by Gao Xingjian
I finish eating the rice noodles and beef, get up and leave. I can still hear them playing and on this deserted street they sound very loud.
I come to an old street. The old houses on both sides are about to collapse and the eaves come right out over the road. The further I go the narrower the road becomes and the eaves of the houses on both sides virtually join. There are clear signs of imminent collapse. At every doorway is a stall with some things to sell, a few bottles of liquor, a few pomelos and small amounts of dried fruit, or some items of clothing which hang there, swaying like hanged corpses. The street is endlessly long, as if it goes through to the other end of the world. My deceased maternal grandmother seems to have brought me here, I recall that she took me out to buy a spinning top. The big boy next door had a top which filled me with envy but normally this particular toy was only on sale around the Spring Festival and even toy counters in the big shops didn’t have them. My maternal grandmother had to take me to the Temple of the City God in the south of the city but there they only had performing monkeys and people practising martial arts. It was only in places where they sold dogskin medicinal plasters that tops might be found. I recall that when I went to the Temple of the City God to buy a top that I had gone along this kind of street. It’s been a long time since I’ve played with this humble toy: the more you hit it the faster it spins. But none of the people on this street sell tops, the merchandise on show is all much the same and the more you look the more uninteresting it all is. Who actually comes to buy at all these shops? Do they really do business or is it all for show? Do they have proper jobs as well? Or does every household open up a shop, like some years ago every household used to paste up Old Mao’s sayings to make their doorways look more impressive?
Later on, I somehow make a turn and come onto another big street. Here they are all regular government shops but they are already closed for the night – when they can do good business, they’re not open. Nevertheless the street is thronging with people. The young women are particularly eye-catching. They are all wearing lipstick, walking noisily in high heels, and wearing sleeveless, body-hugging, low-cut, gaudy Hong Kong dresses which either have been smuggled in or else bought after being resold profitably many times over. They are not on their way to a nightclub but they look as if they have dates.
Coming to a crossroads, it is even more crowded and it seems that all the inhabitants of the city have come out and are all casually walking in the middle of the road. No cars are in sight and it’s as if this wide road has been built for pedestrians and not vehicles. Judging by the size of this crossroads and the style of the houses on the street, I gather that I must be at the Big Ten of the city. The cities of this high plateau usually refer to the city centre as the Big Ten but it is dark here compared with the bright lights of the shops in the small winding lane. Maybe there’s a shortage of electricity or maybe the shift workers forgot to put on the street lights, who knows? I make use of the light shining from a window and go right up to look at the road sign. It in fact reads “Big Ten” and it is quite certain this is the square in the centre of the city, the place where ceremonies and parades are held.
I hear the sound of chuckling coming from the darkness on the pavement. Puzzled, I go up to look and discover that people are sitting, one next to the other, all along the wall. I stoop to get a better look and see that they are all old people, several hundred of them, and they look to be neither meditating nor demonstrating. They are chatting, laughing and singing. There is the squeaking of strings from an untuned huqin resting on someone’s knees: the cloth on his knees makes this huqin master look more like a cobbler mending shoes. The person next to him is leaning against the wall and singing the tune, “At the Drumbeat of the Five Watches” which counts each of the five watches from night to dawn and tells about a besotted girl waiting for her lover. The old people all around listen entranced. The intriguing thing is that they are not all men, there are also old women, all with huddled shoulders and bent backs, like so many shadows. However, their coughing is very loud, but the coughing seems to be coming from people made of paper. Someone is quietly talking, as if talking in sleep, or one could say talking just for oneself. However, there is the sound of laughter in reply. On eavesdropping, it turns out to be an old man earnestly flirting with an old woman. What sort of wood did elder brother fetch from the mountains? What sort of shoes did younger sister embroider with her hands? One asks and the other replies as in the singing of mountain love songs. Perhaps they are using the darkness of the night to transform the Big Ten into a singing stadium of their youth, or perhaps this was the very place where they flirted and talked of love in their youth. There is more than one old couple singing love songs, and there are even more earnestly chatting and laughing. I can’t understand what they are saying or why they are having so much fun, only they can understand the hissing which comes through their sparse teeth. I wonder if I am dreaming and look carefully to see if these are real people. I pinch my thigh through my trousers and it does hurt, so I’m not mistaken. After coming to this high plateau I have been travelling from north to south, tomorrow I will catch the early long distance bus and go further south to Huangguoshu. In the waterfall there I will wash away these strange images and will have no doubts about the reality of my surroundings and myself.
On the way to the waterfall at Huangguoshu, I arrive at Longgong. Small colourful sightseeing boats drift on the mirror surface of the unfathomably deep water. The sightseers scrambling onto the boats don’t seem to notice the hole by the crack in the heavily wooded cliff and on reaching this spot the smooth water pours thunderously into it. It is only after getting to the foot of the mountain where the mountain torrent roars as it charges out that one realizes how dangerous it is. The sightseeing boats however sometimes row as close as three to five metres from the hole, it is like playing a game before a drowning disaster. This is all in broad daylight but while I am sitting in the boat I can’t help wondering about this sort of reality.
