Death Fugue

by Sheng Keyi

  That day, Suitang similarly came without makeup, looking simple and pure. She was one of those girls who was all the more eye-catching in the simplest attire, like a pearl just pulled out of the water. The left side of her hair had a fiery red hairpin clipped to it. This tiny, seductive dot made Mengliu think of a widow dressed in black with a white flower pinned to her breast, but he quickly wiped that inauspicious image from his mind.

  It was the first time Mengliu had gone to the restaurant. The waitress was dressed like a flight attendant, her face as welcoming as a spring breeze, eyes as brilliant as peach blossoms, her curves churning like waves, her mouth as fresh as the scent from a basket of flowers. She was respectful, caring and humble – almost ingratiating – at every moment trying to satisfy the vanity of her customers. The charming waitress, knowing it was Mengliu’s first visit, introduced him with a high degree of professionalism to the quality of their steaks, which were better than those he would find elsewhere. In their restaurant, meat from a single cow was served to only six patrons, and only the sixth and eighth ribs were selected, and after soaking for three days and three nights in the chef’s special marinade, cooked over a fire.

  ‘Do you know who our chef is? He is Chef Xieyong, who was employed by – !’ The charming waitress uttered an intimidating name.

  Mengliu asked what was so special about the sixth and eighth ribs. The girl smiled, her look as mysterious as God’s would have been when creating humankind.

  The French bread arrived on a luxurious covered tray, with little pieces of goose liver floating in glasses of wine, like beautiful girls lying on red velvet couches. The portions looked like they had been measured out for a cat, but it was all gorgeous and its extravagance was a feast for the eyes. They opened a bottle of Black Label whisky, poured it over ice, and slowly sipped at it. Suitang’s pale skin gained a rosy blush.

  The steak was delayed. Mengliu and Suitang’s conversation sputtered. They talked on and off, sometimes seeming very close and sometimes very distant. The few topics they tried had short lifespans, either because she killed them or because he couldn’t manage to keep the talk up. Mengliu’s eyes fell often to Suitang’s cleavage. To call it cleavage, however, is only to describe his fantasy of it. In fact, only her collarbone was visible to him, slim and exquisite, just like the two curves of a peach on a canvas, inviting someone to add a few artistic strokes to it. Their conversation didn’t wander beyond the confines of the hospital, and from beginning to end, everything was somehow connected to illness. Of course, everyone has his or her own circle of interest, and those inside the circle rarely talk about anything outside of it. Politics, war, economics, nuclear weapons…it was clear Suitang was not interested in those things. Mengliu had a feeling that there might be words sitting in Suitang’s mouth, just waiting for her to find the right time to spit them out.

  Finally the waitress came to them, poised as she swung her hips, balancing the plates. She arranged their forks and knives, gracefully poured the black pepper and onion sauces onto the few pieces of beef, her movements elaborate as those of an opera singer.

  She asked, ‘Would you like me to cut it for you?’ Upon hearing Suitang’s reply, she set about with an impressive exhibition of swordplay, reminiscent of the murderous landlady Sun Erniang in Shi Nai’an’s novel Water Margin. The knife whizzed as she attacked the meat, slicing through the flesh and leaving it in a pool of gravy.

  Mengliu tasted one of the slices. When he offered his heartfelt praise, the waitress’s chest swelled all the more with her pride.

  The blues played in the background, mournful as a dying patient, the lingering phrases long and drawn out.

  A man and woman sat at the table next to them, neither speaking to the other. They sat gloomily puffing on their cigarettes.

  Several businessmen chatted on the other side. Their eyes also slipped slyly toward Mengliu’s table to catch a glimpse of Suitang’s collarbone.

  When the waitress came to collect their plates, Suitang glanced at her retreating rear, wiped her mouth, and said, ‘Before, there was a man who always brought me here. I never got tired of the food, despite coming so often. Every time we ate, it was like tasting the food for the first time. I began to wonder whether they added opium to it.’

  ‘When love is sweet, the appetite will be good. In many senses, love is like a drug,’ Mengliu said casually, then sat silently, waiting to hear the man’s name.

  ‘I was pampered by him. He let me have my way in everything.’

  ‘A woman should be pampered.’

  ‘But there was one thing –’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘Marriage.’

  ‘You were a mistress?’

  ‘No, I was a third party.’

  ‘There’s not much difference.’

  ‘There is a difference. A mistress is willing to stay a mistress. A third party has to work much harder to become a wife.’

  ‘When you put it like that, it makes sense.’

  ‘Shouldn’t this also be considered as love? Is there really a need to brand us as fornicating dogs?’

  ‘With love, you can never really say. As far as I know, the breakup of marriages is at an all-time high. That should be good news for a third party.’

  ‘He’s got too much money. Divorce would bankrupt him.’

  ‘Maybe love will mean more to him than money.’

  ‘You tell me, do you think he loves me?’

  ‘Maybe he’s not even sure himself.’

