One Man’s Bible

by Gao Xingjian

  “Of course.” You are frustrated and, holding your head in your hands, look at her and heave a sigh. “Would you like to have something to eat? We could get them to bring something to the room or we could go to the coffee shop.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t eat in the morning.”

  “Are you on a diet?” you ask pointedly. “It’s already midday!”

  “If you want to, get them to bring something. Don’t mind me,” she says. “I just want to hear you talk.”

  This moves you. You kiss her on the forehead, then pull up your pillow, lean back, and sit next to her.

  “You’re very gentle,” she says. “I like you, I’ve given you what you wanted, but I don’t want to fall too deeply, I’m afraid. . . .”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of longing for you.”

  You feel sad and stop talking. You think you should have a woman like this, maybe you should live with her.

  “Go on with your story.” She breaks the silence.

  You say that, for the time being, you would like to listen to her talk about herself, her life, or anything. She says she does not really have anything to tell. She has not had complicated experiences like you.

  “The experiences of every woman, written up, constitute a book.”

  “Maybe a very ordinary book.”

  “But with unique feelings.”

  You say you really want to know, particularly want to know, about her feelings, her life, her private life, and her psychological secrets. You ask her, “Were the things you said while we were making love true?”

  “I couldn’t have said anything. Maybe.” She adds, “One day I’ll tell you. I really want to communicate with you, not just sexually. I can’t bear loneliness.”

  You say you are not afraid of loneliness and that it was through loneliness that you were not destroyed. It was this inner loneliness that protected you, but at times you longed to sink, sink, into that hole in a woman.

  “That isn’t sinking. To regard women as bad is a male prejudice. What is disgusting is that men use but don’t love.”

  You are trying to get her to reveal her secrets.

  “You think they love you then you find out it’s a fraud. When men want women, they say wonderful things, but once they’ve finished, that’s it. But women need to be deceived like this so that they can deceive themselves,” she says. “You still only think of me as a novelty and you haven’t had enough, I can tell.”

  “The Devil is in everyone’s heart.”

  “But you’re fairly sincere.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  She cackles with laughter.

  “Now this is Margarethe!”

  You also relax and start laughing.

  “A prostitute?” she asks, sitting up.

  “It was you who said that!”

  “A slut who brought herself to your door?”

  Her eyes are looking right at you, but you can’t see behind those gray-blue eyes. She suddenly starts laughing so violently that her shoulders shake, and her big, pendulous pearlike breasts tremble. You say you want her again and push her down onto the pillow. The phone rings as she closes her eyes.

  “Take your call. Soon you will have a new woman,” she says, pushing you away.

  You pick up the phone. It’s a friend inviting you to Lamma Island for dinner. You say to hold on and put your hand over the mouthpiece to ask if she will come. If not, you will postpone for a day, so you will be able to spend the time with her.

  “We can’t spend all the time in bed! If we do, you will turn into a skeleton and your friends will blame me for it.”

  She gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom. The door isn’t shut and there is the sound of splashing water. You put down the phone and lie there lazily. It is as if she is your partner, and you can’t be away from her. You can’t resist calling out loudly, “Margarethe, you’re a wonderful woman.”

  “I offered you a gift, but you didn’t take it!” she shouts back above the sound of the splashing water.

  You call out loudly that you love her. She also says she wants to love you but that she’s afraid. You instantly get out of bed to get into the bath with her, but the door slams shut. You look at your watch lying on the table and open the curtains. It is already after four o’clock.

  Coming out of the underground at Sheung Wan station, you see a line of wharves along the coast. The air is crisp and fresh. The boats in the harbor are tinged with the gold of the setting sun and there is a bright glare. A barge with the waterline almost right up the sides is cutting through the waves and churning up white foam. The texture of the concrete and steel buildings on this side of the water can be seen clearly, and the outline of the buildings seems to be shining. You want to have a cigarette to confirm that it is not an illusion, and you tell her everything underfoot seems to be floating. She draws close to you and gives a chuckle.

  There is a row of food stalls below a huge Marlboro advertisement, but once through the iron gates, “No Smoking” posters are everywhere, like in America. Work has just finished, and every fifteen or twenty minutes, there is a ferry to each of the islands. Most of those going to Lamma Island are young, and there are quite a few foreigners. The electric buzzer sounds and is followed by the clatter of hurried but orderly footsteps. On board, people doze off or take out a book to read, and it becomes so quiet that only the sound of the motor can be heard. The ferry quickly leaves the noisy town, and the clusters of tall and even taller buildings gradually recede into the distance.

  A cold wind starts up, and the boat gently rocks. She’s tired. At first she leans on you but then draws up her legs and lies down in your arms. You feel relaxed. She is asleep in an instant, docile and peaceful, and you cannot suppress a feeling of sadness. There are no signs in the cabin apart from the “No Smoking” signs and, with its mixture of races, it does not look like Hong Kong and it does not look like it is soon to be returned to China.

  Beyond the deck, the night scene gradually grows hazy, and you become lost in thought. Maybe you should live with her on some island and spend your days listening to the seagulls and writing for pleasure, unencumbered by duties or responsibilities, just pouring out your feelings.