Along the road, the rapids sending forth white spray in the abundant mountain streams, the round mountain tops and the clear sky are simply too bright, and the slate rooftops shimmer in the sunlight. The lines are clear and distinct, like the colour paintings executed in the gongbi style. Shaking up and down in the speeding bus on the mountain road induces a sense of loss of gravity. I seem to levitate. I don’t know where I’m drifting, and I don’t know what it is that I am searching for.
You say you had a dream, just now, while you were asleep on her. She says yes, it lasted only a moment, she even spoke to you, you didn’t seem to be fully asleep. She says she touched you while you were dreaming, she could feel you pulsating, for just a minute. You say yes, an instant ago everything was so vivid. You feel the warmth of her breasts, the heaving of her abdomen. She says she held you and felt you pulsating. You say you saw a black sea rising, its flat surface slowly, inexorably, towering up. When it was upon you, the horizon between the sky and the sea was squeezed to nothing and the black sea occupied the whole of your vision. She says you were asleep pressed against her breasts. You say you felt her breasts swelling, like a black tide, a surging tide, like surging lust, growing higher and higher, wanting to engulf you, you say it was disturbing. She says, you were nestled in my arms, like a sweet child, but you began to fiercely pulsate. You say you felt somehow oppressed, the swelling, inexorably spreading tide turned into a huge flat rippleless tide surging towards you, flat and smooth like black satin without sides spilling endlessly then turning into a black waterfall, pouring down from somewhere high out of sight and plummeting unobstructed into a bottomless abyss. She says you’re really silly, let me caress you. You say you saw a black sea, a tide rising from the flat surface, swelling, spreading, occupying the whole of your vision, broaching no resistance. You were in my arms, she says, it was me embracing you with my warmth, you know it was my breasts, my breasts swelling. You say it wasn’t. She says it was, it was me holding you, feeling you pulsate more and mo
re fiercely. You say, in the surging black tide, there was a silver eel, moist, smooth, swimming like a flash of lightning, it too was totally swallowed by the black tide. She says she saw it, felt it. Afterwards, on the beach, after the tide finally subsided, there remained only an endless stretch, flat and covered with fine sand. As the tide receded, leaving only froth, you saw black human bodies kneeling, sprawling, entwined, writhing, humped over one another, turning and twisting together, then goring one another, soundlessly on the vast beach, where there was not even the sound of the wind, twisting and entwining, rising and falling, heads and feet, arms and legs inextricably intertwined, like black walruses but not completely, rolling, rising and falling, then again rolling, rising, falling. She says she felt you fiercely pulsating then going quiet, then pulsating again, then going quiet, she felt all this. You say you saw the bodies of human-like sea animals or animal-like humans, black, sleek bodies with a sheen like black satin yet like moist fur, twisting, rising and then falling, all the time rolling, all the time inextricably entwined so it was impossible to tell whether they were goring or slaughtering one another, there was no sound, not the slightest sound, you saw it so vividly, on the desolate beach where there was not even the sound of the wind, far away, twisting, rolling bodies, soundless. She says it was you pulsating, pulsating fiercely, growing quiet, resting, again pulsating and again growing quiet. You say you saw black sleek bodies of human-like sea animals or animal-like humans, gleaming with a sheen, like black satin yet like moist fur, twisting and rolling, rising then falling, all the time inextricably entwined, never stopping, slowly, idling, goring or slaughtering one another, you saw all this vividly, on the flat beach, in some far away place, they were clearly rolling about. She says you were lying on her, pressed against her breasts, like a sweet child, and you were sweating all over. You say you had a dream, just now, while you were lying on her. She says it was only for a minute, she heard your breathing next to her ear. You say you saw it so vividly, you can still see it, the black rising surface of the sea slowly, inexorably surging towards you, you are disturbed. She says you silly child, you don’t understand anything. But you say you really saw it so clearly, just surging towards you, occupying your whole vision, that endless black tide, surging, inexorably, soundlessly, smooth like black satin spilling yet like a waterfall, black, unobstructed, without spray, falling into the depths of the darkness, you saw it all. She says her breasts were pressed hard against you, your back was covered in sweat. That smooth black wall looming up and pouring down was disturbing, you instinctively closed your eyes and while aware of your own existence, helplessly allowed it to pour irretrievably away, you saw everything, you saw nothing, the sea tilted, you fell in and floated up, black animals, goring or slaughtering one another, forever twisting, desolate beach, no wind. Cradled in her arms, the physical contact makes you recall all these minute details but you cannot go through it all again. She says she wants to feel you pulsating again, she wants to, and she also wants the soundless battle of those twisting human animals to be a slaughter, moving entwined, on the vast flat beach with fine sand and with only froth remaining, she wants, and she still wants. When the black tide recedes, what remains on the beach?
