by Gao Xingjian
Aren’t you cold?
I don’t feel the cold.
You are walking with her just like this in the snow, all around are forests with dark blue trees.
Aren’t there any stars?
No, and there’s no moon.
And no houses?
No.
And no lights?
There’s nothing at all, only you and her, walking together, walking in the snow, she is wearing a woollen scarf and you are barefooted. It’s a bit cold but not too cold. You can’t see yourself and only feel you are walking barefoot in the snow, she is at your side, holding your hand. You are holding her hand tightly, leading the way.
Is it far away?
Far, far away, aren’t you afraid?
There’s something odd about this night, it’s inky-blue but bright. But I’m not really afraid with you by my side.
Do you feel secure?
Yes.
Are you in my arms?
Yes, I am leaning against you and you are holding me gently.
Do I kiss you?
No.
Do you want me to kiss you?
Yes, but I can’t make up my mind. It’s wonderful just like this, walking along. I also see a dog.
Where?
Up ahead, it seems to be sitting on its haunches, I know it’s a dog. I also see you breathing out and the steam curling up into the air.
Do you feel the warmth?
No, but I know the air you breathe out is warm, you are simply breathing out air but don’t say anything.
Do you have your eyes open?
No, they’re shut but I can see everything. I can’t open my eyes, I know if I open my eyes you will vanish, so I just keep looking like this and you just keep holding me in your arms like this. Not so tight, I can’t breathe, I want to go on looking, want to keep you. Oh, they’ve separated, and are walking on ahead.
Still in the snow?
Yes, the snow stings my feet but it feels good, my feet are a bit cold but I need this and keep walking on like this.
Can you see what you look like?
I don’t need to see, as long as I feel slightly cold and there is a slight stinging on my feet, and I can feel the snow and can feel you by my side, I feel secure and can relax and keep walking. My darling, can you hear me calling you?
Yes.
Kiss me, kiss my palms. Where are you? Don’t leave me!
I’m right here by your side.
No, I’m calling your spirit, I’m calling you, you must come, don’t abandon me.
Silly child, I wouldn’t do that.
I’m frightened, frightened about you leaving. Don’t leave me, I can’t bear the loneliness.
Aren’t you in my arms right now?
Yes, I know, I’m grateful to you, my love.
Sleep, sleep peacefully.
I’m not sleepy at all, my mind is crystal clear, I see the transparent night, the blue forest laden with snow. There is no starlight and no moonlight but all this can be seen clearly. It is a very strange night. I want to stay forever with you on this snowy night. Don’t go away, don’t abandon me. I want to cry. I don’t know why. Don’t abandon me, don’t go so far from me, don’t go kissing other women!
It is also in this winter after a snowfall that a friend comes to talk about the time he was on a labour reform farm. He looks at the snow-covered landscape outside my window and squints as if the glare of the snow is too strong and also as if he is immersed in his memories.
There was a huge derrick, he says, on the prison farm. Glancing out the window to a tall building, he estimates that it would have been at least fifty or sixty metres high, not less than the height of the very building we are in. A big flock of crows kept flying around the pointed top, they flew off and came back, circling endlessly and cawing all the time. The brigade leader in charge of this band of prisoners was an old soldier demobilized from the Korean War. He had a grade two award for meritorious action but having been wounded, one leg was longer than the other and he walked with a limp. He had some bad luck and wasn’t promoted any higher than company commander and ended up being sent to look after these prisoners so he was forever cursing and swearing.
Cunt of someone’s mother, what the fucking hell is going on? Just bloody won’t ever let me get any sleep! He swore in Northern Jiangsu dialect as he walked around the derrick with his army overcoat draped over his shoulders.
Climb up and have a look! he ordered me. What else could I do but take off my padded jacket and climb? Halfway up, in the strong wind, my calves started trembling, I looked down and these legs just gave up and wouldn’t stop shaking. It was during a year of famine and people were starving to death on the surrounding farms. We were a bit better off in the labour prison and the taro and peanuts we grew were stored in the granary after the company commander had taken his cut; we didn’t have to turn it all over. Each person’s grain rations were guaranteed and while we were a bit puffy we weren’t constipated. However, I was just too weak to climb up high.
Brigade leader! All I could do was to yell down to him.
I told you to have a look at what’s up there, he yelled from below.
I looked up.
There seemed to be a cloth bag hanging there, I said. I was starting to black out and all I could do was to shout down to him, I can’t climb up any further!
If you can’t then we’ll get someone else! He used a lot of invectives, but he wasn’t such a bad person.
I came down.
