by Qiu Miaojin
“Gee, thanks.” I gave her the evil eye. “So can I also ask why La has to be a verb?”
“Oh, good question.” She jabbed her right index finger in the air with a humph. “Chinese people always have all these awful-sounding nicknames like Ah Bao or Ah Hua. But look at the root La. It sounds good as a verb—as in to pull noodles, to zip, to lend a helping hand, to pimp—”
“Right, and there’s also to take a piss!” I said.
“Atta girl, that’s what I’m talking about! Now you get it!” Tun Tun patted me.
Zhi Rou cackled. She’d been watching our sparring and laughing so hard that she was covering her mouth with her hands. The loyal audience who’d been spurring us on, she was really losing it now.
“So what do you call Zhi Rou?” With a straight face, I proceeded to drag her into it.
“It’s a name I gave her during sophomore year of high school. I call her. . . .” Tun Tun’s mouth started to twitch as she gestured toward her belly.
“Duzi!” I yelled the word, accidentally spraying coffee out with a laugh.
“So if we put our names together, we have Laduzi—diarrhea?” asked Zhi Rou sardonically.
Then it was our turn to crack up—Tun Tun most of all. Unable to handle any more, she waved a hand in the air, as if to call a cease-fire.
Lazi. I liked this new name, just as I liked this sisterly twosome (as a unit, they really ought to be “this pair”). There was only one way to describe them—you never really knew whether to laugh or to cry.
4
The crocodile opened the refrigerator. Inside were all kinds of canned goods. According to experts, these canned goods were a staple of the crocodile diet. When the crocodile got home at night, it liked to turn on the TV to see if there was anything about crocodiles on the evening news. Meanwhile, it would sit in a bathtub on casters, scrubbing itself with a sponge. It would reach over to grab a can of food from the side table, then remove its retainer and use its canines to puncture two holes in the top of the can. Shaped like turret shells, its canines glistened in the light and were cool to the touch. Afterward, the crocodile reinserted its retainer. It liked to eat with a sharpened straw that it plunged into the top of the can and used to siphon food. In the water was a green plastic toy crocodile. Leaning over, the crocodile squeezed the plastic belly with both hands. The toy made a squeaking noise and squirted water onto the crocodile’s face.
A newscaster in a green suit said, “Before we take a look at tomorrow’s weather forecast, let’s go to today’s report in our special series on crocodiles.” The earpiece that had been tucked discreetly in the newscaster’s left ear fell onto the desk with a thud. The camera hadn’t cut yet to a close-up of the expert appearing on the commentary segment when it paused momentarily on the newscaster still facing straight ahead. The newscaster winked. It was unclear for whom the wink was intended, but it was followed by an embarrassed smile, and the voice of the expert—
In accordance with best practices, and in order to preserve the very essence of our nation, our news bureau has instituted a unified set of provisions regarding the reporting of crocodile-related news, which must undergo a special imaging-technology process so that the results appear in an encrypted form. This is done to prevent foreign entities from intercepting our satellite signals and duplicating our footage by means of current video-recording technology. Since the actual volume of domestic data on crocodiles has grown and the nation has devised new measures to either protect or eradicate crocodiles, this category of highly sensitive classified information must not fall into the hands of foreign states. In this century, all advanced nations have adopted the convention of implementing strategic sanctions, and for this reason, our nation has been unable to access outside signals of broadcasts related to the subject. In the past several years, a great deal of importance has been attached to the issue of crocodiles and their existence. However, each and every citizen, upon receiving news reports, must agree to maintain confidentiality in the event that the domestic crocodile situation reaches a critical state, as we as a nation could very well find ourselves shunned by the international community. This type of response may occur, in fact, at a time when the United Nations is selecting popular tourist destinations for preservation under its UNESCO World Heritage Site designation, whereupon tourists will flock to those locations and a global media frenzy will ensue. Or perhaps our land may become a void on the world map like the Bermuda Triangle, or what is seen as a dark, mysterious place. All communications networks linking to our nation will be severed. No foreigner will dare to set foot in our territory, nor will our own citizens have any means of escape. Should our secrets be leaked one day, it will be difficult to determine whether a diplomatic situation may arise. In the final analysis, our knowledge and understanding of crocodiles is but a microorganism on a fingernail. But in the customary practice of advanced nations, we will safeguard information within the grip of our metal jaws, holding on as if our lives depended on it. At this time, we ask all citizens across the nation to join hands in facing the mystery of the unknown together!
