The Day the Sun Died

by Yan Lianke

  “You need to add sugar and milk powder!

  “You need to add sugar and milk powder!”

  Someone brought out some white and brown sugar from home, and some infant’s milk formula. With this, the coffee did, in fact, taste better—it had a bitter and sweet taste that resembled the licorice flavor of Chinese medicine. Drinking the coffee was like chewing on licorice when you are thirsty. They passed the coffee around, with everyone drinking a cup or half a cup. The coffee helped dispel everyone’s drowsiness, making people increasingly excited and spirited, to the point that they no longer had any desire to sleep.

  In the dark night, everyone’s spirits were exactly as they had been during the day. It was as if it were a holiday. It was really as if it were a holiday, and they were having a performance.

  I decided to take a bowl of coffee to the Yan household.

  I wasn’t sure whether or not anyone else in Yan’s household was dreamwalking. It seemed, however, as though every household in town had dreamwalkers, so why would his be any different? When my father asked me to take a bowl of coffee to every household that he had previously betrayed, I also took one to the Yan household. Needless to say, this was the most famous household in our town, since Yan had written so many books, and earned so much money. On New Year’s, both the town and the county mayor would go to his home to pay their respects. After Yan became an author, he would frequently leave town on business, and every time he returned home he would bring back the best and most expensive cigarettes. While out of town, he definitely would have had a chance to eat all sorts of delicacies and drink all sorts of expensive tea. He definitely would have also drunk a lot of foreign coffee. But tonight, he didn’t necessarily have any tea or coffee to drink.

  I saw that Yan had returned from the embankment. It appeared as though he was still in a somnambulistic state. He walked unevenly, and when he proceeded down the street he resembled a spirit walking over from the country path. This Yan Lianke, this person who became an author after leaving town, would return to town to spend a few nights when he didn’t have a story to write. After spending a few nights in town, he would again come up with an idea for a story that would once again bring him fame and fortune. For Yan, this town and this village functioned the way that a bank did for a thief—offering him an inexhaustible warehouse full of goods. His novels Time Like Water and Both Stiff and Hard and Kissing Lenin—all of these works described events in our town and in the nearby Balou Mountains. Every detail in every story—even something as seemingly insignificant as a leaf on a tree—was as familiar to me as my hands and feet, my fingernails and toenails. But now, he was in his fifties and couldn’t write anymore. Our town was still the same as before, and our days still passed just as before. The town’s stories and random events continued to unfold as before, but he found that he could no longer write any new stories. He didn’t even know how to tell a new story. Even after he returned and went to the picturesque reservoir near town, he still found himself unable to write. It seemed as though this inability to write had caused him to age precipitately. His hair turned gray, just like our town’s Old Cao’s. He no longer retained the pure and clean quality he had while traveling in the outside world, nor did he have the neat clothes or the look of delight that he once had.

  He had aged. As a result of being unable to write, he had aged precipitately.

  When he first left town he was not yet twenty years old, but in the intervening thirty years he had become overweight and somewhat hunchbacked. From his appearance, it was not at all obvious that he was an author, much less a celebrity. Apart from the fact that he had a trace of an outsider’s accent, in all other respects he was just like one of the locals. He was just like the village’s accountant. He had thin, graying hair, and the skin around his eyes resembled red grapes. But when he spoke in the local dialect he would occasionally add some unfamiliar words. None of the villagers realized that he had aged precipitately because he found himself unable to write. For the villagers, there was no obvious connection between the aging process and an inability to write. They could understand, for instance, why as Carpenter Zhao aged he would become less able to perform carpentry, or why as a large black dog aged it would no longer be able to run about as it used to, but as for Yan Lianke, everyone speculated that he must have developed some sort of illness after spending his entire life sitting at a desk and writing. To have back problems was a very aristocratic condition; and to the rest of us here, who frequently suffer from paralysis or terminal disease, his illness seemed as insignificant as a pebble beside a mountain. Particularly if you are someone whose medical expenses are covered. It was, therefore, to be expected that he would develop an illness from writing, and they couldn’t understand why this needed to become a matter of life and death. This Yan fellow made everyone envious and jealous, and made everyone feel heartache and pity. This author had returned to town. I wanted to go see him. I wanted to take him a bowl of ice-crystal coffee to wake him up, as though I were taking an invalid a bowl of Chinese medicine capable of curing any illness.

