Death Fugue

Epilogue

A banquet had been arranged on a cruise boat in Beiping. It had just gotten dark, and the boat was moored on the lake beside the moon. The lake’s glittering surface extended to the barely distinguishable shore in the distance. The lights of houses could vaguely be seen. The cabin of the boat was like a small auditorium decked out for a celebrity performance seasoned with literature and art. Jazz and the smell of fruit juice mingled with the taste of champagne. The gathering swelled, evening gowns swished, voices bubbled, the sound of intimate conversation produced the inevitably dull buzz of a party.

Mengliu leant against a window, looking apathetic, depressed and weary. It seemed as if he had not quite awakened from sleep. His biological clock had been a mess. He had only just established his own pattern of day and night, operating according to his own laws. Over the years a quiet voice like a Jedi’s constant meditations had run in the back of his mind, reciting Hei Chun’s poetry, and causing his mind to be in a constant state of tension.

‘Lightning will pierce the sealed horizon…silence is despicable…’

He was wearing an archaic navy blue robe with flat black shoes. After returning from his years of travels, he had adopted this eccentric dress, and his speech had taken on a more discrete and elegant character, as he talked of Plato or Epicurus’s garden city, playing the part of the poet on all occasions. Everyone has the right to self-correction. There is no shame in it. Theodor Adorno said that after Auschwitz poetry was impossible, but he later changed his views. If such a great philosopher could deny his earlier position, then Mengliu felt he had strong support. He continued to write poetry now, but for some reason he couldn’t publish it. For a true poet publication is not always the motive. He edited a national poetry journal, which collected a variety of voices, and he printed poetry in books to be read only by those who needed them. He knew what he was doing. He wasn’t interested in happiness, or perhaps he thought this was happiness. His passion for women had not subsided, but he had renounced the world of frivolity and promiscuity, and now showed a heartfelt appreciation and respect for them instead.

It was an eclectic gathering of beauties clad in revealing evening dresses, elbows tucked to their sides to display their white necks and cleavage to the best advantage. The Mengliu from long ago would have already succeeded in his conquest, and would be whispering to a girl in some private corner. But now he just stared over his wine glass, squeezed into a space in his own mind in a corner by the window, acting cool while appreciating the subtleties of his own heart.

He still remembered drinking the fisherwoman’s leicha, sailing to the middle of the lake, suddenly being shaken by waves, then looking up over his arm where his sleeping head had lain at the fierce tornado and the black hole…After losing consciousness, he had found himself in a place called Swan Valley…He was sure he had lived there for a long time. It was a thrilling experience, full of wonderfully romantic times. He had finally found Qizi, and this time she had really gone. He missed the place, and Juli, and Yuyue…

Presently, the waiter came over and asked if he needed more wine. He nodded and handed over his glass.

Still, what was hard to understand was how he had woken to find himself again in the sailboat. The setting sun seemed to prove that he had just been in a deep sleep. The night was coming on. When he rowed the boat back to the village, the sky was dark and the fisherwoman and her husband were waiting for him by the lake with a lantern. They said they thought a monster from the lake had caught him and carried him away. He stayed the night, and while they ate, the couple told him of the monster’s doings, how it hunted people during storms and carried them off…

Outside the window, the lake shimmered. Not far off, a small boat was moored. A red lantern hung from the front of its canopy. There were people in the boat chatting and playing the xun in soft tones.

At eight, Mengliu began to feel it was the middle of the night. The party had just begun. He knew nothing about the occasion, having been dragged along by his wife. Marrying Suitang had been the natural thing to do. He didn’t need to think much about why he should marry her. He was in a sleepwalker’s trance, and felt that everything was an illusion. Known and unknown thinkers and professors, experts and scholars, black-, silver-, blonde- or white-haired, they were all a blur before him. As they shimmered, he saw their mouths move in conversation, but he couldn’t quite hear what they said.

This was the first time he’d met Qizi’s legendary ex-boyfriend Dadong, the fellow who had blown himself up mixing chemicals when he was manufacturing fake antiques. His hair was already white. He had a puffy face and a singular ebony pipe dangling from his mouth. He was a real expert on antiques. He had established a name for himself in the field, and earnt a fortune, so now he wanted to ‘try his hand at running a film company’.

Dadong had invited everyone to his party, mostly because preparations were complete for his company’s debut film. It was called Death Fugue, and they were about to go to an island to begin shooting.

He presented a short teaser, indicating that the film was mainly a solemn commemoration of and reflection on ‘the Tower Incident.’ It would not exclude his personal feelings toward Qizi. In fact, that could be said to be an important feature of the project.

‘If our generation continues to remain silent, this whole incident will be erased.’

Because of Yuan Mengliu’s close relationship with the central figures in ‘the Tower Incident’, Qizi, Hei Chun and the others, they had asked him to serve as the film’s literary advisor and had confirmed this with a letter of appointment. Mogen was responsible for the screenplay — he no longer showed traces of the beaten-up pained spirit Jia Wan’s betrayal had occasioned in him. Dadong and Mogen shook hands with Mengliu, and talked about the past with the enthusiasm of survivors.

Then everyone sat in their allocated seats as Suitang presided over a forum on ‘artistic freedom and urban violence.’ She had retired from her career as an anaesthetist and, taking up the mantle of poetry, had become a leader in Dayang’s ‘retro genre’ movement.

‘To free a person’s thought from a benevolent authority isn’t easy, because this sort of freedom requires one to walk away from the comfortable and alluring contexts bestowed by the authority, and to question the authority itself.

‘The past should not be forgotten. Sometimes art is the only means by which we may find out the truth, and the only tool flexible enough for its communication. Some may think that freedom of expression depends upon one’s environment, but I want to say to all poets and writers and artists that the environment shouldn’t be the real issue. The real environment is in your mind. If you have a flame in your heart, then you can make any kind of water boil. If you have enough talent you can find the secret path to freedom.’

Her voice, amplified to fill the room, was brimming with an embellished beauty.