  After disembarking and leaving the wharf, some people get onto bicycles. There are no cars on the island. Dim streetlights. It’s a small town with narrow streets, shops and restaurants one after another, and it’s quite lively.

  “If you had a tea room with music, or a bar, it would be easy to make a living here. You could write and paint during the day and open for business at night. What do you think?” Dongping, who comes to meet you, bearded and tall, is an artist who came from the Mainland a year or so ago.

  “And if you felt weary, you could go to the beach any time for a swim.”

  Dongping points to some small fishing boats and rowboats moored in the harbor at the bottom of the stone steps down the slope; he says a foreigner friend of his bought an old fishing boat and lives in it. Margarethe says she’s starting to like Hong Kong.

  “You can work here; your Chinese is good and English is your mother tongue,” Dongping says.

  “She’s German,” you say.

  “Jewish,” she corrects you.

  “Born in Italy,” you add.

  “You know so many languages! What company would not pay a high salary to employ you? But you wouldn’t have to live here; Repulse Bay over on Hong Kong Island has many grand apartments on the mountains by the sea.”

  “Margarethe doesn’t like living with bosses, she likes artists,” you say for her.

  “Great, we can be neighbors,” Dongping says. “Do you paint? We’ve got a gang of artist friends here.”

  “I used to paint because I liked it, but not professionally. It’s too late to start learning.”

  You say you didn’t know she painted, and she immediately says in French there is a great deal you don’t know about her. At this point, she distances herself but
still wants to maintain a secret language with you. Dongping says that he didn’t study in an art college and was not officially recognized as an artist: that was why he left the Mainland.

  “In the West, artists don’t need official recognition and don’t need to have studied in an art college. Anyone can be an artist. The main thing is whether there is a market, whether one’s paintings can sell,” Margarethe says.

  Dongping says there is no market for his paintings in Hong Kong. What the art entrepreneurs want are copies of impressionistic concoctions with a foreign signature for Western galleries, and these are bought at wholesale prices. He does a different signature each time and can’t remember how many names he has signed. Everyone laughs.

  On the first floor, where Dongping lives, the sitting room adjoins the studio, and the residents are painters, photographers, poets, and columnists. The only person who is not an artist or writer is a foreigner, a good-looking young American. Dongping formally introduces the man. He is a critic, and the boyfriend of a woman poet from the Mainland.

  Everyone has a paper plate and a pair of chopsticks, and they help themselves to the seafood hotpot. The seafood isn’t alive but it is very fresh. Dongping says he brought it all home just before you arrived, but now, in the bubbling hotpot, it’s curled up and no longer moving. The crowd is very casual. Some are walking about barefoot, and others are sitting on floor cushions. The music is turned on loud, it is a string quartet on big speakers, Vivaldi’s vibrant Four Seasons. Everyone is eating and drinking, talking all at once and not about anything in particular. Only Margarethe is reserved and dignified. Her fluent Chinese instantly makes the young American’s Western accent and intonation sound inferior, so he starts talking to Margarethe in English. He raves on to her and makes the young woman poet jealous. Margarethe later tells you that the guy doesn’t know anything, but he was taken by her and kept hovering around her.

  One of the artists says that he had been uprooted from East Village or West Village—you don’t remember which—in the grounds of the Old Summer Palace. In the name of urban beautification and social security, the place was closed down by the police two years ago. He asks you about the new art trends in Paris, and you say that there are new trends every year. He says that he does art on the human body. You know that he had suffered a great deal in China because of his art, so it is best not to say that his sort of art is now history in the West.

  In the course of things, people start talking about 1997. All the hotels have been fully booked for the day of the handover ceremony between Britain and China, the day the People’s Liberation Army would move in. There would be hordes of journalists from all over the world congregating here, some say seven thousand, and others eight thousand. On the morning of July 1, the birthday of the Chinese Communist Party, immediately after the handover ceremony, the British governor of Hong Kong would go to the naval base and leave on a ship.

  “Why doesn’t he take a plane?” It is Margarethe who asks.

  “On the day, there will be celebrations all along the road to the airport, and it would be too sad for him,” someone says. But no one is laughing.

  “What will all of you do?” you ask.

  “That day, don’t go anywhere else. Just come here to eat seafood with me,” Dongping says with a joyless smile. He seems to be very generous, not as rough as he used to be, and he has become wiser.

  People stop joking and the music suddenly seems to be louder, and who knows what season Vivaldi has reached.

  “It doesn’t matter!” the American says in a loud voice.

  “What doesn’t matter?” his girlfriend retorts. She then rebuffs him, “You can never make yourself understood when you speak Chinese!”

