all his anger had come from, but it seemed to have been long repressed. ‘I write my poems and I mind my own business. I don’t join organisations. I live my own life. Am I hurting anyone?’

Qizi felt his tirade was directed at her.

‘I’m not putting my own neck on the line. I’m not joining the party, and I’m not staying here any longer.’

He plopped down on the grass, legs splayed. The street lamp glimmered through the leaves, and a few fireflies chased one another.

Shunyu caught up to them. ‘It’s not worth getting so angry with Hei Chun. I don’t think he meant any harm. He just likes to talk in that sort of scathing, preachy tone. But you’re right to resign. Let me tell you, your speech that night at the double-tracked wall was recorded. I’ve heard that the tape has been sent to the Security Board.’ Shunyu spoke cautiously. ‘You’ve got to be extra careful. My father won’t let me leave the house. He gave me an ultimatum.’

Mengliu breathed out between his teeth. ‘You’re like your father, always thinking of how to take care of yourself.’

‘I’m doing this for your good. Why are you turning on me? It’s really biting the hand that feeds you…I’m tired of looking after you. You’re on your own.’ With that, Shunyu stomped off.

The night was black as water. Every now and then fish swam by quietly and the seaweed swayed.

Qizi was also unhappy. ‘Okay, you obviously want to join the party. Go ahead. You don’t need to compromise.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m a poet. I don’t want to be a stickler for any kind of form.’

‘Acting like this makes us seem boring. Everyone will look down on us.’

‘Everyone? You mean Hei Chun? You think I’ve embarrassed you. Well, isn’t this what you wanted?’ Mengliu was cynical. ‘Did you really read those books when you were a junior? You probably just saw the covers at Hei Chun’s place.’

In his jealousy, Mengliu could not make himself speak nicely to her. How could she flirt with Hei Chun right under his nose? Their familiarity with each other was beyond his understanding.

17

Mengliu had become used to the golden toilet, and his digestive system was now more regular than it had ever been. He toyed with the diamond marbles in his hand, his heart as forlorn as the baskets that were hanging on the wall, waiting for Juli’s care. What annoyed him was her ambiguous attitude. He couldn’t figure her out. She seemed like a wife of many years, placid and quiet, rarely meeting Mengliu’s eyes when she spoke. All he could do was look at her limitless face, the long eyelashes, the distant nose and eternal lips. She was cool, but not cold, like the low fence around the vegetable garden that was a sort of loose boundary and easy to step over. But Mengliu was acting contrary to his usual style, and was also reserved and considerate, like a rabbit sensitive to the signs of a trap. He found that the one sure way to catch Juli’s eye was to talk about his past. In order to win a glance from the beauty, he sometimes talked of Dayang’s shocking political scandals or its human tragedies. Afterwards he regretted it, and felt like a traitor. Even so, just for the sake of bringing tears to Juli’s chocolate-coloured eyes, even just for the shadow of a glance, he would spare no effort, working out a draft of his presentation in his mind first, so that he wouldn’t end up discrediting his own country while trying to win her favour.

Juli wanted to know specifically what made the machinery of a large nation turn. Was it flexible? Did the gears make a grinding noise, and what sort of lubricant was needed? Was wear and tear a big problem, and how did one go about replacing old parts? Or was it better just to scrap it all and start from scratch?

Mengliu kept leading the conversation back to medicine, saying that doctors had mastery over the machinery of the body. From ancient times until now, the body’s organs and tissues had not changed. The Yellow Emperor and The Compendium of Material Medicine would never be outdated, and medical skills were essential for keeping all the two-legged creatures of the world up and running.

Juli was more concerned about the body politic and the diseases it suffered from.

Mengliu had a premonition of danger. When a beautiful woman developed her intellect, it could only lead to disastrous consequences for him.

It was a good day. Juli brewed the dark, fermented tea and invited Mengliu to play a game of chess. Distracted, Mengliu lost two games.

Juli’s hair was arranged in two braids wrapped around her head and secured at the back with a shell clip. She wore clogs, and her toes were visible beneath the hem of her light blue skirt. The skirt was made of a soft, comfortable fabric that hugged her curves.

‘You’re playing too impatiently today. You are too distracted. You’ll scare away the spirit of the tea.’

She smiled serenely. It was a typical Swan Valley smile, temperate and lovely as porcelain. At that moment Mengliu felt the cherries had ripened, the coconuts were heavy, and the grapes on the trellis were surging forward.

‘You’re especially beautiful when you smile. Why don’t you smile more often? When you smile, even the plants and flowers take notice.’

Juli’s smile broadened, as if she were granting some special permit for Mengliu to make an even more daring comment. Of course, this was just a small test. He had stronger motives within him. He was just waiting for Juli to issue a more relaxed smile. But Juli’s smile came out like a bud in spring, showing signs of the flower, but not quite opening. Her liquid brown eyes solidified again and her thoughts took a leap.

‘From your point of view, what could a scalpel bring to the nation?’

The leaves rustled around them, his losing game displayed by the distinctive black and white pieces on the chessboard.

Mengliu picked up his cup in two fingers and took a small sip of the tea. His movements were slow. He set the cup down and steadied it, then said, ‘Each flower is a world unto itself, and each tree a life. Perhaps I can give a sick person a new world, a healthy world that has emerged out of their experience of horror, blood, pain, and repentance.’ He paused, leaning back in his chair with his elbows resting on the armrests, as if talking about these things exhausted him. ‘You know, to open up a person’s flesh with a knife is easy. Too easy…Sometimes, you cut out a tumour, or lance a boil, or remove a damaged kidney…just to save a corrupt official, a thief, or some other person who deserves to die a hundred times over…These people are the pillars of the nation, and taxpayers’ money goes to salving their conscience and fitting them with prosthetic limbs…You don’t know, but the kidneys of the poor, the bellies of the hungry, the various organs of the good — they all die helplessly at hospitals and at home. I can do nothing about that.’

The last bit was spoken with great emotion. He surprised himself, not realising he was so thick-skinned, as if he really did do his best for all living creatures, especially for those members of society who were subject to abject poverty and had no one to depend on. Actually, he had never cared about a patient’s identity when he wielded the knife, and he had never felt real sympathy or compassion. He had just taken his salary and lived his own life. Or, rather, he relied on his own abilities to live out his life. Unbelievably, his eyes were actually wet. He was like a revolutionary talking about his failed experiences, occasionally revealing a certain will and spirit to start over again.

His expression touched Juli. She almost felt an impulse to take his hand and comfort him.

‘People are always like this. When their desires reach a climax, their inner demons are released. The nation is like a person, always experiencing problems with its personality. But in the final analysis, wherever there are no strong values, things will end up in a mess.’ Juli sighed, then turned and said in a gratified tone, ‘Our hospital is like a beautiful historic site close to the mountains and water. When you see a doctor or pick up a prescription, it’s all free.’

‘All free?’ He was so surprised that he could not help but repeat Juli’s words. He thought of Hei Chun’s description of an idealised world, and now here it was right under his nose.

‘Yes, the doctors are like our close friends or family. In the hospital, the patient enjoys warmth and care, as if from a member of their family. And the hospital’s food is good too.’

‘You don’t have to go under the table to get that sort of care?’

‘We have state-of-the-art medical equipment. There are always beds and plenty of space.’

‘The key thing is, you don’t have a large population, everybody is healthy and beautiful, and people rarely get sick.’

‘No, the key is that we have good genes.’ Juli stretched and stood up, then said casually, ‘The place Esteban took you to wasn’t too bad, was it? When you got there…were you inspired to write poetry?’

‘No,’ Mengliu answered decisively. ‘If someone’s poetry cells have been burned to death, there’s no way to resurrect them. They won’t come back to life.’

According to what Juli told him, the population of Swan Valley was strictly limited, and not heavily concentrated in the suburbs. The areas lying around the town made provision for only two thousand households, and the number of people who could live in each household was also limited, with the surplus moved to other places to pioneer new developments. For every one hundred people there was a church, its reverend trained from youth by special agencies. He was highly respected. He also held other executive offices, such as Head of a Hundred Households or Head of a Thousand Households. The reverend’s wife had to be one of the outstanding women of Swan Valley. Criminals and the intellectually average were prevented from reproducing. Their propaganda slogans included exhortations like, ‘Ensuring a Quality Population Starts with Good Genes’ or ‘Let the Best Sperm Combine with the Best Egg’.

Now imagine you are an insect, and you fly through a low-rise building to a grove filled with the scent of magnolias. Religious music comes from one of the windows. If you were to say that the scent belongs to the music, or that the melody comes from the scent, you would not be wrong. The streets are exceptionally clean, and there is no smog or noise pollution. The pureness of the air bears with it a trace of sweetness. In a colonnaded ring-shaped square, forty-five degrees to the east, you will see an old tree. It is called the Tree of Beasts, and it is said to be the patron saint of living creatures, and has been standing since ancient times. Its trunk is amazingly thick, and requires dozens of people to encircle it. The bough is wound tightly with dendrites, and the roots are engraved with animal shapes, inlaid with precious stones for eyes. When you see a python with blue eyes sticking out its tongue, there is nothing to fear. It is fake.

You lift your eyes a little and focus on a point two-hundred metres away. There you see one black figure, one white, accompanied by a pair of shadows. It is Yuan Mengliu and Su Juli, walking away along a bridle path on the green slopes.

It was the time to go to church, and Juli was dressed in a sober linen dress, with hem and neckline decorated with colourful feathers. She wore a necklace of exquisite workmanship. Her hair was in braids, coiled on top of her head and clasped with a crescent-shaped comb, so that it resembled a halo atop the Virgin Mary’s head.

Following Juli’s instruction, Mengliu wore a Chinese robe and cloth shoes. This style of dress suited him.

They met others going to church along the way, all wearing sober but kind expressions. They didn’t speak, but nodded to one another or waved.

Mengliu followed Juli closely, asking her questions from time to time in a soft voice. She offered short replies or responded simply with an ‘Ah.’ They looked like a couple after a quarrel. The man spoke carefully, and the woman was not very willing to entertain him.

The two figures made their way up the slope in this fashion. The wind suddenly gained force, and hair and skirts were sent flying wildly. Hiding his warm feelings, Mengliu looked around. The sun was dazzling and the distant stretch of river seemed to have donned a knight’s armour, setting off a metallic glitter. He was not sure if this was the same river he’d seen earlier. A muddy grey wall rose from the ground, stretching for a hundred metres or so between each watchtower or crenellation, like the Great Wall of China. The river ran beside the wall. There were thick bushes growing at its base, with blooms reaching out over the river like they were playing in the water. They seemed to be offering the continuous reminder, unless you are one of the hosts of heaven, you can banish all thoughts of attacking the city, given the defence offered by the river and this wall.

Juli was downwind of him. Her breasts stood out pertly, and even her belly and the space between her legs could be clearly seen in the wind, like a naked body wrapped in a cloak. Her body’s shapely and mysterious terrain was the main cause of the flames warring in Mengliu’s heart.

For a short period of time Mengliu imagined the possible consequences of a surprise frontal attack. He even thought about blaming his actions on the surrounding environment, just as you might excuse killing someone because the hot weather had made you bad-tempered.

Of course he didn’t do anything like that, he just watched as Juli turned around, her clothes bulging and then instantly deflating as she turned back to face the wind again. He didn’t do anything at all except for maintaining the reserved, aloof demeanour of a poet, though Juli’s skin was now emitting a bronze shine, smooth as satin.

He began to appreciate his poetic demeanour.

Turning to Mengliu, Juli said, ‘In 1876, the year the US celebrated a century of independence, an international expo was held in Philadelphia, with thirty-seven countries taking part. The latest British steam locomotive was on display and America’s high-powered electric motors and generators, along with Germany’s precision machine guns…Can you guess what China exhibited?’

Mengliu cited several things, such as porcelain, cheongsams, various kinds of facial makeup from the Peking opera, and so on. Juli said all were wrong, it was an earwax cleaning set made of pure silver, and embroidered shoes for binding feet. She was very interested in the bound feet of Chinese women. Such topics played right into Mengliu’s hand. He immediately recited, in an exaggerated dramatic tone, a few lines from a famous poem by the Tang poet Li Shangyin, ‘Paper made from the river is the colour of peach, with verses inscribed in praise of little feet.’ Then he followed with a made-up story similar to the one about the King of Chu and his obsession with tiny waists.