Get Thief for me! he said.
Thief was also a prisoner, a young fellow about seventeen or eighteen. They caught him when he stole someone’s wallet on a bus, so Thief became his nickname.
I found Thief for him. This young fellow took one look and refused to go up. The brigade leader was furious.
I didn’t ask you to kill yourself, did I?
Thief said he was frightened of falling.
The brigade leader ordered someone to get him a piece of rope, then said if he didn’t go up he’d be penalized three days’ grain rations!
It was only then that Thief, with the length of rope tied at his waist, went up. All of us watching from below were sweating profusely on his account. When he still had a third of the way to go, each time he moved further up he secured the rope to the iron rack and eventually got to the top. Flocks of crows kept circling around him. He waved his arms to chase them off, then from above a hemp bag slowly floated down. We went over to look. The hemp bag, which was pecked full of holes, was half full of peanuts!
Mother’s cunt! The brigade leader unleashed another round of invectives.
Assemble! He blew his whistle again. Everyone was assembled. He began with a reprimand then asked who was responsible.
No-one dared to make a sound.
It couldn’t have flown up there by itself, could it? I thought it was rotting human flesh!
We all forced ourselves to hold back, no-one dared to laugh.
If no-one owns up, everyone’s meals are stopped!
At this everyone became anxious and looked at one another. But we all knew in our hearts that only Thief was capable of climbing up. Our eyes naturally fell upon him. He cast his eyes to the ground, then unable to bear it fell on his haunches and admitted he had stolen up during the night and put it there. He said he was frightened of starving to death.
Did you use a rope? The brigade leader asked.
No.
Then why were you putting on that big act just now? Just penalize that son of a bitch one day without food! the brigade leader announced.
Everyone cheered.
Thief bawled.
The brigade leader limped off.
Another friend of mine tells me there is an important matter he wants to discuss with me.
I agree and say go ahead.
He says it will take a long time to tell it all.
I suggest that he shortens it.
He says even if he does, he’ll still have to start at the beginning.
Then start telling it, I say.
He asks if I know a certain high-ranking imperial bodyguard of a certain emperor of the Manchu-Qing Dynasty. He tells me both the name and reign title of the emperor as well as the name and surname of this high-ranking bodyguard, and says he is the direct seventh-generation eldest grandson of this illustrious person of those times. I accept his statement without reservation and don’t find it at all surprising, but whether this ancestor is a criminal or a meritorious minister of the emperor is of little consequence to him at present.
He says, on the contrary, it is of great consequence. People from cultural relic bureaux, museums, archive bureaux, political associations and antique shops have all visited him, repeatedly questioning him and harassing him no end.
I ask if he has one or two precious relics.
He says that’s an underestimation.
Is it worth a string of cities? I ask.
Whether it’s worth a string of cities he can’t say. In any case it’s hard to put a value on it, even one million, ten million or several hundred million wouldn’t be near the mark. He says it isn’t one or two items, but ranges from ceremonial bronze vessels and flat jades dating back to the Shang Dynasty to precious swords of the Warring States period, not to mention rare antiques and Buddhist calligraphies and paintings from various periods, enough to fill a museum. Early string-bound editions of the catalogued items run into four volumes and can be found in rare editions libraries. You have to understand that this is a two-hundred-year-old collection which started with his ancestor seven generations ago and was added to over the generations right until the Tongzhi reign period of the Qing Dynasty!
I say he shouldn’t let this get out and start worrying about his safety.
He says there isn’t a problem with his safety. The main problem is that he can’t get a moment’s peace. Even in his family, which is a large one, the relatives of his grandfather, father and uncles have all come one after the other to see him about it, and make such an endless racket he thinks his head will explode.
Do they all want a share?
He says there isn’t anything to share, the thousands of volumes of old books, gold and silver, ceramics and other household items were torched and looted countless times by the Taipings, the Japanese, and the various warlord factions. After that, his grandfather, father and mother handed over to the authorities and sold off items and then the house was ransacked several times, so he now has none of the relics at all.
Then what are they squabbling about? I can’t understand.