The crocodile sat in the bathtub and listened at length to the news commentary, dozing off three times. Each time, its chin knocked against the side of the bathtub, and the crocodile lifted its head and glanced around in confusion, unable to bring itself to crane its neck to peer at the TV. Someone might see it sleeping in the bathtub, which would be awfully embarrassing. The crocodile blushed just thinking about it. The crocodile clutched the toy and rubbed it against its cheek, pouting. It was deeply distressed. Would this blushing and pouting ever come to an end? Now that it thought about it, things ought to be different since it had been thrust into the national spotlight and made a public figure. At the moment, the entire nation was saying: Why, my dear crocodile, how are you?
5
September. I’d been living on Heping East Road for two months. My cousins needed to prepare for entrance exams, and I got the hint that I should get lost. I found an attic bedroom on Tingzhou Road. The top floor was spacious, with only a crude toilet, sink, and old-fashioned boiler, plus a narrow slit of a room in which my roommate, a woman with a rather peculiar face, lived. She was twenty-five or twenty-six and worked in a factory. My first impression of her was that she was likely to borrow money from me and never pay me back. She would often knock on my door, then grill me about college life or my romantic history, among other private matters. Then there was this guy who’d come by in the middle of the night and stay over. He was always broke, and he’d walk around naked with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Sometimes he’d yank her to the ground and beat her with a whip or a shoe, dragging her outside, all the way down to the nearby plaza. But whenever she talked about him, her face glowed with happiness. He was the only person who didn’t hate her, she said.
Living on the top floor meant that it was hot as an oven until nightfall. I’d get home around ten and lock the door behind me. The thought of them terrified me. I envisioned the souls of two prisoners who’d died long, torturous deaths breaking down the door of my room. That feeling of living under the same roof as near-strangers, people who might disappear without ever saying goodbye, was enough to make my home a solitary tomb.
Daytime. The instant the alarm went off, I’d leap out of bed and “go to work” for my club. Didn’t wash my face, didn’t brush my teeth. I practically flew to campus on my bike as if I’d scheduled an appointment and had to get there pronto to deliver documents or prepare for a noontime meeting. Designing promotional flyers, sending out mailers, organizing the archives, or running an errand could at any time become the most urgent among an endless list of tasks. It was a monotonous game that you took seriously in preparation for the real thing, a means of instilling a strong work ethic. It was a way of finding out what it’d be like one day, when you entered society and the workforce. No more dithering: If you wanted to move up, you had to play the game on a sophisticated level, and make it an exciting contest at that. Otherwise, your e
nthusiasm would wane. You’d lose your mind. Sooner or later, the sea of utterly meaningless obligations would swallow you alive.
I almost completely lost track of schoolwork. My gym teacher wanted to murder me. I got wind that the drill instructor had been looking everywhere for me and “wanted to see me in his office.” I was burying my head in the sand. I was about to fail half or even two-thirds of my credits, which would flunk me out of school. My shift to a value system in which I actually had a life had, in fact, set me on a path to a bleak future: Now I was throwing my life away, just spinning my wheels and keeping busy with no real direction or purpose. My mind consumed with my organization’s affairs, I worked to my heart’s content until ten in the evening, when I went home. My life started to revolve around work, and my habits gained momentum to the point where they became virtually unstoppable. The minute I got home, I’d crack open a beer and drink myself into a stupor, basically killing time until my alarm went off the next morning.