Yuan Mengliu could not be bothered with the location of the church. The steeple emerging some distance from the forest might be their destination, but he preferred to go about things in a rather nonchalant manner. Su Juli’s skirt occasionally flapped against his legs, tapping out a playful rhythm. Several times Mengliu thought she was about to fall straight into his arms. His legs, having endured the onslaught of flirtation, felt fresh one minute, limp the next, and then perkier than ever, while his chest alternated between feeling full to the point of bursting, and completely deflated. His heart moved at a pace similar to that of a woman walking on bound feet, trembling and shaking all the way.

Judging by the constant changes in distance between himself and Juli, Mengliu guessed that her feelings must also be fluctuating. He noticed one small detail in particular. On the journey from the foot of the mountain to its peak, the distance between them had reduced from three metres to just twenty centimetres. From that progress, he anticipated that before they’d travelled another hundred metres, they would at last achieve an earth-shattering zero-distance.

But Mengliu’s method of calculation proved not to be a useful guide. They suddenly pulled apart, for he had stopped, noticing a round object hanging from the wall, like a bell with a dangling tassle. The bell, rotating in small circles as it hung from the stone surface, suddenly turned to show a face, pale as a piece of paper and baring white teeth. Its eyes were wide open, and the blue eyeballs protruded, like glass orbs. He felt two rays of blue light on his eyes, then the face turned away again. Mengliu was a battle-hardened man and he had used his scalpel on bloodied bodies, confronted dead men and even watched some die, but this lonely hideous hanging head still gave him a fright. The unlucky unpleasant piece of human debris struck him like a gunshot, scaring the fledgling of love from his heart, and leaving behind only a few downy feathers twirling in the wind.

Glancing at him, Juli said blandly, ‘Actually, criminals aren’t so readily executed in Swan Valley. For the most part the penalty of forced labour is preferred, since it’s more useful to make them work than to kill them off.’ With her hand she pressed down her floating skirt. Mengliu caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the back of her wrist, a captivatingly beautiful poppy in bloom.

‘That…why…’ As he held out a stiff finger towards it, the human head turned around again, as if complying with his summons. The features, those of a handsome white man, were graced with a goatee. ‘What was his crime?’

Juli brushed her fingers along her forehead, where the breeze had blown a few strands of hair into her eyes. She continued walking then, as cavalierly as if she were talking about nothing more significant than washing up, or brushing her teeth, or making her bed. ‘Adultery. He was tied up and left hanging for two days. When he was barely alive, they cut him down and, while his heart was still beating, castrated him, dug out his intestines, ripped out his heart and lungs, then threw them all into the fire and burned them to ashes. Finally…’ she turned and made a chopping motion in Mengliu’s direction, ‘finally they dismembered him and hung his head on the city wall for a week.’

For a moment, Mengliu’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. It was as if a blade had been jammed into his teeth. His whole body ached, and chills ran down his spine. On more than one occasion he’d heard Hei Chun speak about how to use torture to achieve social stability. Allowing the masses to hear the condemned’s screams and witness the suffering caused by the execution, would be a warning that carried more impact on the inner person than any amount of moral education or effort on the part of the legal system. To be shot dead wouldn’t be all that horrifying, since such a quick death would be painless. The criminal law’s unique charm, its deterrent force, lay in its ability to make the public quake in terror, forcing them into submission.

What really terrified Mengliu about this case was not the method with which the criminal had been disposed, but the easy tone in which Juli spoke about it. She employed the same voice she might use if she were teaching someone to knit, ‘Loop the yarn over the right needle, insert the left needle into the loop, left, right…’ It was as if she was talking about a ball of wool, a few needles and the deft movements of the fingers as they manipulated them. He would need a strong constitution to keep his stomach from turning over when faced with such a casual attitude.

Mengliu was struck by the clear and sudden change as everything around him grew dark. A bitter wind attacked his flesh, and he wrapped his arms around himself.

Soon, he heard the comforting voices of the white-robed priests. With great relief he entered the church, and turned his eyes up toward the giant vault, around which he saw thousands of candles burning. The flames restored the warmth inside him. The priests in their pure clothing had serene faces. The music accompanying the hymns of praise was like larks flying through the forest. He felt a sense of enduring freedom.

‘No matter what,’ he thought, ‘with a girl like Su Juli, Swan Valley is a beautiful place.’

Inside the church the pair stood close together. As his shoulder brushed against hers, he felt her tremble slightly. The warmth of her body moved him again, as if her blood coursed through his veins. He glanced at her. Her eyelashes touched her cheeks, and a drop of sweat inexplicably trickled down her nose. For reasons he could not express, he rejoiced in the sight.

The only other thing worth mentioning about the inside of the church is that this first little bit of physical contact between Mengliu and Juli occurred there. Afterward, in order to avoid retracing their earlier route, they followed a bougainvillea-lined path into the forest. Its floor was covered with a variety of flowers, the roots of the huge trees were blanketed with lush wild grass, twigs and fallen leaves, and insects filled the air with a chirping sound from within the detritus. The deeper they went, the more moist it became, until the air above their heads was shrouded in a layer of fog. As he breathed in the rich odour of mulch, soil, and flora combined, Mengliu’s heart once again warmed. He felt like he was walking along the paths of paradise, with angels darting in the folds of Juli’s clothes and hair, and rustling between her legs with each movement. Sometimes he looked out at the tobacco plants growing on the hillside, or at the towering rocks, or to the spot where nameless flowers were in bloom on a strange tree. Otherwise his eyes remained on the creases in Juli’s skirts, an absorption interrupted only by his sudden loud sneeze that startled the birds from their perches in the trees.

In a strong voice Juli said to him, ‘It’s cool on the mountain. If you don’t feel comfortable, we can go home.’

He waved off the suggestion with his long slender fingers. He noticed that his hands were so pale they were almost transparent. Obviously his blood flow was slower than usual, and his breathing was ragged too. Still, he did not wish to abandon this journey, now that they were halfway to the ‘interesting place’ to which Juli had promised to bring him. And so, with a pretended ease, he asked, ‘How many metres above sea level are we?’

Juli told him they were around 4800 metres above sea level. Mengliu, having never been at such an altitude, suppressed his feeling of surprise. He made some amusing comment about the elevation, inducing a smile from Juli.

Perhaps it was out of boredom, but Juli began humming a tune to herself. It was one of those old folk songs with a melody that sounded like a Buddhist chant, making her voice bounce like a coiled spring. He instantly saw the angel’s notes tumble to the ground amongst the leaves. He thought, ‘Doing it at an altitude of more than four thousand metres would be out of this world.’ Then an even more specific thought crossed his mind, full of possibilities about how he and Juli might enter an even more spectacular realm.

He pricked up his ears and listened. The notes were like a school of lively fish splashing out from Juli’s throat. With their tails they created a stream of water, spraying the droplets onto his face. The melody flowed into his ears, and entered into the cramped confines of his soul. There, in a sudden burst, green trees sprouted and a cluster of pink camellias bloomed. At this moment he knew without a doubt that he was in love with her. His rapid heartbeat was certainly not the result merely of altitude sickness. Then his body alerted him to the fact that it wasn’t love, but lust, and that everything in and around him was waiting for him to take her.

But his mind sharply refuted the notion. How could anyone separate love from lust, any more than one could separate the flavour of chocolate out of chocolate ice cream? The two blended together to form one exquisite taste. He enjoyed this metaphor of his own that he’d come up with. Being with Juli had brought back to his mind a poetic sensibility, and he felt a strong lyrical impulse pulling at his heart. Without realising it, his thoughts began to follow the rhythms of Juli’s song, and some lines popped spontaneously into his head:

I am listening to someone sing

‘God bless the people whose bellies are full’

and so I think of those without food

wondering whether they are like me

— bellies empty, but ears full —

For them are life’s simple joys,

the morning dew on the grass

and a sense of piety in dark times

He got stuck there, and so stopped for a moment, bowed his head, and sought the next line. He wondered at his own gratuitous thoughts for the hungry, those who were too weary with life to change their own destinies — the silent majority, who had leapt right into his romantic imagination, squeezing their way into his thoughts. Each line of poetry was like a corpse laid in formation, here at 4800 metres above sea level, waiting for him to review it. He looked down to the foot of the mountain, to the river where his memories of Qizi flowed and to the ghostly quietness there, and he felt himself to be a bell so large it needed several men to ring it, swinging back and forth in a slow, methodical manner.

Juli hummed her tune. The edge of her dress was dirty with mud and grass stains.

He bowed his head and continued walking. There was a layer of fine fur growing on the tobacco leaves, their edges made jagged by the artistry of tiny insects. Riddled with disease, the plant was gradually giving up its hold on life, like a weary, emaciated figure making its final prayers before death. Before he could sift through the rapid changes of emotion going on inside him, the next verse came to him, riding the rhythm of the insects as they gnawed the tobacco leaves.

Only the wind enters the wilderness

Beating against the farmer’s gaunt form

Alongside the final rays of the setting sun

It sweeps over the tomb

There harvesting every last stalk

When the black cloth of night,

Completely covers weakness

Who, on his way back home

will contemplate the death of another?

By the time the rod is raised halfway

Destiny will cease its call for mutiny

Let us, like this, eat our fill

The sun shining on our bellies

We need no written word

To lord it over us

Each stage of life’s cycle

Is a ringworm settled between my fingers

But I remain master of myself

My ulcer-racked body lying on the earth

Sees next year’s cotton erupt

From my own navel

Then, we may all be blank slates

We will break the tyrant’s muzzle

And slowly make our escape

‘The tyrant’s muzzle? Mr Yuan what did you say?’ Juli asked.

Only then did he realise that he’d given voice to his song. The moment he looked at her, he realised it was Bai Qiu’s poem. One evening years ago Bai Qiu had sat by the Lotus Pond at the Intellectual Properties Office and composed it all in one sitting. It had immediately spread far and wide. By the time the sun had gone down, a group of influential poets had initiated a movement in which they used verse to stir the soul of the people. In the spirit of the real Three Musketeers, they swore themselves to a common destiny in life or death, to honour and loyalty, and to action at the critical moment.

Juli did not need an answer from Mengliu, nor did she wait for him to speak. Pointing ahead as they stepped out from the cover of the forest to a rock that protruded over the valley, she continued, ‘We’ve arrived. That’s it —’

Looking in the direction she pointed, Mengliu saw in the distance the ‘interesting place’. Across the valley on the slopes opposite them were the green tiles and flying eaves of white buildings standing transcendentally among the vibrant hues of flowers and leaves. Green vines climbed the walls and roofs, and purple blossoms dotted the facades, scattered like stars across the sky. Down the face of the mountain beyond flowed a waterfall, which looked as if it was falling from the heavens, creating a mystical atmosphere. Rising through the clouds was a cylindrical tower constructed of beautiful red brick. As the wind blew and the clouds parted, they saw at its top a giant clock, which filled the valley with its music as it struck the hour of three.

‘Oh, it looks like a lovely holiday resort.’ Mengliu gazed at it for a long time, then asked, ‘Does it have any special significance?’

‘Upon reaching fifty years of age, anyone can live there.’ Juli’s face wore an expression of longing. ‘It’s the best nursing home in Swan Valley. I’ve heard that they have everything there — library, cinema, theatre, chess matches, debating clubs, athletic events…or you can just laze about all day on a huge sofa in the café, listening to music and chatting while you consume unlimited supplies of fresh fruit juice. You will never feel like a lonely old person living there.’

‘Go into a nursing home at fifty years old? Things are very different in a welfare society,’ Mengliu said, laughing. ‘But, I’d rather work till I’m eighty, growing vegetables and rearing chickens in my own garden. I’d never want to live in a communal facility.’

‘But this is policy. It’s all according to regulation.’ Juli picked a flower and placed it behind her ear. ‘Of course, it’s also what the people want.’

Seeing Juli’s feminine gesture, Mengliu felt that her serious tone was basically just a pretence.

‘The government is subjective. They don’t care about what people want.’ He looked at the brilliant wildflower behind Juli’s ear. It struck him that it would soon wither, and he felt pity for it.

‘Everything is free. What benefit could the government possibly have?’ Juli stared at him with a taunting attitude.

