by Gao Xingjian
The key has vanished just like that.
What about the drawer?
He goes through that. He seems to recall opening the drawer. He used to have a habit of putting the key in the right-hand corner of the drawer but stopped doing that a long time ago. The drawer is full of letters, manuscripts, bicycle licence plates, medical cards, gas supply cards, and all sorts of bills. There are also some commemorative badges, a gold pen box, a Mongolian knife and a small cloisonné sword. None of these are worth anything but it’s a pity to throw them out because they hold a few memories.
Everyone has memories they treasure.
Not all memories are worth treasuring.
Yes.
Losing them is a form of liberation. There are also buttons which have come off and aren’t likely ever to be used again. The shirt this ink-blue perspex button came off was used for a mop a long time ago but the button is still there.
Yes, and then?
Afterwards he pulls out the drawer and takes everything out.
So it can’t be there.
He knows quite well it can’t be there but he still goes through it.
It’s like that. Does he go through his pockets?
He goes through all of them. He goes through his front and back trouser pockets at least five or six times, and also through the pocket of the shirt on the bed. He goes through the pockets of every item of clothing he has out, the only things he doesn’t touch are the things in the suitcase.
Then–
Then he moves everything from the table onto the floor, re-stacks the magazines on the bedhead, opens the bookcase, and even shakes the bedding, the mattress, and looks under the bed, oh, and in his shoes! Once a five cent coin dropped into a shoe. He put on the shoes, went out, and only noticed when it started hurting his foot.
Doesn’t he have his shoes on?
He had them on to start with but after shifting everything from the table to the floor, there is nowhere to put his feet. He can’t tread on the books with his shoes so he takes them off and knls on the books to search through them.
Poor thing.
This plain key without a key ring is buried somewhere in the room. He can’t go out and, looking at the abyssmal mess in the room, is at his wit’s end. Ten minutes earlier his life was orderly. This is not to say that the room was particularly clean and neat, the room has never been all that clean and neat but it always looked good. His life had its own order and he knew where everything was, he lived quite comfortably in this room. In any case he was used to it and because he was used to it, it was comfortable.
Right.
It was not all right, everything is in the wrong place, everything is wrong!
Don’t panic, now think carefully.
He says he is sick of it all. There is nowhere to sleep, nowhere to sit, nowhere even to stand. His life has turned into a heap of rubbish. He can only squat there on the piles of books. He can’t help being angry but can only be angry with himself. He can’t blame anyone, it is he who has lost his key and got himself into this predicament. It’s impossible for him to escape this mess, his messed up life, he can’t go out, but he has to go out!
Right.
He doesn’t want to see or even to return to the room again.
Doesn’t he have an apppointment?
An appointment, that’s right, he does have to go out but he’s already an hour late, he’s missed the appointment. No-one would foolishly wait for an hour and he can’t remember where the appointment is or who it is with.
It’s an appointment with a girl friend, she says softly.
Maybe, maybe it is. He says he really can’t remember, but he has to go out, he can’t put up with the mess any longer.
Without locking the door?
He’s got no choice but to go out and leave the door unlocked and he goes down the stairs and out onto the street. People are coming and going as usual and there’s an endless stream of traffic, it’s always busy like this but he can’t work out why. No-one knows he has lost his key, no-one knows he has left his door unlocked so of course no-one will go in and take his things. Anyone who comes would be at least someone he knows if not a friend. When they see there isn’t anywhere to put a foot, they will either sit on the books and browse through them while waiting for him or if they can’t wait they will leave, and there’s really no need for him to worry about it. However he can’t help worrying about this room of his which isn’t worth robbing. There are only some books and some very ordinary clothes and shoes – his best pair of shoes are on his feet – but other than that there are only those unfinished manuscripts which he already hates. At this point he starts feeling happy, there’s no need to worry about his room or the damn key, and he just wanders aimlessly around the streets. Usually he’s always busy rushing about either for some matter or for some person or else for himself but right now he’s not doing anything for any purpose and he’s never been so happy. Normally it’s hard for him to slow his pace but this time he manages; he puts out his left leg there’s no hurry to lift his right leg, but this is quite hard. He’s forgotten how to walk slowly, how to stroll. He begins to stroll, his entire sole coming in contact with the ground and his whole body and mind relaxing.
He feels odd walking like this and people passing by all seem to be looking at him, thinking he’s odd. He surreptitiously observes some of them and discovers that those many pairs of eyes looking straight ahead are actually focused upon themselves. Sometimes they look in shop windows but when they do their minds are working out whether these are good prices. He suddenly realizes that on this street full of people it’s only he who is looking at people and no-one is taking any notice of him. He also discovers that it’s only he who is walking like a bear with the whole of his foot. The others are all walking with their heels striking the ground and, day after day and year in year out, jarring their bodies, and, making themselves tense, anxious and stressed.
