One Man’s Bible

by Gao Xingjian

  You also captured on camera two lovely young women, the older one eighteen years old, and the younger one fifteen. The older one’s photograph was a profile of her deep in thought. Her father was a teacher in the middle school of the county town, and the father of her father, that is, her paternal grandfather, was a landlord. Before she completed middle school, she was sent to this remote mountain. The younger one had been a junior-middle-school student. Her father was a technician in an optometrist’s shop in the provincial capital, and, when his daughter decided she wanted to work in the countryside, he couldn’t stop her. In the photograph, this younger woman’s head was tilted, and she was laughing silly, as if she were being tickled. The two had been working on the mountain for a year, when the primary school reopened and teachers were needed. They were lucky; they no longer had to do manual labor, they became teachers. The two were happy and excited when you told them you wanted to bring your students on a tea-picking excursion. They said to stay at their school, it would be perfect, they had two classrooms so the boys could sleep in one and the girls in the other. The room in the middle was partitioned. The front part was for preparing class work and grading papers. Behind the partition, there was a plank bed—their bedroom; they said you could stay there and they would stay in the village. Before they came to the countryside, while they were at school, they would certainly have denounced their teachers. Yet seeing you, a teacher from the middle school in town, was for them just like meeting a member of their family. They were extremely hospitable, treated you to a meal of steamed salted pork, sautéed eggs, and bamboo-shoot soup, and they talked and chattered nonstop. It was on that occasion that you took the photograph. They were not like the village girls who would hide as soon as you held up the camera, they were self-assured and even posed for you. It was right when the younger woman burst into silly laughter that you pressed the shutter. After you developed and printed the photo, you saw that the older woman had turned her eyes from the camera and looked very sad, and that in the silly laugh of the younger woman was wantonness seldom seen in so young a woman. It was under the thick black branches of an ancient torreya tree by a steep cliff that you took the photograph.

  It was April, spring, it was green everywhere, and the tea-picking season was soon to begin. He went in by the hollow in the mountain, and, after crossing a big mountain and a log bridge over a deep river of roaring water that sparkled in the bright sun, arrived at this production brigade specializing mainly in growing tea and bamboo. Halfway up a mountain slope, he found the brigade leader digging holes and planting corn, and they came to an agreement that he would bring thirty students from town to spend ten days picking tea. The students would sleep on the floor in the primary school and would bring their own rice from home. The brigade would provide firewood, vegetables, oil, salt, and bean curd, and the cost for these would later be reimbursed by the school. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, but, as it was not advisable for him to spend the night in the mountains halfway back to town, the two teachers got him to stay the night at the school.

  In the mountains, it got dark early, and, when the sun receded to the back of the cliff, the school sports field was already in darkness. The village stockade was shrouded in mist rising from the river, and the men and women on the mountain had stopped work, shouldered their hoes, and gone home. The village started to bustle with activity, dogs were barking, people were talking, and smoke started curling above the rooftops.

  Outdoors, the air was heavy with moisture. The older woman got the charcoal fire going, and boiled a pot of water for him to soak his feet. After traveling a whole day on the mountain road, soaking his feet in the hot water relieved his fatigue and was very enjoyable. The other woman brought him her soap. They were grading student assignments by the kerosene lamp, when villagers started arriving after their evening meal. There were men, youths, and young girls. The men mostly sat around the fire, but the youths crowded around the lamp on the table and started playing poker. The two women stacked up the exercise books and put them away. There were a few unmarried village women, but the married women with babies were probably busy at home. Children ran in and out and made an awful racket, while the men flirted and wrangled with the village women. The village women had sharp tongues, and, by comparison, the two women from the city had softer voices and spoke less. However, the student demeanor they had adopted when talking with him earlier had changed. Dirty words occasionally came from their lips, and they would tell anyone off. At night, the primary school served as a community club, and everyone was in high spirits.

  “We’re putting out the lamps, we’re putting out the lamps! The teacher is worn out from walking all day and has to sleep!” The older woman started herding everyone out. People grumbled, but reluctantly went off. The two women also said good night and went off with the last of the crowd.

  The remaining embers in the charcoal burner died, and the room suddenly turned cold. A chilly draught was streaming in from the classroom, so he got up and shut the door. It blew open again straight away. When he shut it again, he found there was no bolt. The door and doorframe was pitted with nail holes, but the bolt had been removed. He steadied himself, then went to the classroom to shut the main door, but, in the darkness, could not find the cross bar. The metal holders on the two parts of the door were there, but the cross bar was nowhere to be found. He got a desk and rammed it against the two parts of the door, returned for the lamp, then went into the inner room behind the wooden partition. On the far side, there was a small door that opened to the classroom. The bolt to the door had also been removed, and only the metal bolt-holder remained. Fortunately, the doorframe was tight, so the door was jammed shut. He didn’t go out again to see if the door of the other classroom could be bolted. Nothing here was worth stealing, apart from the two helpless young women from the city who usually slept here.