‘…What I mean is, simply put, it may not be quite what it appears on the surface. Furthermore, fifty years, just as a person’s in his prime…’

Mengliu hesitated. Suddenly coming to a realisation, he said to himself, ‘No wonder I only see young people here. The middle-aged have already been shut away in nursing homes. Don’t they have any interest in the outside world anymore? Don’t they come out and have a look around?’

‘There’s a small self-contained community in there,’ Juli said, ignoring Mengliu. Turning her head, she looked fondly and longingly at the nursing home. ‘Inside, there will one day be a famous old craftswoman, creating strange and wondrous things — and that will be me.’

Mengliu climbed a few steps further up the rock, searching for a better angle from which to see more clearly, but all he could see was the outer wall surrounding the nursing home, blocking the view as effectively as if it were the Great Wall. He saw the old trees, the flying eaves, the waterfall and path, and the tower that seemed to disappear into the sky. Silence glided over the walls from the garden, and came to rest in the mysterious forest behind them.

18

Cycling to the suburbs was Mengliu’s idea. He said that people in love should not miss out on the spring, and he persuaded Qizi to put down her physics books and relax for a while. At dawn, they ate fritters, soya milk, steamed buns and porridge, then took a pair of bicycles and set out through the bleary-eyed city to visit its outskirts. An hour and a half later, the thick white smoke released from the chimney at the brewery had turned to a thin wisp. The bustle of the city was blown away by the country air. The cycle path was covered with crushed black coke and the broken chips of red bricks. The two mingled colours resembled an abstract painting. As their bicycle wheels rolled over the path, they made a crunching sound. All around them were crops, vegetable patches, ponds, bamboo, birds in flight, animals and people, with smoke on the rooftops and the yelping dogs serving only to emphasise the silence of the countryside when their echoes reverberated over the scene.

Happily humming schoolyard folk songs, in what seemed like the space of a breath they had cycled more than ten kilometres. They stopped at a roadside farmstead and asked for a drink of water. They chatted with some wrinkled old plowmen, and saw from their expressions that they envied the young couple their youth and knowledge, and love. Qizi’s face was like an apple at the end of autumn, flushed with a healthy rosy glow. Among the villagers were some who had travelled to the city and seen the crowds of people on the street. They were curious and eager to find out more as they sat smoking their morning pipes, one leg crossed over the other or a grandchild tucked between their knees. They talked about the city as if it were a completely different world.

Mengliu and Qizi answered them perfunctorily. Then, after expressing their thanks, they continued on their journey.

The pair now fell silent. The grinding of their bikes on the gravel became monotonous, and each felt the other’s anxiety.

They had thrown aside their work, given up a wonderful play, rejected invitations to salon gatherings and parties, and at last they were experiencing a moment of freedom and beauty and tranquility. Neither of them wanted to destroy this unique opportunity. Their legs continued to pedal mechanically, perpetuating the crunching sound and advancing their journey. They stopped at what might have been an abandoned watchtower or church. Putting their bikes to one side, they gazed upward for a minute. Holding hands, they entered the building and were overwhelmed by the pungent smell of manure. They realised that the building was home to a tied-up water buffalo. It stood chewing on feed, staring at the intruders with red eyes as big as the rims of cups. They went up a rickety wooden staircase that had been reinforced with hemp ropes, and climbed right up to the third floor. As they climbed, the staircase shook badly, throwing off a lot of dust. They kept climbing, quivering all the way to the top.

The building was empty except for the water buffalo downstairs. Through the windows they saw the village they had cycled through. Neither of them knew why they had wanted to go up to the top, but there they stood, inside the dilapidated building, facing one another.

Mengliu kissed Qizi extravagantly, but even with his most dazzling gestures he could not move her. She wasn’t in the least bit confused. Her expression was sober, her eyes misty, and there was some sadness in her smile. She put her hands on Mengliu’s chest and slowly pushed him away, saying, ‘There’s a demonstration this afternoon. We should get back.’

Mengliu, burnt by her expression, suffered a moment of heartache. She was an intelligent girl. He was becoming more and more aware of that.

‘Let’s take a break first. We’ll find a farmhouse where we can scrounge a meal. We’ll fill our stomachs and then make a decision, is that okay?’

She was obviously a little tired. Leaning against him, she said in a soft voice, ‘I love you.’ He kissed her again, this time plainly and passionately, and he got more of a response. She returned his kiss, and he felt her melt in his arms, as if she were about to flow right out of his grip. He pulled her into a tighter embrace, feeling himself to be an infinite chamber, able to furnish her body, and her life, with riches.

After some time, she raised her head from where it lay on his chest and said, ‘I know you’re concerned about the Unity Party business. Hei Chun was right, we all have a responsibility. Escaping is cowardice.’

Her words pierced Mengliu like nails, setting off a burst of misgivings. He turned to the window and looked out across the distant assortment of trees, flowers and farmhouses with a frown.

She leaned lightly against his back and said, ‘None of us knows what kind of feathers we wear, but at least we can make them as brilliant as possible.’

He turned around. Her eyes seemed to have been washed clean by the pristine countryside. They were emitting a strange glow.

‘So you want to forget about going overseas?’

She thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

‘You won’t regret it?’

She looked at him and said resolutely, ‘I won’t regret it. I want to be with you.’

He suddenly felt that her strength was propelling him toward the sunlight, and he felt bright and clear. Yet there was still a part of him covered in shadows. He knew that he was the only one who could drive the shadows away. He asked himself, Does it have to be like this? but he could not come up with an answer.

When they reached the city, the demonstrators had arrived in Beiping from everywhere.

Mengliu stood astride his bike on the side of the road, drooping as if he had been drenched in heavy rain. He hunched his body down, hands on the handlebars, and drew his neck into his shoulders, as

if the rain were unbearable.

Qizi leaned her bike against the trunk of a tree. As she looked down the road, her expression was the same as Mengliu’s.

They saw Hei Chun directing the contingents of demonstrators, with a strip of fabric tied around his head. He was full of energy, and resembled a revolutionary from a film as he swaggered in front of the slogans on the banners that fluttered in the wind like flags.

Mengliu noticed that a darkness had fallen over Qizi’s face, and her ears were inflamed. He signalled her with his eyes, and pushing his bike walked in the opposite direction, away from the demonstration. Beside the mighty torrent of people rushing towards Round Square, he and Qizi were like a pair of fish swimming against the current, furiously shaking head and tail in their efforts to reach a buffer zone. By the entrance to the Green Flower, they saw Shunyu at the window watching the action. She winked and waved to them.

There was not a single customer in the bar. Her father was wiping glasses at the counter, wearing the expression of a man who was smoking a pipe. His eyes were half closed, and his teeth were clenched on one side. His hair flew and curled chaotically, and his face was flushed.

They sat at the window, their stomachs rumbling. Their morning meal had long since been burned up, but they had no appetite now.

There was an unceasing flow of demonstrators before the bar’s entrance.

Mengliu could not look at the street any longer. Taking out his chuixun, he began to blow a few bars in his frustration, then put it back into his pocket.

Shunyu’s father brought over some food, saying amicably that it was all free. After a while, he brought a jug of wine and said with enthusiasm, ‘I’m very happy to have a few glasses of wine with some young people.’

Mengliu understood that this was his way of rewarding them for not participating in the march. He also wanted to take the opportunity to find out about the young people’s ‘ideas for the future and feelings about life’.

‘I used to play the xun pretty well when I was young,’ he said pleasantly, sighing. ‘The life of a soldier is monotonous, and my comrades-in-arms would pester me all day to play for them. Comrades like to hear the chuixun, isn’t this the popular taste? But the senior officer of our unit thought the tunes were negative and depressing, that they wouldn’t boost morale, so I wasn’t allowed to play any more — though he said a harmonica would’ve been all right. Fuck him! That was only his personal preference. But he was the senior officer, and I was just a soldier. My fingers were itching to play, but I had to control myself and obey orders. The army is inhumane. It doesn’t talk reason…So, look at those people outside. Processions, sit-ins, even if they create a greater disturbance, it’ll all be the same. It’s futile.’

Shunyu’s father rattled on. Some regular customers came in and called to him, and he hastily greeted them. When he came back, the alcohol made him all the more flushed.

‘Shunyu said you two are going overseas to study. That’s good. Such an opportunity isn’t easy to come by! You’ll definitely have a brighter future,’ he continued. Then he turned his criticism on his daughter. ‘I just don’t understand, my girl, why you are reluctant to go abroad. Go add something to your life, like plating something with gold, learn from other people…To tell the truth, there’s a lot of things worth studying overseas…Really, a lot.’ He munched on some roasted peanuts and, his face coming alive, he said as if to himself, ‘This faecal matter has been going on for several months now, hasn’t it?’

Mengliu said cautiously, ‘Off and on for about three months.’

The old man’s nostrils flared, snorting out alcoholic fumes, and he took a hesitant sip of his wine. He seemed about to speak, but held back.

‘I hear that representatives have met with the people, and they have negotiated. It seems they’ve agreed to find some experts to come and study the matter again, and to publish their findings about its DNA.’ Shunyu glanced at her father. Seeing that he didn’t object to what she had said, she continued, ‘But there’s still one condition the official representatives haven’t agreed to.’

‘What condition?’ It was Shunyu’s father who asked, breaking his own rule that no one should speak of politics, much to everyone’s surprise.

‘Father, do you really want to hear about it?’

‘Silly girl. If you’re going to talk about the situation, at least do so clearly.’

Shunyu said, ‘It’s about admitting that people from the Wisdom Bureau got beaten up.’

‘The Wisdom Bureau people were beaten up?’ her father asked.

‘Yes, the newspaper made false claims, saying that it was the police who had been beaten.’

Shunyu’s father took a deep breath, and then muttered, ‘The newspapers always lie, but it’s hard to believe they would stoop so low.’

No one replied to his mumbling, since he clearly didn’t expect an answer. This was his usual attitude. He had his own way of dealing with things.

Just then, more customers came in and Shunyu’s father left the wine jug but took his own cup. As he walked away, he reminded them, ‘Don’t talk politics,’ then swung his large form around to welcome his guests. It was several of his regular customers, and he led them up to the second floor.

‘Your father really loosened up on his restrictions today,’ Mengliu said.

‘The main reason was that you played the chuixun well. My father takes you as a soul mate.’ Shunyu smiled happily. ‘In fact, there’s no generation gap between my father and us. He likes to tell me about how things were when he was young. He did one thing once that was exceptionally absurd and romantic —’

‘Shunyu, come here!’ her father called.

‘He seems to have a sensor. Any time I want to say something bad about him, he calls me.’ Shunyu stuck her tongue out and went to answer her father’s call. When she came back, her face was flushed with embarrassment. She said her father’s old army comrade had come, bringing his son with him, to discuss a marriage between the young man and herself. At this point, the tail of the body of demonstrators disappeared from the doorway, and Qizi’s eyes suddenly looked vacant. ‘Maybe the negotiations will be useful. Then everyone’s hard work won’t be wasted.’

‘Yeah. Many of the leading intellectuals and celebrities are responding.’ Shunyu spoke excitedly, as if she herself were a participant.

‘You act as if you’re concerned about society, but really for you it’s all about Hei Chun. This is called being blinded by love.’ Qizi smiled, looking at Mengliu as he refilled his wineglass. ‘You should seize the opportunity to tell him. If not, it’s likely someone else will grab him.’

In a panic, Shunyu looked toward the inner depths of the bar and seeing her father was still upstairs, she settled her nerves again. ‘Only if you’re the one snatching him from me,’ she retorted.

‘Shunyu, what kind of rubbish is that you’re talking?’ Qizi chided.

Shunyu’s words had aroused Mengliu’s interest. He had had a lot to drink, and the free flow of wine was going to his head. He looked red and hot.

‘Hei Chun is talented, and there are certainly lots of girls who like him.’ His jealousy had provoked a cynical rivalry in him. ‘Especially when he goes up on the podium to speak, he looks so valiant. He speaks well, has a manly voice, and when the girls listen to him, they lose their wits.’ He turned to Qizi and continued, ‘Are you like all the rest? No? I bet your heart thumps at least a few times…Hei Chun, that son of a bitch. He just pretends not to notice the thousands of girls whose hearts throb for him. You’re right! He’s got his eye on someone, the bastard.’

Shunyu stood up silently and left.

Mengliu realised that Qizi’s face had darkened and her eyes were fixed on him in a murderous glare.