Yes.
As he goes along this busy street he feels more and more lonely and begins to sway as if he were sleepwalking. In the interminable noise of the traffic, in the glare of gaudy neon lights, he is squashed in the thronging crowds on the pavement. He wants to slow his pace but can’t and is all the time being knocked and jostled by the people behind. If you look at him from an upstairs window over the street, he looks just like a discarded cork swirling helplessly as it floats down the gutter after the rain, together with dry leaves, cigarette packs, ice-cream wrappers, used take-away plastic plates and the paper wrappings from all sorts of snacks.
I can see it.
What?
The cork floating in the thronging crowd of people.
It’s him.
It’s you.
It isn’t me it’s a state of being.
I know. Go on with what you were saying.
What about?
About the cork.
It’s a discarded cork.
Who threw it away?
He had thrown himself away. He tries to remember but can’t. He struggles to remember, he struggles to recall the relationships he has had with other people, why he has come to this street. It’s clearly a street he knows well, this big, ugly, grey department store. The building is all the time being extended and all the time being made higher, it’s always thought to be too small. It’s only the little tea shop across the street that hasn’t ever been renovated, it still has an old-style upstairs room. A bit further on is a shoe shop and opposite that is a stationery shop and a bank, he has been into all of these. He seems to have had dealings with the bank, made deposits or withdrawals, but that was a long time ago. He seems also to have had a wife but then they separated, he no longer thinks about her, nor does he want to.
But he once loved her.
It seems that he once loved her but it’s all very hazy. In any case he feels there has been a relationship with a woman.
And not just with one woman.
That seems to be the case. There must have been some good things in his life but th
ey seem to be very remote and only a few pale impressions remain. They are like negatives where there wasn’t enough light and no matter how long you soak them in fixer, there are still only faint outlines.
But there must also have been a woman who deeply moved him, who left some details worth remembering.
He only remembers she had a small mouth with clearly defined lips and that she blushed when she said no. And when she said no, her body was yielding.
And?
She asked him to turn off the light, she said she was afraid of the light . . .
She didn’t.
She did.
All right, forget about whether or not she said it, next comes whether or not he finds the key.
He then remembers the appointment he has to go to, in fact he doesn’t have to go to it. When they meet they only talk about trivialities, then go on to talk about people they know – who’s going through a divorce, who’s with who, and what new books, new plays and new movies are on. The next time they meet, these new books, new plays and new movies will be old and be of no interest anyway. They also talk about a speech some important official has given, the content is stale and obsolete and has been recycled many times over the years. He goes simply because he can’t bear the loneliness, after that he still has to return to that chaotic room of his.
Isn’t the door unlocked?
Yes, he pushes open the door and stops in front of all the books on the floor. There next to the wall at the side of the desk is the key without the key ring. It is blocked from view by a letter waiting to be answered propped against the lamp stand. However when he walks over the piles of books right into the room it can no longer be seen.
I had planned to go to Dragon Tiger Mountain to visit Profound Sky, the famous Daoist, but when the train stops at Guiqi I don’t get off straightaway. People are sitting on the floor in the passageway of the hot and stuffy carriage and I will have to pick my way through, stepping over legs, and it will take several minutes just to get to the end of the carriage by which time I will be soaked in sweat. Right now I am lucky to be sitting in the middle section, at a window seat on the left, and there is a cup of strong tea on the little table in front of me. While I am procrastinating, the carriage shudders and the train slowly leaves the station.
Then there is the rythmic sound of shaking, and the lid on my cup begins to gently rattle. A breeze blows in my face, so it’s quite cool. I want to have a nap but can’t fall asleep. This east-west train is always overloaded, day or night. Whichever little station it is, people are always squeezing on or off and there are always large numbers of people in a desperate hurry for some unknown reason. The words of Li Bai’s poem could be changed to: “Getting out of doors is hard, harder than ascending the blue sky.” It is only in the few carriages with soft sleeping berths that the pleasures of travel are enjoyed, but only by foreigners with their foreign currency and by leadership cadres above a cerain rank with their public expense accounts. I must calculate how much more time I can last on the bit of money I have at my disposal. My savings were used up long ago and I am living off a loan. A kind-hearted editor of a publishing house paid me several hundred yuan as advance royalty for the manuscript of a book he might not be able to publish for many years. I don’t know yet if I will be able to write the book but I have already spent more than half of the royalty. It is a debt of friendship, but who can tell what will happen in a few years time? In any case, I must try hard not to stay at inns anymore and to seek lodgings which cost nothing or else very little. However, I have already missed the chance of getting off at Guiqi, where a girl promised I could stay in her home.