Chu Kuang. He could see the emptiness hidden beneath my excess energy and enthusiasm. Three years my senior, he was the president of the neighboring student organization. The two of us shared the same office, and his desk was next to mine. His receding hairline revealed a shiny forehead, and the back and the top of his head were similarly reflective. He was heavyset, with what you might call a pear-shaped figure. He often wore the same pair of purple-and-green denim pants with a thin gold belt, like something a nightclub host might wear. Other times he looked like he’d just emerged from the slums, his T-shirt as rumpled as a wad of toilet paper. His baggy, knee-length pants exposed a pair of hairy legs while his sunglasses concealed a pair of puffy eyes.
By eight or nine in the evening, it was just the two of us still “at the office.” For the most part, it was an act. Every once in a while, when nobody was watching, I’d look up and glance over at him, and we’d exchange knowing smiles. Then, in unspoken agreement, we’d turn back to our work. Gradually, a camaraderie developed between the two of us nocturnal creatures.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked, having just finished folding thirty copies of a meeting announcement.
“Sketching a layout.” His organization put out a weekly newsletter. His head was lowered.
“Hey, what are you doing now?” I said facetiously, bored silly. About a second had passed since I asked him the first time.
“Making an illustration.” He lowered his head even farther. The tip of his nose was almost touching the paper.
“Hello?! What’s that you’re still doing over there?” His unresponsiveness made it even more hilarious.
“Why you little!” He mustered the strength to set down his pen and peel his eyes from the page, then stood up. He walked over to me, eyes flashing with anger, and took my chin in his large hand. “Not afraid to die, are you? Gotta disturb me, eh?”
I’d been using him for entertainment. Whenever I stepped on him, some kind of repartee would come of it. Having observed him at work for a while, I had amassed a wealth of data about my counterpart, who had become a screen on which I could project random thoughts. On the occasions we ventured beyond that screen, our conversations were always regimented. The reality was, a taboo had developed. Instead of getting to know each other, we were interacting through caricatures of ourselves.
“You look like shit today.” People were sitting between us, and the noontime deliveries of documents were flooding in. “Is that a hole in those lovely skintight jeans? Why don’t you mind your own business?” I chatted with a colleague. More documents were delivered.
“Maybe if you didn’t rub your eyes when you crawled out of the sewer, they wouldn’t be so puffy.” Another document came in.
“People who have no eyeballs and lie in a sewer all day need to shut up.” I glared at him, then resumed my conversation.
“Keep laughing. If you keep slithering out of the sewer and prying open those bloodshot eyes, you’re going to drop dead soon.” This time, the document was thrown straight at me. Some people beside him had evidently been trying to talk business as we bared our fangs at each other.
It was the anniversary of the school’s founding. I was tied up with the festivities all day long, running around and yelling. By dusk, the crowds were beginning to scatter. I climbed the steps to the second floor of the recreation center, wishing that someone would carry me. People were gathered outside the office door, looking stumped as to what to do. At the foot of the door, his legs stretched out in front of him, sat the vice president of Chu Kuang’s club. Sounding exhausted, he announced that we all needed to clear the area. Someone inside was apparently having a meltdown and had shut everyone out.
I pushed to the front and pounded on the door.
“Chu Kuang, open the door and let me in. I have to talk to you.” Those words. I had no idea where they came from. Finding them within me was like striking oil. I heard the door being unlocked. The vice president stared at me in disbelief. I ducked through the narrow crack that appeared, locking the door behind me.
I fumbled around looking for a chair, then finally sat beside him on the desk, crossing my legs. “What happened?” I asked gently. The shades were lowered so that we could watch movies in the office, and there was a faint halo around his head.
“Will you go buy me a drink, Sis? And just listen. . . .” Covering his face with his hands, he put his head on the desk and produced what sounded like a whimper.