‘You…What’s wrong with you? Eh…why are you looking at me like a tigress?’

Qizi did not say anything, but continued to stare at him until tears began to fall. The murderous look was extinguished. She snatched Mengliu’s wineglass and swallowed the drink in one gulp. She drank so fast she choked.

Squinting, she said deliberately, ‘Hei Chun — right now he’s out there charging the enemy lines! He’s not spineless!’

‘Are you calling me a coward?’ Mengliu was getting worked up. ‘Qizi, you need to be clear about this. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gone on an outing at this time, and I wouldn’t be sitting here like a pansy drinking wine now.’

‘I admit I’ve played some part in it, but you’re giving me too much credit. You’re making me the scapegoat for the sake of your own ego. You only care about your own future.’

‘Do you really think so? Have you no conscience?’ This was going too far, and it stoked an alcohol-fueled fury in Mengliu. ‘You object to me joining the party, but then ridicule me when I sit here drinking. One minute you say this, the next that. I’ve been listening to you too much, going wherever you pointed, allowing you to weaken my will and disgrace me in front of everyone! And your father, that trump card, haven’t you played that too? You tell me, at the end of the day, what the fuck am I supposed to do?’

‘Stop pushing the blame onto me! In the final analysis, it’s your personality that’s the problem. You’re indecisive and dependent.’ Qizi was disgusted with him for swearing. She had begun by wondering whether he could withstand her assault, but she became angrier with each word and, throwing caution to the wind, she continued, ‘You’re a selfish prick. You live in the fantasy world of poetry. You are complacent, weak and without any vision. You have no ambition. You’re a hero in your own verse, but in real life, you’re just mediocre.’

Throughout Qizi’s harsh speech Mengliu’s pupils dilated until they were like flowers in full bloom. As the flowers reached the zenith of their life, there was a pause for several seconds, then they gradually turned dim and faded, shrivelled, withered. He lowered his eyes to the empty wineglass, as if he had drained the wine with his gaze. Then he calmly stood up, negotiated his way past the chairs, and flew out through the door of the bar like a flurry of fallen leaves in a cold wind.

Mengliu walked sluggishly beside his bicycle with his head slumped forward. Drunk, he could neither see nor hear a thing. He bumped into people and trees intermittently, until finally he staggered back to the West Wing. He flung the bike carelessly against a wall, went inside, and plopped down onto his bed. As soon as he fell asleep, he began to dream. He was being chased by a biomechanical monster. He tried frantically to escape, but his legs were limp and he could not run. Eventually he took flight, but the monster turned into a huge bat with eyes as red and round as lanterns. It opened its ferocious mouth in hot pursuit. Just as the bat was about to catch him, Mengliu woke up, his body on fire and his heart heavy.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a while. The cracks that spread over it made it look like a traffic map, with lines for highways, railways, and airlines winding here and there. He felt dizzy. Suddenly his whole life had become a mess.

Qizi’s words echoed in his mind like a knife scraping against glass, grating on his ego.

He applied psychoanalysis to his wounds for a while and felt better. After a little longer he felt quite good about himself, confident he could carry on with his normal life. But soon the cold reality returned and he felt a terrible pain. He cursed the alcohol, blaming it for starting him off on the trashy talk. He wanted to apologise to Qizi and tell her he loved her very much.

Just as he was filled with tender feelings, he felt the sting of her remarks all over again. His heart hardened, and he thought she should be the one to apologise to him. He would not forgive her if she did not take back her harsh judgement of him. Instead he waited all night, hoping Qizi would suddenly appear, laughing and ready to bury the hatchet. But all he heard was the wind in the locust tree, the cat in the rafters, and the endless flow of the lonely night. He had a splitting headache, and only when morning came did his state of confusion pass.

The radio next door chimed 11am, then began presenting the news. It reported an important meeting, saying it had been convened for the purpose of re-examining the faeces. The issue would be researched and discussed, and a vote taken. Those who attended the meeting had a long list of impressive titles, which was read out in its entirety in the report. It went on to talk in detail about how they made their entrance to the meeting, the suits they wore, their expressions, the colour of their ties, and emphasised the ‘thunderous applause’ that had greeted them. Only at the end was mention made of an illegal gathering of people who had attempted to take the opportunity to cause trouble, and made a negative impact on the smooth running of the conference.

‘In addition, at the entrance to the Catholic Church on Liuli Street, a young man claimed to have acquired some gorilla faeces and ate them in front of the crowd, using this to incite the masses to gather at Round Square and support the sit-in. After this, a violent confrontation erupted, two people were seriously hurt and had to be rushed to the hospital for treatment.’

Mengliu got out of bed and washed himself. The radio was now playing ads for laundry detergent. He went out and looked at the trees and the sky, and his spirits were revived slightly. He went to his landlord’s shop for a drink of warm milk and a snack, and to chat with the elderly man as usual. But the old man, buried in his own business, ignored Mengliu.

He left the shop feeling awkward. Seeing a trishaw parked on the roadside, he climbed into it.

‘Where to?’

‘Didn’t I say to Round Square?’ He saw that it was the same dark, thin fellow he had met when he went to the square before.

‘You didn’t say anything when you got in. Am I supposed to read your mind?’ the skinny fellow said as he pedalled, the tassels around the roof of the trishaw trembling. ‘I can only take you to the top of Liuli Street. You’ll have to walk from Beiping Street to the square.’

When he arrived, he saw Hei Chun and a crowd of people gathered in a circle, their expressions serious as they discussed things. They were all very pleased when they saw him. Hungover, Mengliu looked at them without any interest.

‘Why isn’t Qizi here?’ Hei Chun asked.

‘Qizi? She…’

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You had a fight?’

‘Sort of…’

‘Revolution always comes with the low tides. We have to be able to withstand the most severe tests.’

‘Yeah.’

‘A breakup is one way to prompt deeper feelings.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘Women are like a strangely tangled knot. The more you struggle with them, the tighter they bind you. They only know they want this or that, but they don’t understand what a man needs.’ Hei Chun was pulling him into the gathering. ‘Put aside your troubles with women and come, share some ideas.’

19

From his long experience, Mengliu was aware that different types of women had to be handled in different ways. It wasn’t wise to approach a woman carelessly without first understanding her history, education, habits, position, and other matters related to her background. If you didn’t, you stood no chance of managing her. Up until this point in his stay with her at Swan Valley, Mengliu hadn’t been able to figure Juli out. She was like a cluster of clouds he couldn’t quite grasp. She changed shape as winds of unknown origin blew on her — becoming dog, horse, fish, lamb — sometimes singly, sometimes in a group. In an instant she would change into a plant, a tree, a spreading branch or a flowering twig, and even the most solicitous bird couldn’t destroy her peace. But relying on his instincts about women Mengliu sensed that, deep inside, Juli harboured a suppressed assertiveness and lust. Moreover, he was sure that her lust had something to do with him, and with this thought he spent the whole night in a stimulated state, a torrent of heat flowing unceasingly through his body.

Imagine yourself as the sweet breeze of Swan Valley blowing into the window as Mengliu shaved. Follow his razor blade, serving as a sort of snow plough on his cheek, piling the foam in one corner, exposing the street-smooth greenish skin. He felt his cheek, scraped a few places again, then rinsed the razor and put it in its little box in the wall cabinet. He washed his face, then raised his head and checked his reflection in the mirror from different angles. He pressed forcefully on his skin with his left hand, like a masseur — or perhaps it was more an attempt to smooth premature wrinkles. His face followed the manipulations of his fingers, going askew as he pulled and poked. If you observed carefully, you could see clearly the traits of one who belonged to the 60s generation — teeth stained by tetracycline, a lack of calcium, shattered ideals and a perplexed idleness — rather like a mirror covered with a layer of dust that made you long to reach out and wipe it clean. But you could also see that Mengliu had an open well-fed look, the look of an official. If his waist had been broader with a more protruding belly, he would pass for a mid-level cadre. Only his eyes were still very clear, unclouded by worldliness. His stiff, detached expression caused his face to wear a cold glint like the blade of a scalpel.

Now, Mengliu was as careful about his appearance as a woman. He wiggled his eyebrows — rise, shoot, pinch, spread — like lively silkworms. He puffed up his cheeks, then opened his eyes wide, and his pupils suddenly turned dull, as if a bat had just flown past. The strange face in the mirror bore none of the romantic air of the poet. Years ago, his classmates said that his ‘every pore oozed with poetry,’ and he himself believed that each drop of his sweat bore the aroma of art. But the face in front of him now was characteristic of a professional, without the slightest trace of the poet, its pores emitting only worldly indulgence and aptitude.

How could a man who wrote no poetry, put in a place where the toilet was made of gold, go about pursuing Juli with dignity? This was the question that absorbed him now.

That night the moon looked pale as it hung above the forest. The look, so melancholy, made it seem like the moon was about to break into tears.

On Beiping Street a women’s propaganda troupe appeared, headed up by Qizi. Holding a megaphone, she spoke to the crowd, making up jingles by substituting their own words for the lyrics of popular songs. A girl named Sixi played guitar as she sang. Sixi was from the Arts Department. She had a round face and dark red skin and was just over a metre and a half tall. Her raven-black hair was twisted into two thick braids. She wore the cotton print patchwork outfit typical of a minority ethnic group and jade pendants that jingled when she moved. She had a style that was simple and understated. She was healthy and fit, and her deep-set eyes were adorned with long lashes, like a row of reeds alongside a pond, which often cast their dark reflection on its surface.

Sixi could sing and dance, and she played the guitar beautifully. She had once won first prize in a singing competition for university students, and had also participated in a nationally televised song contest and got good rankings. When Qizi and the rest recommended that Sixi join the Unity Party, she was unanimously accepted. As a contribution to the Party, she composed a theme song, ‘Tomorrow’, and performed it on the spot.

The Unity Party had taken up its main position on Beiping Street, hanging up clothing and props for performances in the vicinity. An unsavoury musty smell mingled with that of instant noodles and a mimeograph from which propaganda leaflets were being printed and distributed. Sixi sat at three square tables that had been joined to make a conference table, tuning her guitar. Her knees propped her flowery skirt up as she searched for the right key, then she sang in a solid voice.

At first, everyone looked at Sixi’s fingers, lips, face, earrings and floral dress. Then, as she sang the second verse, they closed their eyes and listened. Her voice was like a ball dangling mid-air in a fog. Sixi sucked in enough air to set her saliva splashing. She issued a string of groan-like trembling sounds from her lips, then bowed deeply.

She hopped off the table, put down the guitar, then said shyly that she had written the lyrics, but they had been polished and revised by a poet. Which one? Jia Wan. Some had heard that he wrote poetry, and was especially good at political verse. The poet’s face was round but held at an angle, with a dash of pockmarks. His nose was huge, and his eyes narrow. It was the look of one who had been brought up well.

Jia Wan had made an appearance at poetry salons, but did not talk much in a crowd. He was relatively low key. He was from the same village as Mogen, a writer who, though he was not well educated was very talented, and had been admitted into the Writers’ Class in an unconventional move when he won a national award for a novella he had written. Later, he entered the Literature Department. Now he was an activist, diligent in his work with the Unity Party, passing messages, running errands, doing odd jobs, and generally making himself useful in any way he could. The Writer’s Class was a place where people of unusual abilities could be found, who often quietly helped the Unity Party by drafting and writing slogans, making donations, or offering bedsheets to be used as banners.

As the result of a campaign speech made with absolute authority, Qizi had become the backbone of the Unity Party. Hei Chun was elected by an overwhelming margin to serve as the first chairman of its meetings.

Mengliu still had not joined the Party, but in order to see Qizi, he often showed up at their activities and performed small favours for them. Sometimes he bumped into her, but they exchanged no private words. They talked occasionally, but it was strictly on the level of comrades, as if there had never been anything more between them. All of their feelings seemed to have been transferred elsewhere.

The Wisdom Bureau’s Freedom in Broadcasting Forum was an expansion of the Unity Party’s Propaganda Department. Because of the unrest amongst the people and changes in its personnel, the Unity Party had been thrown into confusion. Some members were in hiding, others had fled, many kept farewell notes handy, ready to sacrifice their lives. There were also those who had the core members of the party in their sights, intending to weaken their positions. Hei Chun particularly was under attack, with people saying that he was a womaniser, and that he had used the funds raised by the Party on luxury-brand cigarettes, alcohol, and a life of corruption and vice.

