One Man’s Bible

by Gao Xingjian

  Your confusion passes and, with a sigh, you withdraw your hand.

  “I also want to be a wild animal, but I can’t escape. . . .” she says, head bowed.

  “Escape from what?” It’s your turn to question her, and this is more comfortable. Being interrogated by a woman is stressful.

  “I can’t escape, I can’t escape from fate, I can’t escape from this sort of feeling. . . .” She takes a big mouthful of scotch and tosses back her head.

  “What feeling?” You go to push back her hair so you can see her eyes, but she brushes it away herself.

  “Women, a woman feels . . . you wouldn’t understand.” She laughs softly again.

  It seems probable that this is what is causing her pain, and, looking searchingly at her, you ask, “How old were you at the time?”

  “At the time,” she pauses, then says, “I was thirteen.”

  The waiter is standing behind the counter with his head down, probably preparing the bill.

  “That’s too young,” you say. Your throat feels tight, and you gulp down a big mouthful of scotch. “Go on!”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to talk about myself.”

  “Margarethe, if you want mutual understanding, not just a sexual relationship, then it isn’t just a matter of what you want. We should be able to talk about anything,” you protest.

  She is silent for a while, then says, “It was early winter, a dull day . . . Venice is not always sunny, and there were not many tourists on the streets.” Her voice seems to be coming from far away. “From the window, a window that was very low, I could see the sea and the gray sky. Usually, when I sat on the windowsill, I could see the dome of the church. . . .”

  She looks out the window at the mass of lights above the pitch-black sea.

  “And the dome of the church?” you say, prompting her.

  “No, I could only see the gray sky.” She continues, “It was below the window, on the stone floor of his studio that he, that artist, raped me. There was a radiator in the room, but the stone was very cold.”

  You shudder.

  “Do you find this upsetting?” Her gray-blue eyes watch you intently from behind her glass, yet she also seems to be staring at the transparent scotch.

  “No,” you say. But you want to know if she was to some extent fond of the man before and after this.

  “At the time I didn’t understand anything, I didn’t know what he was doing to my body, my eyes were wide open and staring at the gray sky. I only remember that the stone floor was very cold. It wasn’t until two years later, when I discovered changes in my body and I’d become a woman, that I understood. So I hated my body.”

  “But did you go again, did you continue to go to his studio? During those two years?” you ask.

  “I can’t remember very clearly. At first, I was frightened and couldn’t remember anything that had happened during those two years. I only knew that he had used me, and I was frightened all the time, frightened others would find out. He kept asking me to his studio, and I didn’t dare tell my mother, because she wasn’t well. At the time, we were very poor, my parents had separated and my father had gone back to Germany, and I didn’t want to stay at home. At first I went with another girl my age to watch him paint. He said he would teach us to paint, starting off with sketches. . . .”

  “Go on.” You wait for her to go on, and watch her turning the glass in her hands. The scotch she has been sipping leaves streaks on the inside of the glass.

  “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to tell you everything, and I want to make that quite clear. I don’t know, and I can’t explain why I went again. . . .”

  “Didn’t he say he wanted to teach you to paint?” you say, reminding her.

  “No. He said he wanted to paint me, he said my curves were gentle. At the time, I was tall and slender, still growing and just starting to fill out. He always got me to comply, he said my body was very beautiful. My breasts were not like they are now. He really wanted to paint me, that’s all.”

  “So, you agreed to it?” You test her, wanting to find out what had happened.

  “No—”

  “I’m asking whether you agreed to be his model, not about what happened after he raped you,” you explain.

  “No, I didn’t agree, but each time he would take off my clothes. . . .”

  “Was this before or after?”

  You want to know if she had agreed to model for him before that. That is, had she presented herself naked to him.

  “It was like that for two years!” she says decisively, then drinks a mouthful of scotch.

  “Like what?” You want to get a better idea.

  “What do you mean by ‘like what’? Rape is rape, what else is there to it? Surely you know that.”

  “I’ve never experienced it.”

  You have a drink and try hard to think about something else.

  “For two whole years,” she frowns, turns the glass in her hand, “he raped me!”

  That is, she had not resisted. You can’t stop yourself from asking, “Then how did it end?”

  “I ran into that other girl at his studio. To begin with, I used to go to his studio with her. We had known one another for a long time, and often saw one another. But after the first time he raped me in his studio, I didn’t see her again. One day, I had put on my clothes and was about to go out when that girl turned up. I came face to face with her in the passageway by the landing. She tried to avoid me, but her eyes fell upon me and looked me up and down. Then, without a greeting or a good-bye, she turned to leave. I called her name, but she walked faster and, with a toss of the head, was going down the stairs. I turned, saw him standing awkwardly by the door of the studio, and immediately understood!”

  “Understood what?” you ask.

  “That he was also raping her,” she says. “For two years he had been raping me and also her!”

  “She, the girl,” you say, “maybe she accepted and wanted it, maybe she was jealous of you—”

  “No, of course it’s impossible for you to understand that look! I’m talking about the way that girl looked me over. I hated myself, not just that girl. It was only through her eyes that I was able to see myself, and I hated him and also my body that had prematurely become a woman’s.”