  I took a sleep-dispelling concoction consisting of ice crystals and coffee that had been brewed together, and headed to Yan’s home.

  When I arrived, what I found was as different from my expectations as though grains of sand were growing in a field of wheat, or rice plants were producing millet. No one knew how those ears of wheat had suddenly become ears of sand, nor could anyone transform the ears of millet back into ears of rice. That is how things were.

  There was an old courtyard, and an old house. The courtyard was full of old willow trees that were so tall they could touch the sky. Yan’s eighty-one-year-old mother lived in that courtyard, charged with guarding her ancestral roots. Perhaps she was very lonely. But what guard of ancestral roots isn’t lonely? As I carried the ice-crystal coffee to Yan’s home, the sound of my footsteps echoed to every lonely and isolated corner of the town. I had assumed that only Yan and his mother were living in that courtyard, but when I reached his alley—which was also our own family’s alley—I heard the sound of crying coming from the courtyard. As I rushed up to the entrance of the Yan family home, I heard footsteps in the courtyard. As I was standing in the entrance to the courtyard, that scene became like an ear of wheat producing an ear of sand.

  There was a light in the courtyard. There was a lantern hanging from a tree, an oil lamp sitting on the window ledge, and a candle sitting on the branch of a tree. The light from the courtyard flowed out the main entrance. Yan’s elder sister had returned from her mother-in-law’s home, and her husband had also returned. The neighbors from the alley had also come over, and the courtyard was crowded and noisy. Everyone was gathered around Yan as though around a deity suffering from hysteria. Yan was sitting in the center of his courtyard, and in front of him was a face-washing basin half-filled with water. There was a wet cloth in his mother’s hand, as though she had just washed his face. His face was pale and anemic, as though it had been soaked in water. His head was covered in sweat. The sweat had also soaked his cotton shirt, and his pants legs. His face was pale, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. His face, that nondescript face, was common-looking with drooping jowls. He appeared dull and blank. He was staring off into space, as though he had glimpsed something from another world—a ghostly world that he could scarcely believe. At the same time, he also looked as though he hadn’t seen anything at all. Or as though he had seen something, but was unable to talk about it. Therefore, his garlic-bulb-like nose in the middle of his face began to display a glimmer of life. He shuddered, then began to weep, as a bright, ugly sound emerged from his nose.

  Arranged in front of him were more than a dozen copies of his books and books by others. There were also several manuscripts and a bottle of paste. It had been in order to retrieve these items that he had dreamwalked back to his house in the first place, and while dreamwalking he had maintained a wide smile and kept repeating the same phrase over and over again: “I have a story to write . .
. I have a story to write.” It was as if inspiration had suddenly struck, like flower petals raining down on him. The story’s plot twists rushed toward him like a cloud of wheat fragrance, or as if a ripe, fragrant fruit had fallen to the ground. He kept speaking and mumbling to himself, and after he returned home he didn’t look at anything, nor did he say anything to his mother, and instead he began rummaging through all of his cabinets and counters—looking for books, pens, and paper. “Inspiration has struck, so I have to jot this down . . . Inspiration has struck, so I have to jot this down . . .” At this point, his mother got out of her warm bed and saw that her son’s sleepy face resembled a miswritten character. She saw that—apart from his mouth, which was still moving—the rest of his face was frozen, as though he were dead. His eyes remained open and were staring straight ahead, though they were as dull as a corpse’s.

  “You are dreamwalking . . . You are dreamwalking. . . .”

  As she said this, his mother walked toward him. “Lianke, if you’re dreamwalking, you should go wash your face.”