One evening the previous week, in a dimly lit corridor where the whitewash on the termite-infested wall was flaking off in slivers, Mengliu had come out from the washroom and overheard a conversation between Hei Chun and Qizi. Hei Chun wanted Qizi to take over as chairperson, saying she was the only one capable enough for the role. He had written a letter of resignation and would inform the Party the next day. Qizi said he couldn’t withstand the wind and rain, and that his heart became overwhelmed with anxiety at the first signs of trouble.

What made Mengliu’s heart race was not that Hei Chun wanted to elevate Qizi, but that he had confessed his feelings for her, using this critical moment when she was vulnerable to express his affection. He bore with the unpleasantness and listened as Hei Chun continued.

‘Last year in the twelfth lunar month, your long hair was awash in sunlight as you skated alone on the ice, eating candied hawthorns. I came up behind you, raced past, and caused you to fall. The candy stick flew from your hand and made me stumble too. I cursed, then turned back and saw you, looking like a penguin with your arms flapping as you tried to catch your balance. Your eyes were dark and your face clear and golden. At that moment, I forgot everything. I couldn’t even remember that I had crashed into you. I asked which department you were in, and you asked if I was going to go to your department to apologise. I said I wanted to bring you a bunch of flowers, and asked what flowers you liked. I slid up next to you, and you recognised me then. You said my skating was much worse than my poetry…’

Mengliu kicked the base of the wall, knocking a shower of white plaster loose. He imagined the frozen lake, the sun shining on it, and Qizi’s face like amber, with her dark eyes, looking irritated but lovely and innocent at the same time. The sky was a monotonous grey, and the trees were withered. Only she was alive with colour. It was like an image from a film, developed in the darkroom of Hei Chun’s mind.

‘Qizi, everyone is very supportive of you. If I withdraw, it will be good for the Unity Party. Anyway, I’ve already achieved my goal.’

‘Goal? What have you achieved?’

‘…Actually, it’s not exactly a goal. I do things out of interest.

There’s no reason. I don’t have to be responsible to anyone.’

‘I won’t be the chairperson. I oppose your resignation.’

Qizi’s recorded speech was like a newly-unearthed weapon. Mournful, bleak, poignant and tragic, it made spring at the Wisdom Bureau extraordinarily dreary.

Mengliu and Shunyu each carried a bundle of cloth, paint, and a bag of jingling objects. As they listened to the broadcast, they walked toward the basketball court, where there was plenty of space for them to work.

‘Qizi’s actually a very talented performer. Can you hear how sensational she is? She makes me want to cry.’ Shunyu pricked up her translucent jug ears and pursed her thin lips. ‘She is possessed. Her father is angry and wants to disown her.’

Mengliu had slowed his pace, and was looking at a speaker attached to the trunk of a tree. He began to envision angels running barefoot from the speaker, elves, roaring lions, snorting horses. Out of the dark forest came the thundering sound of thousands of horses and soldiers, the sad howling of wolves, the honking of a lone goose, and the whimpering of the north wind.

‘On this sunny day, we are on a hunger strike. In the beautiful days of our youth, we cannot help but resolutely cast aside everything that’s good. However, we don’t really want to do that. We refuse to take it lying down!’

‘…’

‘Democracy is the greatest impulse for the survival of human life. Freedom is an inherent, natural right. Everyone has a right to know the truth…

‘We do not want to die! We have a vision for the future, because we are at the most beautiful age of our lives. We do not want to die! Our motherland is still so impoverished, and we do not have the right to cast it aside. Death is not our aim! But if an individual’s death, or the death of a few, will enable more people to live a better life, and to create prosperity for the motherland, then we have no right to hold on to our own lives!

‘When we are hungry, our mothers and fathers, do not mourn. When we say farewell to this world, our uncles and aunties, do not shed tears. We only have one hope, and that is for you to have a better life. We only have one request: please don’t forget, we are definitely not pursuing death!’

‘What are you looking at? Idiot!’ Shunyu swatted Mengliu with the cloth.

‘I was listening to the speech. It was really good. Earth- shattering.’

‘A talented literary work? Did you play any part in it?’

‘She has plenty of talent to deal with this sort of thing.’

‘What’s going on with the two of you? Are you still planning to go overseas?’

Mengliu could not answer Shunyu’s question. He thought back to what had happened two days earlier, when he had worked overnight assisting the Unity Party. His stepfather had come and could not find him, and had lain on his doorstep all night, waiting. As soon as he saw Mengliu, he caught hold of him, but in his anxiety he could not get his words out. He wanted Mengliu to go back to the village and lie low until the trouble was over. He said, ‘Don’t join this damn rebellion.’

Mengliu asked him, ‘Who’s rebelling? It’s just a petition. But I’m not even signing that.’

His father had scolded, picked up a book, and started to hit him with it. After a while, his attack weakened, leaving him tired and helpless.

Mengliu was overcome by a burst of sadness.

‘Why are you in a daze? Why don’t you say something?’ Shunyu said, elbowing him.

‘If Qizi starts to create literary works, she will certainly be an excellent writer,’ he said.

‘She’s very smart. It’s like she’s from another world.’

‘Both of us have low IQs. Why don’t we get together?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. My IQ is much higher than yours! Someone as beautiful as me is only fit to be with a hero. Who wants to make do with you, Mengliu?’

He knew her hero was Hei Chun, but even though it was just a joke, it still stung. They had idled the time away together in mutual sympathy. They no longer felt like going to the theatre, and they had no interest in concerts. They bumbled around a few antique markets, and finally grew tired of that too. They were bored with the blandness of it all, watching their friends rush like soldiers to the front line of revolution. In the end, they were conscience-stricken, thinking they should at least show their sympathies. It was because of this feeling that they had begun doing these errands for the Unity Party.

With Mengliu’s excellent penmanship and Shunyu’s nimble handiwork, they stitched up banners and wrote slogans, listening to the radio as they worked. After Sixi’s theme song, the Freedom Forum came on air. The guest, a well-known intellectual, brought explosive inside information, saying there was an intense internal struggle in the Plum Party, which had split into two factions. One of the factions wanted to take advantage of the demonstrations to raise a public outcry, hoping bigger trouble would be stirred up.

Mengliu spread out the cloth, indicated his approval of the tailoring, and took up his paint brush and began writing. The paint fumes caused him to sneeze and his eyes to water, but by the time the Freedom Forum ended, the words had emerged from the black background he had created for the banner.

‘These are the biggest words I’ve ever written in my life.’ Mengliu stood up and massaged his knees, feeling like he was no bigger than a toothpick in front of the black banner.

‘Will you go to Round Square tomorrow?’ Shunyu looked at the black banner spread out on the ground.

‘We’ll see.’

‘When you were doing the poetry reading at the bar, do you remember what you and Hei Chun were fighting about?’

‘I didn’t fight with anyone.’

‘Hei Chun said it doesn’t matter if poetry is romantic and graceful, so long as it is passionate.’

‘Since when have you become his spokesperson?’

‘The Three Musketeers should unite for the power of poetry. It boosts morale.’

‘Poetry, apart from inviting trouble for yourself, is utterly useless. Aren’t Bai Qiu’s poems banned now? What use are a few lines of rhetoric?’

Mengliu thought of Bai Qiu’s death. He was like a bird, flying down from the roof of the Wisdom Bureau, his last words folded neatly in his pocket. His death had nothing to do with anything, except that he despaired over this damned generation, confused between right and wrong.

‘Bai Qiu was always a poet.’ The wind lifted a corner of the banner reflected in Shunyu’s eye. She whispered, ‘I admit that I like Hei Chun, but I don’t have the courage to stand with him. I am weak.’

‘Your loneliness serves you right, then.’ Mengliu used stones to weigh down the corners of the banner, then checked to see if the paint was dry.

‘I kind of hate Qizi.’

‘What do you hate her for?’

‘She always plays hard to get with men.’

‘Doesn’t seem so to me.’

‘Why don’t you apologise to her?’

‘I…didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘A man should be a little more magnanimous.’

‘If you think that Qizi is the roadblock between you and Hei Chun, you’re wrong.’

‘I like him, and that’s my own business. It’s got nothing to do with anyone else,’ Shunyu said.

Mengliu stood up straight as a flagpole and replied, ‘Shunyu, you can extract sweetness from the bitterest root, and that’s a real talent. I, on the other hand, suck bitterness from a sugar cube. Our perspectives are different, and our tongues don’t detect the same flavours. But why don’t you compete with Qizi? You’re also very pretty. Don’t you have a long line of suitors behind you? Why are you only entranced with Hei Chun? Let me tell you, he’s a selfish bastard, and a bit of a playboy. When is he ever free? The rumours about him never stop, and he likes to read love letters from his female fans in public. He’s not good enough for you. You should look for a guy who’s more…’

Shunyu was kneeling on a white banner outlining the words, ‘Long Live Freedom’. Her brush suddenly stopped. She screwed up her face, looked up at him and said, ‘However bad Hei Chun is, I don’t mind. Even if he were in prison, I’d bring him food every day.’

‘What? Are you really that far gone?’

Ignoring Mengliu, Shunyu dipped her brush into the ink and continued to outline the words.

Just then Sixi ran onto the basketball court, her clothing dazzlingly colourful. Two others trailed along in her wake, Jia Wan and Mogen. Neither said anything, they simply rolled up and neatly stacked the banners that had already dried and checked to see how many more strips of cloth were left. They went to work turning them into banners, Jia Wan commenting on those that had been filled with words, saying which strokes were too thin, where the ink was too light, and which characters should be written in a way that looked more imposing. He almost completely negated the effort that had been put in by the others.

Shunyu tossed her brush aside and looked at Jia Wan in exasperation. Mengliu knew she did not like the fellow, and he also felt there was something sordid about him, like a painting in a vulgar frame. He always wore a suit, as if he thought it would make him look classier. Instead, it only proved he had no taste. From Shunyu’s point of view a pretentious poet who wore a suit every day, as if he was in a hurry to attend a banquet, wouldn’t be able to write anything worth reading.

Tired and with an aching back, she didn’t even attempt to be polite to him. ‘What do you think you’re doing, coming over and pointing here and pointing there? You don’t like it? This is the way I do things. Why don’t I go buy some cloth and you rewrite it all?’

When Jia Wan heard these angry words, he realised he had offended Shunyu. He smiled obsequiously and said, ‘No, no, no. Don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to criticise. I just think we should pay attention to every detail, so that we will be taken seriously. These banners and writings are the voice of the people, and can be taken as the face of the Wisdom Bureau.’

‘So you’re saying that I’m making everyone lose face? What were you doing all this while? Go back to the press conference and talk to the reporters. Why bother coming back here where all the dirty work is done? It doesn’t do much for your image!’

Sixi interrupted, ‘Don’t bicker. We’re all doing our best. Jia Wan has joined the Unity Party. He’s in charge of publicity and logistics, and he’s just trying to fulfill his responsibilities.’

‘Oh, is that right?’ Shunyu said. ‘If I’d known I was working for him, I wouldn’t have come even if there were eight sedan chairs waiting to escort me here. I would rather be at home lying in bed, reading a novel.’

The short-haired Mogen said, ‘Our fellow student here seems a little biased. Actually, you aren’t doing this for any one person. We are all working for the country, for the good of the people.’

This just stoked Shunyu’s anger. ‘Are you trying to make a fool of me? I don’t want to hear it. You tell me how many people really have the best interests of the country and the people at heart. Aren’t they all after a little power? What is it about the country, or the people? Do they need you to be in charge?’

Once Shunyu lost her temper the insults flew from her mouth like daggers, and she wouldn’t relent on anyone’s account. Mengliu knew that her heart was in turmoil because she was completely lovesick over Hei Chun. He led her away from the basketball court, listening quietly as she vented her frustration.

‘Just look at him, with his slip-sliding eyes. I think it’s pretty clear he’s not a gentleman. He joined the Unity Party, and next thing you know, he may bring the whole thing crumbling down.’ Shunyu wiped vigorously at the ink on her fingers. Walking past a cluster of willow trees, she said, ‘Let’s go to Round Square. Maybe we’ll find something to do there.’

‘Let’s not. I’m worried about your father.’ Mengliu pretended to object, but actually he wanted to see Qizi.