  He blew out the lamp, took off his shoes, socks, and clothes, and lay down to listen to the mountain wind groaning like the deep growl of a wild animal. When the wind had passed, he again heard the sound of the water from the deep river. That night he slept badly. A nagging feeling that some wild thing was going to charge in any moment seemed to have kept him half-awake all night. In the morning, when he got up and pulled aside the blankets, he saw stains all over the gray sheet. The same stains were also all over the two pillows. He felt sick.

  On the way back, his mind turned to what had happened with his student Sun Huirong, and he came to the realization that he had gradually become weak and cowardly after living these years in the countryside. He had hidden himself away securely, but, while he had peace of mind and could spend long periods of time in front of the mountain looking at the rushing river, not thinking about anything, he was, in fact, no better than a maggot.

  49

  She wants to look at ancient forests. You say where will you find ancient forests in Sydney, it will take days driving to some uninhabited place on this continent, Australia. Anyway, you’ve seen everything from the plane. It’s an expanse of red-brown dry land with some jagged, fishbone-like mountain ridges poking up out of it. It was like that for hours on the plane. Where will you find primeval forests?

  She unfolds a tourist map, and, pointing at a green patch, says, “Right there!”

  “That’s a park,” you say.

  “A national park is a nature preserve,” she insists. “Animal and plant life there are kept in their original habitat!”

  “Are there kangaroos?” you ask.

  “Of course!” she replies. “You don’t have to go to a zoo to see them. This isn’t France where your wolves are purchased from all parts of the world, then fenced off somewhere so they can poke out their heads for tourists to look at.”

  Unable to change her mind, you mumble, “I’ll have to see friends at the Performance Studies Centre about a car.”

  You also say that, although they had invited you here to put on one of your plays, you had only just met them and don’t want to impose on them.
She says that the trains go right there, and, pointing on the map to Central Railway Station, draws a line down to the patch of green at the Royal National Park.

  “There’s a station at Sutherland. See, it’s easy to get there!”

  She, Sylvie, hair cropped short, boyish like a middle-school student, looks much younger than she actually is, but her ample buttocks indicate that she is already a mature woman. You toast a slice of bread and add milk to your coffee. She drinks her coffee black, never with sugar, and eats her bread without butter. It’s all to keep her figure.

  The two of you come out of the small building where you are staying. Suddenly, she runs back inside, remembering to get a towel and her bathing suit. She says that just across the nature preserve, the Royal National Park, is the beach, and she will be able to have a swim and lie in the sun.

  The train goes from Central Railway Station right through to Sutherland, a small station, and only a few people get off. Outside the station, there is a small town, but it’s not clear where the forest is. You say you will have to ask someone, and return to the exit to ask the ticket seller, “Which way is it to the ancient forest? The park, the Royal National Park!”

  “You need to go to the next station, Loftus,” the ticket seller at the little window says.

  So you get tickets and go back into the station. Twenty minutes later, a train comes, but it doesn’t go to Loftus. That will be the next train.

  Half an hour later, there is an announcement over the loudspeaker that the next train is running late, and the passengers should go to the platform on the other side. She asks the fat stationmaster what the problem is. The man replies, “Just wait, just wait, it’ll be here.” The door of the guardroom promptly shuts.

  You remind her that the day the two of you arrived in Australia, people said it took two to three days, or even a week, by train from Sydney to Melbourne, and that they themselves would never make the trip by train. If they didn’t go by plane, they would go by car. You say it’s likely you will both be waiting until dark. But Sylvie paces back and forth and is all worked up. You tell her to sit down, but she can’t stay seated.

  “Go to the vending machine and buy a packet of peanuts, or those oily Australian nuts, the round ones, what are they called?” You’re teasing her, and she ignores you.

  An hour later, the train finally comes.

  Loftus. Outside the station is an even smaller town, also gray and drab, and on the overhead bridge above the railway tracks is a horizontal banner: visit the tram museum.

  “Do you want to go?” you ask.

  She ignores you, runs back to the ticket window, then signals to you. You start toward the exit, and the ticket seller motions the two of you to go back into the station. You ask her, “Is the ancient forest on the platform?”

  “You don’t understand his English!” she says.

  As you return into the station, you thank the ticket seller in English. She gives you a look, and laughs. She is no longer angry, and explains that the man said it was closer, going via the platform. All right, you follow her across the tracks, walking on the gravel heaped there for repairing the road. A man on duty, in a uniform, is watching the pair of you, and you shout out to him, “The park? Where is the Royal National Park?”

  You know this much English. He points to an exit where the fence is broken.

  The two of you get to the highway, where there are lots of speeding cars but no pedestrians. A big sign on the fence around the railway station reads tram museum; there is an arrow on it. There is no option but to go there to ask the way. Inside a high gateway is a small, toy-sized wooden hut, and, nailed to it, is a sign with the admission price clearly written on it, the price is different for adults and children, but there is no one inside selling tickets. A large open space has been laid with small metal tracks, and a carriage of an old tram with neatly painted paneling stands there. A woman with ten or so children surround an old man wearing a cap with embroidered sides and a sunshade. He is explaining the history of the tram. The old man finally finishes talking, and the woman and the children get on board the tram. He now turns to them, and touches his cap to salute. Sylvie tells him why she is here, and the old man spreads out his hands and says, “This is the National Park. It’s all around us, the two of you and me. This museum of ours is a part of the park!”