It is while waiting for a boat on a wharf that I meet her – two little plaits, vivacious, a ruddy complexion, intelligent eyes. I can see she is full of fresh curiosity about this chaotic world. I ask where she is going and she tells me she is going to Yellow Rock. I say that under the dusty sky of that place there is nothing but black smoke belching out of the steelwork chimney stacks. What fun will you have there? She says she is visiting her aunt and asks me the same question. I say wherever I happen to go, I don’t have a specific destination. Her eyes open wide and she goes on to ask what work I do. I say I’m a speculator and profiteer. She bursts out laughing and says she doesn’t believe me.
“Do I look like a trickster?” I ask her.
She shakes her head to refute this suggestion, “Not even a bit.”
“What do you think I look like?”
“I don’t know,” she says, “but definitely not a trickster.”
“In that case, I’m a wanderer.”
“Wanderers aren’t bad people,” she says with conviction.
“Most wanderers are actually good people.” I must affirm her conviction. “People who look very proper are often tricksters.”
She can’t stop laughing, it’s as if she’s being tickled, she’s a very happy girl. She says she also wants to wander everywhere but her parents won’t let her, they’ll only let her visit her aunt. They also say that as soon as she finishes school she has to start working. This is her last summer vacation and she has to make the most of it. I commiserate with her and she sighs and says, “Actually, I really want to go and have a look at Beijing but I don’t know anyone there. My parents won’t let me go on my own. Were you born in Beijing?”
“I’ve got a Beijing accent but that doesn’t mean I was born there; I live in Beijing and the people in that city have suffocating existences,” I say.
“Why?!” She is startled.
“There are too many people, it’s so crowded it drives people to distraction, if you’re off guard for a moment, someone will tread on your heels.”
She pouts.
“Where do you live?” I ask.
“Guiqi.”
“Does it have a Dragon Tiger Mountain?”
“It’s just a desolate mountain, the temple was destroyed long ago.”
I say I am looking for this sort of desolate mountain, the more people don’t want to go to a place, the more I want to go to it.
“Are such places good for cheating people?” She has a cheeky look.
I can’t help smiling as I say, “I want to become a Daoist.”
“There’s no-one to take you in, the Daoists who used to be there have either run off or have died. If you go there you’ll have nowhere to stay, but the scenery is quite wonderful. It’s just twenty li from the county town and you can walk there, I’ve been there on excursions with my schoolmates. If you really want to go, you can stay at my place, my parents like having guests.” She is quite earnest.
“But don’t you have to go to Yellow Rock? They don’t know me.”
“I’ll be there in ten days. Aren’t you going to be wandering about anyway?” As she says this the boat arrives.
Outside the window of the train, clusters of grey-brown mountain ranges rise straight up from the plains. That’s Dragon Tiger Mountain at the back so this range must be Immortal Cliffs. In the course of my travels, through a chain of introductions I visited a museum director who showed me photographs of Immortal Cliffs. Hanging coffins have been found in many of the caves on the cliffs along the river, a burial site for the ancient Yue people of the Warring States period. While they were putting these in order, they also found a black lacquered wooden box-drum as well as a two-metre wooden zither which, from the holes, they ascertained had thirteen strings. If I went there now, I wouldn’t be able to hear the beat of the fishing drums nor the pure, intense notes of the zither.
The Immortal Cliffs slowly recedes into the distance, growing smaller and smaller until they finally vanish. When we parted after getting off the boat we gave one another our names and addresses.
I drink some tea and experience a moment of bitter regret. Maybe she will one day look me up, maybe not. However this chance meeting leaves me with a pleasant feeling. I would not pursue such an innocent young girl, perhaps I will also never truly love a woman. Love is too burdensome, I need to live my life unburden
ed. I want to find happiness but I don’t want to take on responsibilities. Marriage always follows and then the tiresome anxieties and resentment. I have become too indifferent and no-one can make my blood surge with passion anymore. I suppose I’m getting old and there’s only a bit left of what can barely count as curiosity, and there is a lack of desire to bring about an outcome. The outcome isn’t hard to imagine and would end up being burdensome. I would rather drift here and there without leaving traces. There are so many people in this big wide world and so many places to visit but there is nowhere for me to put down roots, to have a small refuge, to live a simple life. I always encounter the same sort of neighbours, say the same sort of things, good morning or hello, and once again am embroiled in endless daily trivia. Even before this becomes solidly entrenched, I will already have tired of it all. I know there is no cure for me.