  Left speechless, you light a cigarette. Outside the big window, the city lights illuminate the night sky, and the gray-white nebula seems to be speeding. The lights in the front section of the lounge have been turned off, only the lights over your table in the rear section are still on.

  “Should we leave?” you ask, glancing at the bit of scotch left in her glass.

  She drains her glass and smiles at you; you can tell she is a bit tipsy. You raise your glass and empty it, saying that it is to wish her well on her journey.

  Back in the room, removing the clasp and loosening her hair, she says, “Do you still want to fuck me?”

  You don’t quite know how to reply and, somewhat in a daze, sit by the table in the round-backed chair.

  “If you really want to. . . .” she murmurs as the corners of her mouth turn down. She takes off her clothes in silence, her bra, her black panty hose and underpants, then lies there on her back staring at you. Her face has a drunken and yet childish look. You don’t make a move, you would not be able to fuck her, and somehow you pity her. You must force yourself to be mean, as you coldly question her further.

  “Did he ever give you money?”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The artist, weren’t you his model?”

  “The first few times, but I didn’t take it.”

  “And later?”

  “Do you want to know everything?” There is a bitter edge to her voice.

  “Of course,” you say.

  “You know too much already,” she says weakly. “I have to keep a bit to myself. . . . Since my mother died I have never returned to Venice.”

  You have no idea how much of
what she has told you is true, or how much she hasn’t told you. You say that she is a very intelligent woman, to console and soothe her.

  “What’s the use of being intelligent?”

  She is weaving a net to snare you. What she wants is love, and what you want is freedom. You have paid too high a price for the small freedom of controlling your own freedom, but it is really hard for you to leave her. She compels you, not just to enter her physically, but also to enter deep into the secret recesses of her mind. You look at her voluptuous body, but she gets up and abruptly turns to you.

  “Just sit there and don’t move! Just sit there and talk.”

  “Until morning?” you ask.

  “As long as you’ve got something to say, say it, I’m listening!”

  Her voice is commanding, yet imploring and radiating loveliness, intangible softness. You say you want to feel her reactions, otherwise you would be talking to a vacuum, you would not know when she had fallen asleep, and would feel let down.

  “All right, you take off your clothes, too! Just make love with your eyes!”

  Chuckling to herself, she props a pillow behind her back against the headboard and, legs crossed, sits facing you. You take off your clothes but are unsure about going across to her.

  “Just sit in the chair, don’t come near!” she commands.

  You obey, and you confront one another naked.

  “I want to look at you and feel you like this,” she says.

  You say that this is like exposing yourself to her.

  “What’s wrong with that? A man’s body is sexy in the same way, don’t feel so aggrieved.” At this, her lips curl up and she looks wickedly pleased with herself.

  “Revenge? Compensation? Is that what you want?” You say this to mock her, this must be what she wants.

  “No, don’t think so badly of me. . . .” Her voice suddenly seems to be wrapped in a layer of downy feathers. “You’re very gentle,” she says with sadness in her voice. “You’re an idealist, you’re still living in dreams, your own dreams.”

  You say no. You only live in this instant of time, you no longer believe in lies about the future. You need to be able to live in reality.

  “Have you never used violence on a woman?”

  You think for a while, then say no. Of course, sex and violence are inevitably linked, but that’s another matter. The other party has to be willing and accepting. You have never raped anyone. You ask her whether the men she has had were rough.

  “Not necessarily. . . . It’s best if you talked about something else.”

  She turns away and leans on the pillow. You can’t see her expression. You say that you have experienced the feeling of being raped, of being raped by the political authorities, and it has clogged up your heart. You can understand her, and can understand the anxiety, frustration, and oppression that she can’t rid herself of. Rape is not a sex game. It was the same for you, and it was only long afterward, after obtaining the freedom to speak out, that you realized it had been a form of rape. You had been subjected to the will of others, had to make confessions, had to say what others wanted you to say. It was crucial to protect your inner mind, your faith in your inner mind, otherwise you would have been crushed.

  “I’m terribly lonely,” she says.

  You say you understand her, want to go over to comfort her, but are afraid she might wrongly think that you just want to use her.

  “No, you don’t understand, it’s impossible for a man to understand. . . .” Her voice is tinged with sadness.

  You can’t help saying that you love her, that, at least at this instant in time, you have really fallen in love with her.

  “Don’t say that it is love. It’s so easy saying it, every man can blurt it out.”

  “Then what shall I say?”

  “Say whatever you like. . . .”

  “What if I say you’re a prostitute?” you ask.

  “Who craves excitement and carnal lust?” she says miserably.

  She says she is not a sex object. She hopes she will live in your heart, genuinely communicate with your inner heart, and not simply be used by you. She knows that it’s hard, almost futile, but she still hopes that it will be like this.