  He points out the area of the museum, the space from the gateway to where the old tram carriage is stopped.

  “But what about the forest, the ancient forest?” Sylvie, her hair short like a boy’s, asks.

  “It’s all forest—” He turns and points at the eucalypt forest by the highway.

  You can’t help laughing aloud. Sylvie glares at you, then asks the old man, “Which is the way into it?”

  “You can go in anywhere, and you can also get on board. It’s five Australian dollars for each of you, you’re both adults.”

  “There’s no question about that.” You then ask, “Does this tram also go into the forest?”

  “Of course. These are return tickets, and you don’t have to pay me now, pay me if you’re satisfied. If you’re not satisfied, you can walk back, it’s not very far.”

  With a clang, the old tram moves off. The bell doesn’t sound old, and has a clear ring. You are happy, just like the children on the tram, but Sylvie pulls a face and starts to sulk. The tram goes into the forest. There are eucalypts and more eucalypts, all sorts of eucalypts that you can’t tell apart. The trunks are brownish-red, brownish-yellow, or greenish-yellow, and the bark is peeling off in strips on some of them. There is also a patch of black, charred trees, and the tips of the contorted branches, quivering in the wind like long, disheveled hair, give an eerie feeling.

  A quarter of an hour later, the track comes to an end.

  “Have you seen a kangaroo?” you tease.

  “So, you’re making fun of me. I’m off to get one for you to have a look at!”

  Sylvie jumps off the tram and runs onto a path with an arrow pointing to an information kiosk. You sit down by the path. After a while, she rushes back, clutching some pamphlets, and saying there’s a path down to the sea, but that it is a few hours’ walk. The sun has already moved to the lower part of the forest, and it is almost four o’clock. She looks at you, but doesn’t suggest anything.

  “Then let’s go back the way we came. In any case, we’ve visited a museum,” you say.

  The two of you get on the tram with the children, and she ignores you. It’s as if it is entirely your fault. You go back to the station and board the train for Sydney. The carriage is empty, and she lies down on the seat. You examine the tourist map and find that there is a station on the way back, called Cronulla, which is right by the sea. You suggest getting off the train right away, and drag her to her feet.

  The sea is not far from the station. Beneath the setting sun is the deep-blue sea with lines of cloud-white waves rolling in and charging at the beach. She has changed into her bathing suit, but she has broken one of the ties on the back and is really cross.

  “Find a nude swimming pool,” you can’t help teasing.

  “You don’t know what living’s all about!” she retorts.

  “Then what can you do?” You say you can pull the tie from your trunks to replace it.

  “Then what about you?”

  “I’ll just sit on the beach and wait for you.”

  “That’s no good; if you don’t go in the water, then neither of us will!”

  She really wants to go in, but also wants to appear magnanimous.

  “I can pull out my shoelaces,” you say, rising to the occasion.

  “That’s a great idea, you’re not so stupid after all.”

  With the help of your shoelaces, you manage to help her get her breasts cupped securely. She gives you a big kiss and runs into the water. It is icy cold, and you are shivering by the time the water gets to your knees.

  “It’s really cold!”

  In the distance, on the left end of the bay, a
few boys are surfing beyond the reef. Further out is the deep, ink-blue sea, lines of white waves surging up and vanishing, then surging up again. Clouds hide the setting sun, there is a sea wind, and it gets even colder. The people swimming nearby have all come out of the water, and those lying and sitting on the sand also get up and collect their things. Almost everyone has left.

  You get back to the beach and put on your clothes. You stare out to sea, but you have lost sight of her; the surfers have climbed onto the reef. You are worried, and stand there looking. In the distance, surging up with the white spray, there seems to be a black spot, but it seems to be moving out to the open sea. You feel uneasy. The reflected light on the waves is no longer bright, as the sky of the vast South Pacific Ocean is drawn toward darkness.

  You have not known her long, and certainly don’t understand her. Before this, you had simply slept with her a few times. You mentioned that friends had invited you to put on one of your plays, so she arranged some leave and came with you. She is perverse, and you don’t know if you love her, but she fascinates you. She has had several boyfriends who, according to her, were companions. “Sexual companions?” you asked. She didn’t disagree, and, maybe because of this, she excited you. She said she opposed marriage, she had lived with a man for some years, but then they separated. She couldn’t belong to just one man. You said that you approved. She said that it was not that she didn’t want a stable relationship, but, for a relationship to be stable, it had to be stable on both sides, and that was difficult. You said you felt the same, and that the two of you had some things in common. She had to live transparently, she told you this the first time she went to bed with you and stayed overnight. She also told you of her past and ongoing sexual relationships. She said that male-female relationships were important, and you agreed. She was quite frank, and this was why she excited you.