So it has to be told from the beginning, he says, looking perplexed. Have you heard of the Pagoda of the Jade Screen and Gold Cabinet? He is of course giving by way of comparison the name of this pagoda which was a storehouse of old books and precious relics. There are references to it in historical books, local gazetteers, as well as the genealogies of his ancestors, and it is known to the people in all the cultural relic departments in his home town down in the south. He says when the Taipings entered the city, what they torched was in fact an empty pagoda. Most of the old books had been moved in utmost secrecy to their family estate, and as for the rare treasures listed in the catalogue, the family legend for successive generations was that these too had been secretly stored. It was not until last year, before his father got sick and died, that he told him they were buried somewhere in their old home. His father didn’t know the exact location but said that a handwritten volume of poems by his great-grandfather, which had been passed on to him by his grandfather, contained an ink drawing of their old home with all the terraces, pavilions, gardens and artificial mountains. In the right upper corner were four lines of a Buddhist sutra which secretly indicated the location of this treasure. However this volume of poetry was taken away along with everything else when Red Guards ransacked their house. Later, when the family was subsequently exonerated, the book couldn’t be found. The old man however could recite the four lines of the sutra and from memory drew a rough sketch of the old ancestral home for him. He committed these to memory and, at the beginning of the year, went for the first time to the old home to carry out an investigation at the actual site. However, the old ruins had changed into blocks of new office and residential buildings.
What more is there to it, it’s buried under the buildings, I say.
He disagrees. If it had been under the buildings, then it would have been found when they were laying the foundations, especially with the buildings they put up nowadays. There are so many underground pipes to be installed so the foundations are dug quite deep. He looked up the builders and asked them but was told they hadn’t unearthed any old relics. He says he carried out a great deal of research on the four lines of the sutra and, adding his analysis of the topography, was able to determine the approximate location as the nature area between two buildings.
What do you plan to do? Have it excavated? I ask him.
He says this is what he wants to ask me about.
I ask him whether he needs money.
He doesn’t look at me and instead looks at the bare little trees in the snow outside the window.
How can I put it? Bringing up a son on my wife’s salary and mine combined, we just have enough to eat, and that’s not counting other expenses, but I can’t sell off my ancestors like that. I would only get a certain amount as a reward for being a leader among leaders.
I say they will also issue a notice with the news that such and such a person who is the seventh-generation descendant of so and so donates cultural relics and is rewarded.
He gives a wry smile and says, won’t he get his head smashed in fighting when he tries dividing up the reward amongst that big bunch of uncles and relatives? That alone makes it not worthwhile. Most importantly, however, is that he believes it will enrich the nation.
Surely there hasn’t been a shortage of cultural relics unearthed? Have they enriched the nation? I retort.
That’s just it, he nods, but having agreed he has second thoughts. What if he has a sudden illness or dies in a car accident? Then no-one will know.
Then hand on these lines of sutra to your son, I suggest.
He says it isn’t that he hasn’t thought about this, but what if his son grows up to be a good for nothing and sells it all? he asks himself.
Can’t you first give him instructions? I interrupt.
The child is still young and should be allowed to study in peace. He says he shouldn’t cause his son to become a nervous wreck over this puerile business when he grows up, as has been the case with him. He resolutely rules this out.
Then leave it for the archaeologists to work on in the future. What else can I say?
He thinks about it then slaps his thigh. I’ll do as you suggest, let it stay buried! At this he gets up and leaves.
Another friend turns up in a brand new woollen overcoat and a pair of shiny black leather shoes with three scrolled bands. He looks like a cadre setting off on an overseas trip to carry out some important national mission.
Removing his overcoat, he says loudly he has made a fortune in business! The him of today is not the him of yesterday. With his overcoat removed, dressed in an immaculately pressed suit, a shirt with a stiff collar and a red floral necktie, he looks like the representative of a foreign company.
I say you mustn’t feel the cold going outdoors wearing so little in this sort of weather.
He says he doesn’t squeeze onto buses anymore, he came in a taxi, and this time he is staying in the Beijing Hotel! What, you don’t believe me? Why should only foreigners stay in high-class hotels? He tosses down a set of keys with a brass ball and a brass tag with engraved English lettering.
I tell him the keys should have been handed in at the reception counter when he came out.
It’s a habit from being poor in the past, I always take the keys with me, he says excusing himself. He looks around the room.
How is it that you are living in one room like this? Guess how many rooms I’m living in at present?<
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I say I have no way of guessing.
Three rooms and a lounge room. In your city of Beijing that would be the equivalent of what a bureau chief has!
I look at the ruddy glow of his clean-shaven face, he isn’t thin and scruffy like when I met him on my travels.
How come you don’t have colour television? he asks.
I tell him I don’t watch television.
Even if you don’t watch it, you’ve got to have one for show. We’ve got two at home, one in the lounge room and one in my daughter’s room. My daughter and her mother watch their own programs. Do you want one? I can go with you right away to a department store and bring one back! I’m telling the truth. He stares wide-eyed at me.