‘My father donated two thousand kuai to the Unity Party yesterday.’

‘That doesn’t mean he allows you to participate.’

‘Let’s just go. I’m bored.’

‘I guess I could go and help construct the broadcast station.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Well, I’m not your father. I can’t stop you.’

‘Yuan Mengliu, you arsehole. Are you being cheeky with me?’

‘Sure I am! If I’m the one who has to look out for you, doesn’t that make me your father?’

‘You’re incorrigible. Hey — do you want to hear one of my father’s romantic stories?’

She told him the story as they walked towards the square. ‘It’s from when he was in the army. Of course, he hadn’t met my mother at that time. My father’s company rested in a village for a few weeks. He got a little stir crazy, so sometimes he went to the river to play the chuixun. Because he played so well, a beautiful girl was fascinated by the music. He taught her to play the xun. On the night before he was to depart, my father and the girl went into the bushes by the river and, you know…He also left the xun with the girl.’

‘What sort of xun?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘What happened next?’

‘There was no “next”. My father only knew her nickname, something like Little Liu. Maybe she was the sixth child in her family, so they called her liu.’

‘Your father really was a romantic, seducing a village girl while in military uniform.’ Mengliu pretended to be preoccupied, but he was thinking of all the rumours he had heard about his own father. He took out his xun and looked at it, noting where his adoptive father had seen the engraved words meng liu and taken that as his name. Could there be some relationship between these two ‘sixes’, these ‘lius’?

Impossible! Inwardly, he laughed at himself. It was too fantastic. How could he even entertain such a ridiculous notion?

Shunyu spoke on her father’s behalf, saying he had taken the thing he loved most and given it to Little Liu. ‘That xun was the only thing my father cherished. It was an heirloom.’

‘At least he had a heart. Go back and ask your father, what did the family heirloom look like? Was it an oval xun, a bottle-gourd xun, a grip xun, a mandarin duck xun, an attached xun, a cow’s head xun, or was it like this…a lady-charming xun?’ He thought a moment, then laughed. ‘Well, for people with low IQs like you, it’s too complicated. How about this — you take my xun back to your father and ask him what era it comes from.’

20

Dark clouds swallowed up the moon, the bird of the night let out a scream as if the sudden darkness had bitten into it, deepening the surrounding shadows until everything became indistinguishable patches of blackness. Mengliu quietly listened to his own heartbeat for a while, feeling bored. The constant sound of turning pages came from the room opposite, where Juli sat. He felt that she was summoning him. She had left the door unlatched and slightly ajar. The light in her room was soft.

To express his loneliness, Mengliu put on a show with the chuixun for a while. He sat quietly for a little longer, then stood up and walked straight across to Juli’s room. He stopped in the small strip of light in the doorway, allowing it to split his body in half. The rhythm of his fingers on the door were like a bird pecking. When he got a response, he opened the door and let the light pour onto him.

As he went into Juli’s room, he found himself insufficiently prepared. He was stunned, as if he was standing beneath the vast sky with the lake and mountains shimmering in the distance, and the foliage stirring nearby. The sun shone on her golden face and chest, the low neckline of her gown emphasising the two mysterious mounds that rose like graves there. His spirit was sucked toward the sight, but he bravely tore himself from the grip the spectre of the graves had on him and returned to the warmth of reality.

He pretended to sweep his eyes across the furnishings in the room, a pear-carved table, chairs and wardrobe in the Chinese style. There was a bronze glow over everything, and tassels hung from the edge of the purple linen covering the bed. On the wall above the bed hung a needlepoint depicting Japanese ladies in kimonos. Juli knelt there beneath it. Her long skirt covered her legs, exposing only her feet, which peeped out like the paws of a cat lying on its belly.

Seeing that Mengliu did not speak for some time, Juli straightened her legs and laid her book upon her lap. His eyes immediately fell to the book — or, rather, to her lap. Juli thought for a moment, then sat up and moved to a chair. She wore a pair of white cotton slippers, which looked very comfortable.

‘You can also have a seat,’ she said. The light fell on the side of her face, illuminating the fine hairs on her neck. Her ears looked like a fried snack, golden and crispy thin.

He felt as if he had taken a drag of marijuana. His legs were floating, and his eyes felt as if they had tendrils growing out of them, crawling like ants across the floorboards and stopping at Juli’s feet to gaze up at her.

‘I…don’t really need anything.’

He and Juli sat at a round table with a porcelain vase of white lilies on it. He stared at the flowers and added, ‘I just…wanted to talk.’

Juli smiled gently, revealing four small shell-like teeth. At night, he could see how black her eyes were, and unbelievably soft.

‘Are you still thinking of the nursing home?’

‘No…no! I feel like there’s a caged beast inside of me.’ He seemed to be describing an interesting dream. ‘This wild beast keeps roaring, and trying to crash through the cage it is shut in. Oh! It is going to rush out of my chest!’ He rubbed his chest, as if to appease the unseen beast. ‘It’s nearly crushing my heart.’

Juli frowned in confusion. ‘What? There’s an animal inside you? What should we do? That’s so strange.’ She did not understand this type of analogy at all.

Mengliu looked at her, shocked. He had deliberated on this piece of poetic expression for a long time. But perhaps the beating around the bush only served to magnify the difference in the thinking processes of their different countries. His head was buzzing. After Qizi, Mengliu had never really tried his hand at seriously falling in love. All those years ago in Dayang, in that time of economic development and obsession with liberation, it was easy to get one’s hands on a girl. Each knew she was master of her own body, and as the animals awoke inside of them, they let them loose to play and run wild. Love at that time, like poetry now in Swan Valley, overflowed. No one took it too seriously, and all the young people lived in a state of confused ecstasy.

For a moment, Mengliu felt helpless. Juli’s thin linen nightgown gave him a clear view of the body inside it, provoking the wild beast inside him.

Suddenly he got up and stepped decisively toward her, grabbed her chin in one hand, and kissed her. Juli’s surprised expression was at first like a tightly-shut bud. But under Mengliu’s quick attack on the lips, the bud suddenly blossomed. In plain terms, Juli did not resist. Instead, she plunged quickly into this act of rash wild kissing. Mengliu half expected that his rude behaviour would incite a slap on the face, or perhaps worse, so he was a bit taken aback by Juli’s response. He paused, pulled her into his arms more carefully, and began to kiss her more meticulously and fervently. He felt her firm body warming quickly against him, becoming as hot and floury as a baked potato.

All at once he knew how to strip the skin off the potato and consume the soft flesh inside it. He resorted to an indefinite kissing, while planning how to achieve his goal. He carefully followed Juli’s body movements, but the fingertips of his mind could not find the exact location of the tender button amidst the complex tissues of her brain. He became completely disoriented.

Mengliu thought the hot potato in his hands smelled just right, that it was expanding to readiness, but as soon as he attempted anything further, it turned to a hedgehog in his grasp, offering sharp resistance to his moves and re-establishing certain boundaries. He redoubled his patience and, very gently, plucked the spines out one by one, hoping she would let her guard down, but also taking care not to get pricked. Women all over the world like to play this game, he thought to himself.

He had undertaken a huge, indefinite, but not disappointing project. This was like a major operation, and it required a long-term approach and much preparation. He took a careful but tough approach, covering her mouth with his, slowly making his way down to her breasts. He took his time, making her feel that her whole self was in those breasts, and that she could entrust them to his warm palm. He had never been a pig who would swallow a woman whole, he prided himself on being a master of good taste. He wanted to show her how much he appreciated her body, as if his whole world was contained there.

Finally Juli succumbed. She lay down on the bed before him, and Mengliu breathed a sigh of relief. But when he saw her lying there stiffly, it made him think of a patient on an operating table. With his free hand, he brushed aside the hair on her forehead and asked why she seemed so nervous. Juli looked at him like a patient addressing a doctor, with trusting, begging eyes that seemed about to say something. But her mouth only opened like that of a fish out of water, and issued no sound.

Considerately and cautiously, Mengliu began kissing her again. He saw her liquid chocolate eyes, blazing with the reflection from the light, gazing at him from her flushed face, and was moved by such genuine beauty. He unfastened her gown and as he slipped it off, she rolled over and he saw a large butterfly tattooed on her back, its forewings extended out over her shoulder blades and its rear wings over her hips, wrapping around her buttocks. Her waist was delicately thin. She lay there quietly with her back to him. The butterfly seemed poised to fly away at any time. Without stopping to study the tattoo, he stroked her curvaceous body with his skilled surgeon’s hands, inspecting every crease and crevice. A hidden torrent welled up, violently pushing and shoving through his fingertips, pounding his nerves. He was like an arrow on a bow, ready for release, within seconds he had removed his own clothing. But just as he leapt toward Juli, an alarm sounded in the room.

‘What’s that?’ Mengliu stopped and asked.

‘It’s a warning for us.’ Juli brought her legs up toward her chest, and turned to lie on her side. She looked at Mengliu with a provocative smile.

‘I don’t understand…’

‘You still don’t get it. Swan Valley prohibits sexual intercourse.’

‘You’re very funny.’ Mengliu’s body quivered with merriment, and he bent to kiss her.

The alarm sounded again, this time issuing a more severe warning.

‘I’m not joking. It’s true. Every room is equipped with a special sensor. This is a code yellow warning. If intercourse begins, it will move to code red. Ten minutes later, you’ll be picked up.’ Juli looked up at him, her expression charming. ‘You aren’t afraid of having your head hung on the wall, are you?’

‘You mean…everyone is being monitored?’ He was shocked, but kept his face calm.

‘Monitored? You have a crude way of putting it. It’s concern for our well-being. A way of taking responsibility for the individual.’ Juli looked at him, her expression that of a patient begging a doctor to tell her the results of a procedure. ‘Am I worth that sort of risk?’

Completely carried away, Mengliu now sought to cool his still thumping heart. He tried closing in on Juli, but the alarm sounded again. He had to believe what she was saying.

‘All sexual intercourse is illegal, even between husband and wife.’ Juli lowered her arms across her breasts, smiling at him as if she were the beneficiary of this policy.

‘Hang on…Swanese people, you mean they’ve all jumped out of cracks in the stones?’

‘No, we use artificial insemination. A clean, painless little procedure.’

‘Artificial insemination…’ He could not keep from laughing. ‘That’s crazy! Why even bother?’

‘Mr Yuan, you’re not taking this seriously. Swan Valley advocates a scientific approach. We use genetic research to produce quality in the population. Each person’s body has its optimal period for conception, and before artificial insemination is performed, the physiology of both parties has to be subjected to a lot of calculations…’

‘Oh?’ Mengliu felt like he had seen a ghost. ‘Precise calculations? Scientific operations? But what about human feelings?’

‘We pay more attention to the higher spiritual life. For unlawful sexual intercourse, a man may wear a gold shackle and go into servitude, or even have his head cut off. We don’t punish the women…but you know punishment of the soul is also a torment. If a woman commits the blasphemous act of intercourse, her soul is corrupted forever…’

The feverish flush had faded from Juli’s face, and her complexion was returning gradually to its calm, golden tone. Even the lights in the house were becoming more rational again.

Mengliu remembered the way Juli had made the chopping gesture by the wall that day, and he shuddered. A chilly wind invaded the space between his legs, and he grew limp there. He needed a dignified way to retreat, but he looked at her with strange eyes and said, ‘To use your body to fight the system is tantamount to throwing eggs against stones. A variety of historical facts have proven this. You probably don’t know how many young people, a whole generation, have foolishly paid an exorbitant price because of this belief…many were killed, but the worst was the punishment that came later. You can never escape the hand of judgement. Even less should I, a mere stranger.’

Mengliu, unable to control his emotions, now appeared neurotic. Either he had nothing to say, or once he started talking, he was like a pebble rolling downhill, unable to stop. ‘I have an acquaintance, he tried to hide and survived on roots and tubers for many years in the mountains. It finally caught up with him… there has never been a party more vengeful, or more thorough and ruthless. Some people were expelled from their homes, leaving their loved ones, living in exile…in fact, all rulers’ temperaments are the same. The only difference between them is their height, weight, and hair colour.’

‘You should treat the ruling institutions like chastity. “Don’t touch” is a good rule of thumb.’ Juli picked up her gown and covered her chest, then resumed her position beneath the embroidered picture. Her lower body was still exposed, her legs long and slender. ‘When people make decisions, they need to have the support of a belief system. You’re right, defying the law with your body is like a moth playing with fire.’