  After dinner, the American takes out a piece of opium the size of a fingernail to share around, but the two of you must catch the last boat back. Dongping says there is plenty of room, and the two of you can stay the night, then go for a swim in the morning. Margarethe says she is tired, and also that she will be flying out at midday tomorrow. Dongping escorts the two of you onto the ferry and, when it departs, he is left alone on the wharf, holding both hands high, and waving. You say to Margarethe that you were close friends in Beijing and had suffered together. He is a rare friend. He doesn’t know any foreign languages and can’t go anywhere. The police raided his home in Beijing. He often had parties with music and dancing, but the neighbors thought that there were indecent activities going on and reported him to the police. Afterward, through various strategies, he got to Hong Kong. This trip to Hong Kong is to say good-bye to him.

  “It’s hard making a living anywhere,” Margarethe says sadly. You lean against one another by the railing on deck. The sea breeze is cool.

  “Do you really have to leave tomorrow? Can’t you stay one more day?” you ask.

  “I’m not as free as you are.”

  The wind blows spray into your faces. Once again you confront a farewell, maybe this is an important moment for you. It seems that your relationship should not come to an end just like that, but you do not want to make promises, and simply say, “Freedom is in one’s own hands.”

  “It’s easy for you to say that, but, unlike you, I have a boss.” She has turned cold again, like the sea wind. Above the sea is pitch-black darkness, the specks of bright light on the island have vanished.

  “Talk about something interesting.” Sensing she has upset you, she adds, “You talk and I’ll listen.”

  “What shall I talk about, the March wind?” You talk nonsense and restore a nonchalance to your voice.

  You sense her shrugging her shoulders, and she says it’s cold. The two of you go back into the cabin. She says she’s tired, and you look at your watch; there is still half an hour before reaching Hong Kong Island. You say she can lean on your shoulder and have a nap. You are also overcome by weariness.

  13

  March wind. Why March? And why wind? In March, on the North China plains, it is still very cold. Endless stretches of muddy marshlands and alkaline flats on the ancient riverbed of the Yellow River have been reclaimed for farmland by reform-through-labor prisoners. If there was no drought, the millet sown in winter would result in a harvest of the same amount of seed after the beginning of spring. In accordance with the newly promulgated highest instructions of the highest leadership, these prison farms were converted into May Seventh Cadre Schools, and the original prisoners and military police were sent to the desolate uninhabited highlands of Qinghai province. Hence the farms came to be farmed by purged bureaucrats and workers from the Red Capital.

  “The May Seventh Cadre School is not a haven from the winds of class struggle!” The army officer from Beijing had come to convey this instruction. This time it was a purge of the May Sixteenth counterrevolutionary group that had infiltrated every nook and cranny right down to mass organizations. Anyone who was investigated would instantly be considered a practicing counterrevolutionary. The very first time he was confronted, soon after the initial period of the movement to sweep away Ox Demons and Snake Spirits, he was so frightened that he made a confession on the spot. But now he had become a fox and was capable of biting back. He, too, could bare his sharp fangs and put on a mean pose. He was not going to wait for a pack of hunting dogs to pounce on him. Life, if this could be called life, had thus taught him to be an animal. At most, he was a fox surrounded by hunters, and, if he made a false move, he would be torn to shreds.

  After several years of chaotic warfare over what was right one day and wrong the next, a whole series of crimes could be listed for anyone who had to be purged. As soon as a person was investigated, problems were sure to be found, and if a person had problems he would be declared the enemy. This was known as fighting to the death in the class struggle. As the army officer had named him as the main target of investigation, all that remained was for the masses to get fired up so that they would direct their fire at him. He was fully aware of this process and, before the masses were fired up, he had to bide his time.r />
  Right up to the day before the commanding officer announced that he was to be investigated, the masses were still laughing with him. The masses lived with him and, in the same dining hall, drank the same corn gruel and ate the same unleavened mixed-grain buns with him. They slept together on the cement floor of the granary on a mattress padded with straw. The row upon row of communal mattresses were forty centimeters in width per person—no more, no less—measured with a tape measure, whether one was a high-ranking cadre or an odd-job worker, fat or thin, old or sick. However, the men and the women were separated. Husbands and wives without young children to take care of couldn’t stay in the same place. Everything was organized in military formation—squad, platoon, company, battalion—and everyone came under the leadership of the commanding officer. At six o’clock in the morning, the bugle call got people up, and they had twenty minutes to brush their teeth and have a wash. They then stood before the portrait of the Great Leader on the wall to seek “morning instructions,” sang songs from Mao’s Sayings and, holding high the little red book, shouted out “long live” three times before going to the dining room to drink gruel. Assembly followed, and Mao’s Selected Works were recited for half an hour before people shouldered their hoes and pickaxes to work on the land. Everyone had the same fate. What was the point of all this endless fighting?

  The day he was taken off work to write a confession, it was as if he had the plague and everyone was afraid of catching it. No one dared to talk to him. He didn’t know what they were investigating, so when he saw a close friend heading for the mud-walled lavatory, he followed him in, undid his trousers and, pretending to urinate, said in a low voice: “Why are they investigating me?”

  The friend gave a dry cough and, putting down his head as if he were totally engrossed in shitting, didn’t look up. There was nothing for him to do but leave. It turned out that even when he went to the lavatory he was being spied on. The joker who had received the letter to implement the investigation on him was outside the mud wall, pretending to be deep in thought.