  “Mother, where is my pen and paper? I have a story I need to write. Inspiration has struck me like fruit that has fallen from a tree and landed on my head.”

  “You really are dreamwalking. Lianke, you really are dreamwalking.”

  “Where are those books that I left in the chest? When I begin to write, I need for the table and the room to be full of books. Only when I’m surrounded by piles of books do I feel as though I’ve returned home.”

  Yan’s mother went to ladle out half a basinful of water, and as Yan was leaning over to look for his pen and paper, she tossed a wet towel onto his face. His face was hot and the water was cold, and he immediately gave a start and stared in surprise. He straightened his body and looked around, then covered his face with his hands, squatted down, and began to sob. “I can’t write anything . . . I can’t write anything at all . . .” He wept like a baby, as though suffering from hysteria. “If I can’t write, I might as well die . . . If I can’t write, I might as well die . . .” As he wailed, he squatted in front of his mother and covered his face with his hands. Tears streamed out from between his fingers, like a mountain spring pouring out of a crevice in the ground.

  His mother didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to encourage this very accomplished son of hers.

  He, meanwhile, continued to wail.

  “What does it matter if you can’t write? Won’t you still be able to live comfortably, as before? Won’t you still be able to live comfortably, as before?” His mother stood next to him, and patted her son gently on the head. Tears were also streaming down her own face. “If I can’t write, it’s as if I were dead. It’s as if I were dead!” he shouted to his mother, but between talking and shouting, he stopped crying. It was as if he remembered that he was a man in his fifties, and that his mother was in her eighties. He stood up, looked at his mother, then looked again at his old house. “So, this is what dreamwalking is like.” He smiled humorlessly. “It never occurred to me that I might also dreamwalk. The reason I was dreamwalking was that these past several days I haven’t been able to sleep, on account of not being able to write, and my fatigue accumulated until I began to dreamwalk.” He returned with his mother from the outer room to the inner room, and even supported her as they stepped over the threshold. It was exactly as though he were returning from the sleeping world to the waking world. It was as if he were stepping back into his home, as if he were rolling down the window shades and returning from his dream to the real world. He sat down on his mother’s bed and told her many things. He told her how he had seen people dreamwalking in a village on the embankment. It was as if while dreamwalking, he found the streets full of dreamwalkers. They were all dreamwalking. He also asked his mother—his mother, who had been alive for more than eighty years, from the Republican era to the present—whether, in this long, dark alley of time, she had ever witnessed a situation in which the entire world started dreamwalking. He asked whether she had ever witnessed a situation in which everyone, while dreamwalking, suddenly returned to a childlike state, where everything was either simply bad or simply good.

  But in asking this, and without realizing it, he once again climbed into his mother’s bed and fell asleep.

  It was as though a soporific breeze had blown over his body, and the room was filled with the sound of his snoring and mumbling. “Go to sleep. Go sleep in that bed. Lianke, you need to get up and go to sleep in that bed.” He made an effort to open his eyes, but after he went to the other room, it was as if he were entering another world. Standing on the border of this other world, he turned and looked at his mother, with a smile on his face. “Mother, I have a story to write. I reached out and grabbed a handful of inspiration, which gave me the idea for the beginning of a story.” Then, with a broad smile, he began searching around furiously for a pen and paper, and for his books. He moved so quickly, it seemed as though he were from another world. He had an undecipherable expression, as his face instantly became an unreadable text. His eyes were open, but the only thing he could see was that space of his imagination. There wasn’t any light in the distance, nor were there any things or people outside his imagination. “I have a story. I have a story that is different from everyone else’s.” As he was loudly muttering, he continued to laugh happily.

  His mother stood in front of him. “Lianke . . . Lianke!” she shouted at him, as though attempting to wake him from his dream.

  “Have you seen that book with the black cover? The book that you said had a cover that was as black as night?”

  His mother came over and patted his shoulder. “Do you think you’ll die if you stop wanting to write?”