  15

  He recalled that, as a youngster, he once read a fairy tale, the author and title of which he had since forgotten. The story went like this: there was this kingdom, where everyone wore a bright mirror on the chest, and the smallest wicked thought would reflect in the mirror. Everything was revealed, and everyone could see it, so no one dared to be even slightly wicked, because there would be nowhere to hide, and the person would be driven from the kingdom. It therefore became a kingdom of pure people. The protagonist entered this kingdom of ultimate purity, maybe he stumbled upon it—he didn’t remember too clearly. Anyway, the protagonist also had a mirror on his chest, but in it was a flesh-and-blood heart. An outcry went up among the masses—he was terrified when he read this. He could not remember what happened to the protagonist, but the story left him feeling shocked and uneasy. At the time, he was still a child and did not have any really wicked thoughts, but he couldn’t help feeling scared, although of what, he had no idea. As he became an adult, such feelings gradually paled into oblivion; he already had hopes of becoming a new person and, moreover, of living a peaceful life in which he would be able to sleep soundly, without nightmares.

  The first to talk to him about women was his schoolmate Luo, a precocious boy who was a few years older. While Luo was a senior in middle school, several of his poems had been published in a magazine, earning him the title of poet among his classmates. He greatly admired Luo. However, after failing the university entrance exams, Luo worked off his frustration by going alone to the school basketball court. There, he would strip to the waist and, sweating all over in the hot summer sun, jump and shoot baskets. Luo didn’t seem to be upset about failing and said he was off to fish in the Zhoushan Archipelago. This convinced him that Luo was a born poet.

  Some years later, when he went home for the summer vacation, he saw Luo in a white apron selling bean curd at a vegetable market near his home. Luo gave a wan smile when he caught sight of him, and, taking off his apron, got the plump elderly woman who sold vegetables to take care of his bean-curd stall. As they went off together, Luo told him that he had been a fisherman for two years, but when he came back he couldn’t find work. Finally, the subdistrict office assigned him to the cooperative vegetable stall to sell bean curd and to look after the accounts.

  Luo would count as a genuine slum-dweller. His shanty, a structure of broken bricks and woven bamboo with a coat of mortar, was divided into an inner and an outer room. His mother slept in the inner room, and the outer room served as the main room and kitchen. On one side of the shanty, Luo had extended the roof and put together some sheets of pressed asbestos to build himself another room. In the far corner, where one couldn’t stand up straight, stood a collapsible canvas bed and a small desk with a drawer; against the wall on the other side was a rattan bookcase. Everything was meticulously tidy and clean. Although Luo’s mother was at work in the factory, Luo took him into this room the size of a chicken coop instead of the main room of the shanty, and got him to sit at the desk while he himself sat on the canvas bed.

  “Do you still write poetry?” he asked.

  Luo pulled out the drawer and took out a diary. It contained neatly written poems, each clearly dated.

  “Are these all love poems?” he asked, leafing through the pages. He had not thought that this big fellow who was always a loner at school wrote lyrical poetry like this. He still remembered the old literature teacher reading out lines from Luo’s poems in composition classes, and he said to Luo that these love poems were totally different from those early poems, which were filled with impassioned youthful determination.

  “Those poems were like that so that they’d get published, but now even those poems wouldn’t get published. These poems here were written for that little slut,” Luo sa
id, and started talking about women. “That little slut was just having a bit of fun with me. She had found herself a cadre who was more than ten years her senior and was waiting to get the marriage registered. She used to stay up all night knitting pullovers for that man. I got this book of poems back from her and I don’t write anymore.”

  He thought it was best to get off the topic of women and started talking to Luo about literature. He said that the new life of the new era should have a new literature, but he wasn’t sure what exactly this new literature of this new life would be like. However, he didn’t think it could be about the good things happening to good people, like in the new folk songs of the Great Leap Forward that filled the pages of all the newspapers and magazines. He also talked about the fiction of Gladkov and Ehrenburg, and the plays of Mayakovski and Brecht. At the time, he wasn’t aware of the purges of counterrevolutionaries by Stalin, Ehrenburg’s Thaw, or the execution of Meyerhold.

  “The literature you’re talking about is too far away,” Luo said. “I don’t know where you will find any literature. I spend my time selling vegetables during the day, then, at night, after all the stalls close, I do the accounts. Sometimes I read a bit, but it’s all about faraway happenings, and I just read to fritter away time, get rid of the boredom. And I don’t know where this new life is. The bit of pride I had as a student vanished long ago; I just find myself some girls to have a bit of fun.”

  He found Luo’s decadence sadder than Luo’s talk about the little slut. He said he had never touched a woman and this time it was Luo who was surprised. “You’re a real bookworm!” Luo said without envy of his apparently better circumstances. Luo was, after all, a few years older and said magnanimously, “I’ll get you a girl so you can have a bit of fun. You definitely won’t have any problems touching Little Five.” Luo said this Little Five was a very easygoing girl, a randy little cunt. He again heard Luo talking disrespectfully about women.

  “I’ll get her to come. This slip of a girl can play the guitar. She’s not like those girls at school, all of them with their airs,” he said.