Looking at her now, Mengliu realised he was still naked. He was already flaccid, and now he was ashamed. He dressed slowly, his actions full of the sadness and helplessness of a mourner. In an attempt to hide his cowardice, he finally spoke as if offering his condolences. ‘May I ask, has Swan Valley conducted a public opinion survey on this matter? Is this something the public agrees to? Is it the result of a democratic consensus?’

‘Let’s not talk about this in my bedroom,’ Juli said faintly, using the tone of someone resigned to the death of a loved one, and talking respectfully to those offering their condolences. ‘You can express your views freely at the weekly salon.’

‘Juli, I’m just a foreigner.’ Mengliu looked at her, using a dark tone and expression, tuned to a funeral environment, as he once again expressed his grief.

‘Don’t worry. Before long, you’ll have citizenship here in Swan Valley.’ The light caught her eye, making it glow.

‘What?’ Mengliu yelped. ‘Citizenship? I can’t live here. I want to go home.’

‘You mean that place where there’s no democracy, no freedom? What is worth remembering about that authoritarian place?’

‘It’s my homeland.’

‘Once you set foot in Swan Valley, you belong here. It’s just like you were born here.’

‘I don’t even know where I am, or how I got here. Or whether I’m just dreaming.’

‘Swan Valley’s citizenship is not issued indiscriminately. You have exceptionally good genes. Your wisdom and potential will be developed here.’

‘No mater what I am, no matter what happens, I won’t stay in a place where sexual intercourse is forbidden.’

Juli smiled, and her legs writhed sinuously, like a snake spirit.

‘Actually, it’s not absolutely prohibited…If you’re willing to explore the policy and find the loopholes, you’ll see that if you write a good poem and recite the poem loudly for it to hear,’ she put one hand on her private parts and pointed the other at the alarm in the corner of the room, ‘it will be quiet.’

She sat up slowly and hugged her legs to her, breasts squeezed between her knees. She spoke in a tone that struck Mengliu as a confusion between begging and seduction. ‘At least…write one for me, won’t you?’

Mengliu kept staring at her wheat-coloured flesh. As if struck by its lustre, he squinted involuntarily. He issued a string of bizarre laughter. ‘Ah…so it’s sex for poetry? You want to enlist me in the sex trade? Why would you want to treat lovemaking as a commodity? You’re as crazy as they are!’

When he finished saying this, he turned away and rushed back to his own room. He slumped onto the bed in a mess. His body had cooled down, but his heart was still hot, like boiling water stored in the cold steel shell of a thermos. The more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. He had been blown by a foul wind to this strange place and to a woman who, at the height of his passion, had told him that, in order to ensure the quality of the population, they didn’t allow sexual intercourse. As soon as he drew near her, an alarm went off, but then she said that if he wrote poetry he could sleep with her. He suddenly sat up in bed, laughing. The Dayang Poetry Society had dispersed years ago. He did not write poetry anymore. He could not write poetry, and did not take life so seriously. Now he despised himself. His body had denied the fact that he could do anything for the love of women. He dared not risk his head to have sex with a woman, and he was even more loathe to use poetry in exchange for a woman’s body. That would be to blaspheme poetry. It was an insult to his history with Bai Qiu and Hei Chun.

The candle had burnt down and went off with a whiff. As he was feeling drowsy with sleep, he heard the sound of a wooden latch sliding. The sound was hesitant. It paused a few times. The latch seemed to be thousands of miles long, never reaching the end, like a carriage bearing a great load up a steep slope, where the slightest interference would spook the horses and stop them in their tracks. Mengliu’s ears were alert. He hardly breathed. Darkness enveloped him. He could see Juli coming out from her bedroom, and hear the swishing of her gown. The wind blew from the forest, rattled the coconuts on the palm trees, filling the air with their fragrance. In the garden insects struck up a chorus. She came in, sinking onto the edge of his bed. She was holding a sharp knife. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes bloodshot. He could feel her breath on his face. The tip of the knife reached his chest, but it was warm, more like a fingertip than a blade. Ah, Juli’s fingertip pressing, two fingertips, three…all of them on him, like a flock of tame creatures. They stroked the grassland of his face, nibbling at the stubble there. Slowly, the fingers straightened and her palms pressed on his face, like a little beast sprawling on top of him, its warm belly pressed against him. All of a sudden, the liquids beneath the earth became torrential, his body tightened like a taut string. When he reached for her there was a crashing sound, and he fell from the bed, waking himself from his dream. He got up, and walked out of the house into the darkness. Laughter echoed in the blankness of his mind.

As dawn broke, he returned in a cloak of mist, extremely weary, and went back to sleep. When he awoke, his emotions were still in a tangle, making his chest feel bloated and hot. Everywhere he looked he saw images of Juli. With the precise observations of a surgeon he concluded that he was in love with her. This woman turned the glue-like substance secreted in his heart into something stickier than any chemical. What he was feeling went beyond science.

It was said that Juli’s husband was a diplomat, an ambassador, young and personable. Only a few people had seen him. It was also rumoured that he had disappeared during his travels at sea. In Mengliu’s imagination he was himself a criminal, thinking of ways to get away with a crime. After he had slept with Juli, how could he act normal, clean up the scene of the crime, clear all signs, erase all suspicious clues…the feeling of success a criminal had did not come from the crime itself, but from the ability to escape being caught. His mind wandered, and he began to taste the excitement of committing adultery. He wanted to have his way with Su Juli. At the same time, he was thinking of how he would escape from Swan Valley.

21

In Round Square there were no songs and no slogans, no bustle, just a mass of bobbing heads. Black flags waved against the bleak sky. People were losing consciousness from hunger, and many had to be carted away in ambulances. The shrill sound of their sirens, like the buzz of a chainsaw cutting through oppression, solidified time and space, like a hand squeezing the light in a tight grasp. The weak light escaping between its fingers brushed past the faces which had suddenly lost their joy. The bodies reeling left and right were wilting like flowers. The number of supporters had increased. People had come from all over Beiping just to sit in Round Square without eating or drinking. The original plan for a rolling schedule of fasting had been jeopardised. There was chaos, disorder, a loss of control. Someone took a loudspeaker and requested that the crowds follow all the organisational arrangements, so as to avoid injury. A headquarters was established and a commander-in-chief installed. Qizi was dressed for the part, wearing a white headband and white mandarin jacket. She hopped up onto the scaffolding of the small broadcasting station and related the developments of the past few days. When she got emotional, she became teary-eyed and her voice filled with a generous grief.

At night, the street lamps cast their glow over Round Square, creating a dreamy warmth there. The temperatures were much lower after dark than in the daytime, and many of the protestors were turning blue with the cold, their lips grey. They were like baggage unloaded from a long-distance bus, thrown untidily together, covered in dust and mud. Early in the morning the square resembled a battlefield that had fallen silent once the fighting was over, with bodies all over the field and the dilapidated flags shrouded in a smoky mist. The clouds were stained, first grey, then pale orange, golden yellow, then a mix of yellow and red as the sun rose to expose its own grey face, blanketed by the fog.

Sixi’s voice sounded over the radio, reading poems by Pablo Neruda. Another voice, belonging to Fusheng, a professional broadcaster, joined in. They had hit it off the first day they met.

Mengliu was kept extremely busy doing odd jobs in Round Square. Hearing Qizi’s voice, he looked up and noticed she had the word ‘sorrow’ printed in huge letters across her back. He took some comfort from this, but the word also gave him a sense of foreboding. He was not sure when it had happened, but he was no longer angry with Qizi. A familiar joy glowed in him again. His affection and hunger were still alive, telling him of the suffering and pain she had undergone since they had parted. She had lost weight, but at the same time she had been through the forge, and had absorbed the essence and strength of darkness, breaking out of the door finally like a brilliantly shining gold coin.

He needed to speak to her.

He hung his megaphone on a flagpole and went back to the broadcasting station. He bent low and stepped into the tent, planning in his head to wait until the busy period was over to apologise to Qizi. He would accept any punishment from her, and the two would make up and engage in a dizzying embrace. But when he finally found Qizi, she was sitting with her back against a tent post, with a bag of fluid hanging from it. She was on a drip. They were holding a meeting. She was listening, brow furrowed, face pale, chin sharp as an awl. She had grown thin. Mengliu almost didn’t recognise her. She didn’t even look at him, or if she did, she showed no response. He wondered whether she recognised him. What were they involved in — a great cause? a brawl? It was because of their breakup that she had joined the demonstrations in a confused state. Could she be going on a hunger strike now because she had fallen out with him? Mengliu was absorbed in his conjectures when Qizi suddenly pulled the needle out of her arm and stood up.

She uttered something that shocked him — it was about self-immolation. She would use her death in exchange for the lives of the hundreds now on hunger strike.

Mengliu forgot to breathe. He was saying to himself, Qizi, you’re crazy. As if answering him, she said hoarsely, ‘I’m not mad. I am very composed. This is the only way we will awaken the conscience of those indifferent to our plight…’ Her voice quivered and she dropped to the ground.

Each man’s death diminishes me

for I am involved in mankind

therefore do not send to know

for whom the bell tolls

It tolls for me, and for thee

In times of fear and trembling

I want to make my life real

I must make this confession public

exposing my own hypocrisy

and that of my generation

As Sixi recited the poem on the radio, Hei Chun entered and interrupted her. He brought several important announcements and wanted to broadcast them immediately

‘There are no substantive negotiations. They are filibustering, obviously stalling for time.’ Hei Chun sat on the table, a cigarette in his hand.

‘That’s a pain. I heard that many people in the headquarters have fainted and are now in hospital,’ Mengliu said to him. He had been left in the tent with Sixi.

‘I know. Who is in charge of directing in the meantime?’ Hei Chun asked.

‘Fusheng. He’s got experience in organising.’

‘Damn it. Heaven is against us too. A heavy downpour on a sick crowd. I hope it won’t become an epidemic. The Red Cross has donated medicines that we should receive in the morning. There are also a thousand tents, and a transportation company has given us fifty buses at no cost. If it continues to rain, we’ll have places to shelter in.’ Hei Chun ran his hand from his forehead to the back of his neck.

‘How about everything else?’

‘No casualties, but still bad enough.’

‘I heard the hospitals are full.’

‘Quanmu is ferreting out the inside information. The situation is more complex than we ever imagined.’

Hei Chun lit his cigarette. He watched the match burn down almost to his fingertips, then blew it out.

‘Anyway, I believe history will give us our due.’ He took a deep drag of his cigarette, and let his eyes fall on Mengliu. ‘Guess what the bigwig had to say. He said, “As a member of the Plum Party I never conceal my views, but today I’m not going to say anything. In any case, I’ve pretty much stated what I think.”’

Mengliu couldn’t help but laugh.

‘They are so insincere. They said they wanted to visit, and talk to us directly, but then they wouldn’t communicate with us because they couldn’t get to Round Square.’ Hei Chun hopped down from the table, then crushed out the cigarette he had just lit. ‘It’s nothing but nonsense! The really bloody sacrifice is just around the corner. The death bell will begin tolling for this generation.’

‘Hei Chun, I think we should retreat…’

‘Retreat? Why? Are you crazy?’

‘You should understand their attitude better than anyone. Why should we slap ourselves in the face?’

Hei Chun was startled. Just then, there was a pelting sound. Someone was throwing stones at the tent.

Jia Wan burst into the tent with a single stride, dressed in his usual suit. He said, ‘Headquarters has announced an end to the hunger strike.’

Hei Chun was shocked. ‘End the hunger strike? I don’t believe it. Everyone has stuck with the strike for eight days. Why should they stop now before any real progress has been made?’

Outside, a group began a chant of, ‘We won’t eat! We won’t retreat!’

‘Come on, let’s go to HQ.’

The headquarters were located on board one of the buses. The windows had been smashed, and shattered glass covered the ground. Qizi and several others were on the bus discussing strategy.

Hei Chun strode onto the bus and asked, ‘Why did you announce an end to the hunger strike?’

Qizi had already begun to look like a paper doll, and now it seemed like she had been cut even thinner. It was difficult for her to swallow her own saliva. Her hair was messy as a bird’s nest, and she was enveloped in a confusion typical of the homeless. Hei Chun must have remembered how she used to look, pale in the sunlight with dark eyes. He did not dare to look directly at her. ‘Why should we betray the efforts of all those who have suffered through the strike?’