  “Now I won’t.” He smiled at his mother. “Now I have a story to write.”

  His mother slapped his face.

  “If you don’t wake up, you’ll die inside your story.”

  He stared at his mother in astonishment.

  “Quick, come out of your story,” his mother roared like thunder. “If you don’t, then you’ll be written to death inside your own story.”

  Another slap landed heavily on his cheek, as a teardrop hung suspended on his mother’s face.

  The world calmed down. The town calmed down. The tumultuous house calmed down. Yan’s body swayed back and forth. His head also swayed back and forth. He no longer had a trace of excitement on his face, and instead his cheeks were blushing with embarrassment—like someone who had encountered some sort of abject humiliation. He woke up, he woke up from his dream. Looking at his mother, he rubbed his face, as though trying to rub away some sort of pain.

  “I’m not going to write anymore. I’m not going to write another word as long as I live.” He stated this quietly, yet firmly. “Actually, if I don’t write, I’ll be able to live much better. I’ll be able to live better than anyone else.” He lowered his hand and led his mother back into her room. In doing so, he wiped the tear from her face. But as he was leading his mother to her room, she instead dragged him toward the courtyard. “Sit down out here. The bedroom is hot and stuffy, and if you go inside you will surely fall back asleep.” Mother and son proceeded to the courtyard, where a cool breeze was blowing. In the distance, clouds were floating over. There were old trees. It was an old courtyard, with old walls and columns. Everything was as peaceful as a thousand-year-old river, or an endless mountain ridge. Or like a night cloud that had continued floating uninterrupted for thousands upon thousands of years. Mother and son sat opposite each other in the courtyard. They could hear the sporadic sound of footsteps out in the alley and in the street. There was also the sound of my father’s gong, as he was shouting for everyone not to sleep, so that every household would have someone to stand guard against thieves and looters.

  “These are the shouts of Li Tianbao, who lives in the house behind us.”

  “Yes, it’s him. But he’s a good person.”

  “The funerary shop is good work, and the money simply pours in. Every month and every day
, there will always be people needing to purchase funerary objects.”

  At this point, Yan’s elder sister returned, as did her husband. Afraid that the dreamwalkers would enter the old courtyard, they had rushed back. They were both sitting in the courtyard, and because the light was on, the neighbors also hurried over. The neighbors gathered around Yan, and also gathered around the half-filled basin. They were all discussing recent chaotic events in town, including the great somnambulism. Whenever any of them felt drowsy, they would dip a towel into the water and wipe their face with it, to wash away their drowsiness. Yan’s mother brought over a bowl of peanuts and a bowl of walnuts. Some neighbors also brought over some sunflower seeds. They brought over a table, put an assortment of items on it, then stood around the table and chatted. As though it were New Year’s Eve, they resisted their drowsiness and somnambulism. While listening to the tumult out in the street, they talked about the crops, and the harvest. They discussed families who got into fights while competing over the wheat harvest, and how the families fought until they were bloody. They observed that dreamwalking was not entirely a bad thing, and recalled how, during a fight, someone’s skull got bashed in and blood started gushing out. The aggressor was someone who was quite fierce during the day, and would say to his opponent, “If you fight me, that means you’re my mortal enemy, and I’ll knock your head right off your shoulders!” Although he was proud and arrogant during the day, at night he began sleepwalking and lost that heroic valor, and instead got some eggs and milk and went from house to house to apologize, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He added, “It’s my family that was at fault. It’s my family that was wrong.” He added, “Look at these dreamwalkers—it is not that they’re all bad!” Dreamwalking, it turns out, could transform someone who is heroically bad into someone who is quietly good.

  They proceeded to say millions of good things about dreamwalkers.

  They asked what was so strange about dreamwalking, and added that there was an even stranger incident involving Ma Huzi’s family from East Town. One of Yan’s neighbors came to the front of the crowd and waved his hands frantically to underscore what he was saying.