It is a carved wooden mask of an animal head with a human face, two horns protrude from the top of the head and alongside these are a pair of smaller, sharp horns, so it cannot represent a domestic cow or goat. It would have to be some wild animal, the demonic aura of the face definitely doesn’t have a deer-like docility and the places for docile deer’s eyes have no eyeballs and instead are two round gaping holes, eye sockets jutting out. Beneath the brow bone is a deep furrow, the forehead is pointed, and incisions radiating upwards from the centre of the forehead and the brow bone make the eye sockets even more prominent. It is thus that the eyes terrify the enemy, which is precisely how it is when beast and man confront each other.
When the mask is worn, the eyes in the darkness would shine with an animal glow through the gaping holes in the protruding eye sockets. Especially with the lower eye sockets hollowed out into two black crescent-shaped furrows pointing upwards, it looks even more evil. The nose, lips, cheekbones and chin, all executed with delicate precision, are those of an old man with a sunken mouth. The cleft on the chin has not been forgotten and the dry, shrunken skin clearly shows the bone structure. The lines of the prominent bone structure have been carved with simplicity and forcefulness, so it is not just an old man but one exuding a spirit of determination. At both sides of the tightly pursed lips are two carved sharp fangs running right up to the sides of the nostrils. The nostrils are flared and produce a definite look of scorn and derision. The teeth haven’t fallen out from old age but the front teeth have been knocked out and fitted with fangs. The two small holes at the corners of the tightly pursed mouth probably once had tufts of tiger whiskers sticking out from them. This very intelligent human face is at the same time full of animal savagery.
The sides of the nostrils, the corners of the mouth, the upper and lower lips, the cheekbones, the forehead and the middle of the forehead indicate that the carver had a sound knowledge of the human head. Looking at it closely again, it is only the eye sockets and pointed forehead that are exaggerated, the thrust of the carving of the flesh gives it a sort of tenseness. Without the tiger whiskers, it is a replica of the face of primitive man with markings on it. Their understanding of nature and the self is fully encompassed in the round black holes of the eye sockets. The two holes at the corners of the mouth reveal nature’s scorn for man and show man’s fear of nature. The face also accurately expresses the animal nature in human beings and the fear of this animal nature within themselves.
Man cannot cast off this mask, it is a projection of his own flesh and spirit. He can no longer remove from his own face this mask which has already grown like skin and flesh so he is always startled as if disbelieving this is himself, but this is in fact himself. He cannot remove this mask, and this is agony. But having manifested itself as his mask, it cannot be obliterated, because the mask is a replica of himself. It has no will of its own, or one could say it has a will but no means of expression and so prefers not to have a will. Therefore it has left man with an eternal face with which he can examine himself in amazement.
This is indeed a masterpiece. I found it amongst the holdings of a museum in Guiyang, at the time it was closed for renovations. Through the help of friends, I got letters of introduction, then had an acquaintance phone on some pretext which eventually moved the deputy director of the museum. He is a good-natured cadre, quite fat, and always holding a mug of tea in his hand. I think he is already quite advanced in years and probably near retirement. He got someone to open two big storerooms for me so that I could go through the shelves piled with bronze weapons and assorted earthenware pots. This was of course magnanimous treatment but I didn’t discover anything memorable. So taking advantage of his good nature, I made a second visit. He told me they had too many artefacts and he didn’t know what I really wanted to see and suggested I look through the catalogues. Fortunately, a small photograph was attached to each of the cards. In the file for religious and superstitious items, I found this set of exorcist masks. He said these were locked away and have never been displayed, if I really wanted to see them there were certain procedures to be followed and a time would have to be fixed. I went again for a third visit. This good-natured director has a big crate brought out for me. As the items are taken out one by one, I am terror-stricken.
Altogether there are more than twenty masks, it seems that they were confiscated as superstitious objects by the Public Security Bureau at the beginning of the fifties. Some people at the time had in fact performed a good deed. Instead of their being chopped up and used as firewood, they were delivered to the museum and so avoided the ravages of the Cultural Revolution. According to the museum archaeologist these were made at the end of the Qing Dynasty. The colour has mostly peeled off and the remaining bits of coloured lacquer have gone black and du
ll. The card indicated that the masks had been collected in Huangping and Tianzhu counties in the upper reaches of the Wushui and Qingshui rivers, a region inhabited by a mixture of Han, Miao, Tong and Tujia nationalities. I subsequently travel to these places.
In the orange-yellow sunlight of early morning, the mountain scenery is fresh and the air is clean, and it doesn’t seem that you’ve had a sleepless night. You have your arm around soft gentle shoulders and her head is resting on you. You don’t know whether or not she is the woman you dreamt of during the night, and can’t tell which of them is more real, you only know that right now she has willingly come with you and isn’t worried about where you are taking her.
Following the mountain road you come to a slope which turns out to be flat embankments, layer upon layer of broad terraced fields. Here stand two stone pillars which in former years must have been a gateway and nearby there are the remains of stone lions and stone drums. You say this had once been an imposing family. Going through the memorial gate you find courtyard after courtyard, the whole compound extending over one li, but it is now all paddy field.