“Why do you want to talk to me?” I gazed at the soothing rays of the setting sun that trickled in through the window behind him.
“Meng Sheng . . . it’s because you know Meng Sheng, too. He’s the connection we share,” I heard him say. I went out and returned with a twelve-pack of beer and two packs of cigarettes, plus some hot snacks. I sent away the vice president and the crowd loitering outside. The merrymaking still hadn’t died down, and the sound of someone practicing the piano pierced the air for an instant before blending into the cacophony.
“This afternoon Meng Sheng came by. . . . He was looking for you. . . . We got into a fight—”
“You and Meng Sheng had a spat?”
“Had a spat? I feel like I could eat the guy alive, tear him to pieces.” Chu Kuang lifted his head. A bloodstain ran all the way from the corner of his eye to his nose, and one of his lower teeth had been knocked out. He downed an entire can of beer in one gulp. “Have you ever seen love between two people turn as ugly as this? That’s what happens when there’s too much masculine energy. The moment he came in and asked ‘Where is she?’ I exploded. I snatched a metal ruler off the table and started thrashing him with it, but he’s not the type to back down. He picked up a metal chair and started pummeling me with it. It was like the whole thing was choreographed. . . . Man, I’ll never forget his lightning-fast reflexes or the scent of his sweat.” He smiled contentedly.
“You start to fight the second you see each other. Does that mean it’s mutual love or bitter hatred?”
“Doesn’t Hsia Yü have a poem called ‘Sweet Revenge’? I only mention it because I thought you might know it. It’s like the title says. Because love goes hand in hand with hatred, and because there’s hatred, you’re going to fight, and when you fight, you see that there’s love. The three become inseparable. Once your sexual frustration reaches a certain point, if you don’t either fulfill or rid yourself of your desires, you’re going to find yourself deep in the abyss of meaninglessness. And there’s no easy way out. In fact, you’ll cling even more desperately to the object of your fixation, and when you do, your desires will turn against themselves in full force. I was already self-destructive to begin with, but then I developed a fixation and never found an outlet, which is when it really got scary. One day something set it off, and I grabbed a pair of scissors and stabbed myself. It was when Meng Sheng and I were about to break up. I thought I’d learned to put down the scissors and give him some of my self-destructiveness by then, but there’s no cure for it: I still want him. The love I was saving is gone, and whatever
passion was left, I gave it away trying to keep our connection alive.”
“Meng Sheng told me he saved some guy’s life. Was it you?”
“Ha! Is that what he said? So did he tell you all about how he slept with that guy?” He stopped abruptly and slumped his shoulders apologetically.
“Listen, I don’t want to step into your dogfight and be ripped to shreds. But if you want to say it, say it. I’m not going to pry. Hearing about your bad experiences won’t disgust me or make me think any less of you. Whatever’s on your mind, just spit it out. But I have to say, wow—I had no idea you were like this!” I tried to decipher the convoluted expression on his face.
“It’s considered pretty unseemly to say these kinds of things to a girl.”
“If it’s that unseemly, then don’t say anything at all. I don’t want to hear the censored version.”
“Aw, Sis, you’re really something special. Really, that’s exactly what you are. All the other people I know suddenly tune out or start squirming whenever I bring up that part of our relationship. Most of them have been outright avoiding me. Only one or two people have bothered to stay in touch with me after cringing at my story, which I always thought was funny. Why keep pretending to be a good person when it’s obviously that painful for you to show compassion? Anyway, you’re a girl, and though you’ve managed to stomach this much, I feel like I’m making you listen to me describe the calluses on my feet.”
“How long have you been in love with Meng Sheng?”
“In all, about four years. That’s on my part. For him, it’s been off and on for the past five years. Now that I realize he transferred his desire for women onto me, I’m no longer sure if he loved me for more than half a year. He’s vile to the core. A worthless sack of shit is what he is.”