Qizi did not reply.

‘Well, I’ll explain it to you.’ Quanmu stood up. He was dirty too, and there was a trickle of blood on his forehead. ‘I have heard from reliable sources that they will declare martial law soon. Most likely tonight, tomorrow morning, this site will be raided. We held an emergency meeting and decided that it was best to break the hunger strike.’

Boom. A brick pelted the bus.

‘How will that convince them? The people who have suffered and worked over the past eight days don’t have the right to cast their sacred vote?’ Hei Chun’s tone relaxed a bit as he continued, ‘If we undermine democratic procedures, we damage the reputation of everyone at headquarters. Do you want the people to look down on us?

Quanmu did not reply, but stood there like a shabby beggar unable to squeeze a coin out of anyone.

‘We need to vote on the issue again immediately.’ Hei Chun took the microphone, ready to use the broadcasting equipment to convene a meeting of all the representatives.

Qizi snatched the mike back, like a hungry tiger pouncing on a lamb. ‘You aren’t authorised! I’m the commander-in-chief, and I am responsible for everyone.’

Hei Chun was stunned. He looked at Qizi like he had never seen her before. Her face was lit up, flickering like a candle before it finally goes out.

He turned around, got out of the bus, and disappeared into the crowd which had gathered around it.

Mengliu looked into the vehicle, weighing the situation. He raised a stiff leg, held onto the door, and pulled himself into the bus.

‘Hei Chun is trying to maintain democratic procedures. As far as I know, the majority still insists on the hunger strike, but I think you’re doing the right thing.’

Qizi didn’t speak, but her mouth trembled. Mengliu could see her inner turmoil.

‘Any further delay will be life-threatening. I have to look after them,’ she said.

‘You should probably discuss a more comprehensive approach.’ Mengliu wanted to persuade her to retreat, but couldn’t make himself say the words.

‘Actually, we have already resigned ourselves to death, if need be.’

‘Qizi, you’re a good…leader. You’re responsible. I think you should retreat. Withdraw.’ Mengliu finally said it, surprising even himself. ‘You don’t need to sacrifice everything here in vain. Qizi, I also want to say, I’m sorry about all that nonsense that day. I’m sorry for what I said. Can you forgive me?’

Qizi looked at him blankly. ‘I forgot about that a long time ago.’

‘These last few days, I keep thinking about you. Let’s go. Don’t be angry. Let’s get out of here, just like we planned before. Let’s leave.’

‘‘Liu, I’ll admit I was a little angry with you at first, but after that, I wasn’t anymore. Now even less so. I can’t leave. Even if we decide to leave Round Square, I should be the last one to go.’

‘There are some things we would prefer to believe, even if they are unbelievable.’ Mengliu felt a sense of foreboding.

‘No. Everyone is watching us. If no one is willing to make the sacrifice, how can we face that? I’m ready to die, just like I said in the speech I wrote.’ She had already thought the issue through.

‘Qizi, what about your parents? You’ve got to think of them. They were already forty when they had you. You are their life. If you die…they…’

‘They will hear the words I wrote. “I can’t be loyal and filial to both country and parents.”’

‘Have you really forgotten how we felt for each other?’

‘My feelings for you haven’t changed.’ Her face and tone were very calm.

‘Then as soon as all this is over, we…’

‘I don’t have time now to talk about trivial personal issues.’

‘I believe this will all be over soon. Let’s…’

‘You should go. If you think this is all meaningless, then just leave now. I don’t want to pull you down with me.’

‘I want to be with you. Qizi…’

‘I’m not lonely. There are plenty of people with me.’ She spoke in a rush.

For a flickering moment, Mengliu caught sight of the spirit of love. She was a nimble, dark spirit, and she was running in the moonlight, emitting a varicoloured light. She fled to the flag and hid herself behind it.

He felt that he was walking further and further away in Qizi’s view. Like a lonely figure in a landscape painting, he was now nothing more than an ant-sized inkblot.

He left the bus in silence, like a passenger reaching his destination at the end of a long journey.

‘Your poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls” was very well-written. I hope you’ll stay and continue writing.’

Though he seemed to hear Qizi’s comment he did not look back. He may have paused momentarily, but maybe not. An early half moon hung in the sky. He felt a little cold, like a man lost in the wilderness.

22

When Mengliu left Round Square, Sixi and Fusheng were going through a wedding ceremony. Their marriage certificate had been prepared by Hei Chun. He printed both names and birth dates on a sheet of paper, covered it with the red Unity Party stamp, and gave it to the couple. The broadcast had declared the protestors’ refusal to retreat, and the people brought with them a passion for victory when they gathered to witness the wedding ceremony. They were rowdy, surrounding the group of hungry protestors who were staring out of vacant eyes at them as they danced, turned somersaults or performed martial arts. Hawkers sold melon seeds and peanuts and smoked mutton kebabs. Pickpockets blended into the crowd, couples cuddled together. Mengliu stepped over the obstacles and wove his way through the lively atmosphere, filled with the smell of beer and urine, and finally disappeared like a bubble into the air.

All he could do was walk back to the Wisdom Bureau. There were sounds of fighting as he walked the streets, and he occasionally encountered injured, bloodied people. One young man was refusing treatment, unbuttoning his clothing to expose the wound and declaring his own willingness to shed every last drop of his blood. Mengliu lowered his head and quickened his steps. Sweat soon covered his face. He ran into an old professor from the Department of Medicine, and was about to hail him, but the professor just glanced in his direction, then walked away suspiciously. He suddenly felt desolate, like he was falling to pieces. When he got to the Wisdom Bureau he sat under a tree for a long time. He finally came to a conclusion — he would leave the country, never to return. Wherever he went, he would find a girl and marry her, and would raise a brood of foreign citizens there, where he and they could live freely. He stood up decisively, smoothed his trousers and his collar, then said to himself, Finally you understand, Yuan Mengliu. This will be the right life for you. You are no hero, and you weren’t cut out for earth-shattering deeds. And as for love, that’s just an illusion too.

He looked around at the old grey office building. It was silent, and the countless empty windows looked back at him with a profoundly solemn light.

Jia Wan came by, wearing a grey suit with his shirt buttoned all the way up to his Adam’s apple, defying the heat. His shoes were covered in dirt, making him look quite shabby. He was surprised to see Mengliu and asked why he wasn’t at Round Square. His voice was thick with accusation. Mengliu answered patiently, ‘None of that is my business.’

Jia Wan was surprised. ‘You’re just being modest. Your poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls” is very good. It’s a particularly powerful call to action.’

Mengliu replied, ‘I didn’t write that.’

‘The poetic styles of the Three Musketeers are distinct,’ Jia Wan said. ‘Hei Chun’s poetry is direct, while Bai Qiu’s is romantic and graceful. No one but you could have written that kind of poem.’

Mengliu admitted to himself that Jia Wan’s analysis was accurate enough, but he didn’t want to change his position simply because of flattery. He knew he hadn’t signed the poem, and he didn’t want to be associated with it.

He said instead, ‘Professor Jia, aren’t you a member of the Unity Party? Why aren’t you there?’

He noticed that a lanky fellow with a sharp profile stood behind Jia Wan. He was lighting a cigarette, and Mengliu though there was something very familiar about him.

Jia Wan said, ‘The Unity Party is suffering from internal chaos. I’ve resigned from my post. I don’t want to struggle for fame and fortune, and all this politicking has made me lose confidence in the organisation. Just look at Qizi. The international media has really taken to her, and she’s always in the headlines. Her reputation is skyrocketing above everyone else’s. She is envied by everyone, there was even the staging of a fake kidnapping. Her infatuation with the mike in her hand is an infatuation with power. She doesn’t even realise it herself…’

Mengliu saw that the lanky man behind Jia Wan was growing impatient as he smoked his cigarette. Jia Wan looked around, then whispered, ‘It’s best not to go out at night.’

‘Why?’ Mengliu asked.

He answered mysteriously, ‘There’s no harm in staying home.’

‘They’re going to be cleared out?’

Jia Wan patted his shoulder. ‘Just listen to what I’m telling you and you’ll be all right.’

Mengliu pondered this as he walked home. Jia Wan had never been a close friend, so why believe him now? What was his motive?

He stopped at the entrance to the West Wing. Sadness, riding on a heart-piercing wind, stabbed at his chest. It was as if it had been lying in wait, and had attacked him with an iron bar. The pain almost doubled him over. He was breathing heavily, and tears escaped from his eyes. He was being ground into the earth. His heart cried out, Qizi! Oh Qizi! What am I going to do?

His legs felt like they were filled with lead, and his head with water, which swished as he walked with twisted steps, his shoulder rubbing against the wall. The slogans that had been painted there had already run, were no longer fresh.

‘I’m tired, so sleepy. Yes, sleepy, and thirsty, and hungry. I want to bathe. I want to have a restful sleep. I don’t want to think of anything. The birds, the wind, the shouting, the radio, love, democracy…just shut the hell up! Don’t talk to me about any of it anymore. I don’t want anyone to bother me. I just want to have a good night’s sleep.’

He had no idea how long he had slept when the door opened and woke him. He saw a girl standing in the doorway, the sun making her face blurry and her body luminous, like a white angel descended to earth. It took some effort for him to focus, and then he discovered that the girl was tall and well-built, and her head almost touched the top of the doorframe. It seemed as if she was stuck there. He did not know a girl as imposing as this one was.

She leant forward and entered the room. The halo dissipated, and the body ceased its glowing. Seeing more clearly now, Mengliu realised it was a man, Shunyu’s father.

The older man’s hair was a curly mess, his clothes dirty and in disarray. He wore a strange expression, staring at Mengliu but saying nothing. Two minutes passed like that then, with a ghastly pallor, he said, ‘This…you hold on to this first. The issue of the chuixun…wait until you come back and we can discuss it then.’ He carefully placed the lady-charming xun on the table, then turned and gave an extraordinarily grave, secretive command. ‘You must leave Beiping immediately.’

‘Why?’ Mengliu asked, frightened. ‘Why should I leave Beiping?’

‘They opened fire…’ Shunyu’s father’s voice trembled, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘Last night, they opened fire. They brought tanks in and started shooting indiscriminately. There’s blood everywhere. Shunyu…she, she caught a stray bullet…She’s dead.’

Mengliu felt a bomb exploding in his head. ‘She’s…dead?’

‘Here is a train ticket, and here’s money to use on the road. It should be enough. It should be safe in the countryside. Lie low. Go, and wait for word from me.’ Shunyu’s father was suddenly overcome with emotion.

Mengliu didn’t hear him. He rushed out, dishevelled, and Shunyu’s father grabbed after him. ‘Don’t go back there. They’ve declared martial law.’

‘But no matter what, I need to go and see…there’s still Qizi. God, Qizi! Where are they?’

‘They were the first names on the wanted list,’ said Shunyu’s father heavily.

‘It can’t be. I’ve got to go look for them.’

‘The list is growing, and if your name is on it, it will be too late.’ The old man was filled with anger now. ‘Do you want your father… to bear the pain of losing a son too?’

Mengliu’s heart sustained another heavy blow.

No, it couldn’t be true. It was a dream. He stared at Shunyu’s father, waiting for him to break into a rosy smile. The man couldn’t be angry if he had been playing a cruel joke on him.

But Shunyu’s father stood helpless and sad, his eyes knotted with a scarlet web of blood vessels. He clenched his fist tightly, then quickly went away.

Mengliu was left in a foolish daze, not quite able to come back to reality. In his trance, he saw a touch of red on the rose bush at the window. He rushed over and inspected it. A shy, fiery-red bud peeped at him, like the eye of a sleeping baby. It was the answer to the question he and Qizi had bet on. They had used their bodies as stakes in the wager. She chose red roses, and he white. She said if he won, she would give her body to him, but if she won, he had to give his body to her, with one added condition — he had to remain committed to poetry, no matter what the situation, and never give up writing. At the time he had laughed at her condition, feeling it bore no weight. He was a poet, and it was instinctive for him to write poetry, it was the very meaning of his existence. He looked at the delicate bud and almost laughed. But now the bud looked like it had been dipped in blood, and the colour was spreading. His mind suddenly became exceptionally clear.

He had to find her.