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t care for my feelings, I’m certainly not going to be the one to let things go. He thinks he’s the king, a monarch who can bestow favours on whomever he pleases, a little here and a little there, so everyone will be happy and will remain loyal to him without any will of their own.’

  Does this mean Suitang is one of those women who loves revolution? Mengliu thought. But to Suitang he only said, ‘In times of revolution, one must revolt. The rebel has no choice but to rebel. But what will you use in your revolution? What sort of bargaining chip do you have? If his marriage is solid, then your attempts to break it will be like throwing eggs against a rock. Haven’t you had enough of such teachings?’

  ‘You mean all I can do is be led around by the nose? I’m a human, you know!’ Suitang looked just then like a human-rights crusader.

  ‘That’s right, you are human, but if you threaten his security, his benefits, his happiness, he’ll have no choice but to cut you off, and wash his hands of you.’

  ‘So now you’re speaking up for him? You men, you always look out for each other’s interests.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I’ve never been married and I don’t know how married men think. But I do know that whether a person does good or bad…either way, it’s natural and normal.’

  ‘Mengliu, do you think you’re here to give me a lecture me about the Confucian Golden Mean? You’ve got no middle ground, only vul…vulgarity, no moral standing, no character. Surely you’ve been in love before.’

  Suitang’s words were sharp as a sword. Overwhelmed, Mengliu paused for a moment, slumped back in his chair, and said weakly, ‘Of course. I’ve been in love. And I’ve been hurt. Heartbroken.’

  When he had finished, he straightened up again and took a sip of wine to wet his throat, as if he was preparing to let the whole story spill out.

  Suitang’s brow tightened. She stared at him strangely, as if a horn had sprouted from his forehead.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, stealing another glance at him.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Your love story.’

  ‘Even if I go on, you won’t understand.’

  ‘You’re so self-righteous. But, if Jia Wan hadn’t overtaken you, maybe…Suitang’s tone was as casual as if she were polishing a nail, and just as casually, she unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and shoved it into her mouth.

  ‘Jia Wan…? That celebrity?’

  Of course Mengliu was familiar with Jia Wan. In the year of the Tower Inciden
t, just as spring turned to summer, the atmosphere had been tense as a guitar string. It took very little in such a charged setting to trigger an incident. Summer came early, withering the new leaves and buds, which were growing together on the same tree. At that time, there were poetry readings everywhere, with a major event happening every few days. The double-tracked wall at the Wisdom Bureau often attracted a crowd. On the trees, the wall, the iron railing – practically even hanging from the roofs – there were people everywhere you looked. As they recited Neruda, Miłosz, Whitman, Tagore, Jia Wan often made an appearance as well.

  ‘Doctors are always getting involved with patients. How much do you know about him?’ Mengliu asked.

  ‘I have an in-depth understanding.’ She emphasised the word ‘in-depth.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, Jia Wan is not a poet.’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’

  Mengliu did not say anything. He had never liked Jia Wan’s poetry, and he liked the person even less.

  ‘Of course, he couldn’t compete with any of you. I’ve collected the poems of the Three Musketeers from the newspapers, and I’ve listened to your readings. Your poetry is like Whitman’s…or was. Why did you stop writing poetry?’ Suitang let him off.

  ‘Whitman? Times have changed.’

  ‘“One’s-self I sing – a simple, separate Person; Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.”’ She recited a few lines. ‘Poetry will not hinder your life. When I chose to be your assistant, it was because I liked your poetry. It’s a shame. If you don’t write poetry anymore, don’t you feel it’s a waste?’

  As she spoke, she smiled sweetly and tilted her head. The red hairpin flashed, catching the light’s glare, and suddenly it was as if the sky was on fire. There was gunfire, fighting, killing, blood, tank-tracks rolling, and smoke.

  Suitang smiled through the bloody scene. In consternation, Mengliu sat without making a sound. His expression resembled Round Square after it had been washed clean, and was suffused with a moist sheen of sorrow.

  Driven by complex emotional forces, Mengliu left the Wisdom Bureau, went to medical school, and became a doctor. He intentionally distanced himself from his old acquaintances, and soon lost contact with them. After that, he didn’t form any new relationships. Patients, on the other hand, he had in abundance. They trusted him. In times of illness, patients and their families tried to curry favour with him. Their enthusiasm was often rewarded with a cure. Mengliu grew accustomed to the life. Occasionally someone would report him, accuse him of having a bad lifestyle. They especially questioned his past, pointing to some hidden errant political activity. Of course, that was all a load of rubbish. Even when they tried to get to the bottom of it, other than finding out that he had been quite a good poet, no one could come up with any kind of evidence.

  All the same, he realised finally that sometimes you had to sell your soul to maintain your innocence. Being ‘without incident’ didn’t mean he hadn’t had any pleasure or glory. He’d even endured some suffering. His leather-covered diary contained this entry: ‘I think that there is no such thing as a healthy person. The heartbeat of one person may thump in the chest of another. Some only have half a liver or one kidney. Some people are without uterus or breasts. Some are bald. Most have no conscience, and many are utterly wicked. The lungs of even the most upright person may be coated with oil like a kitchen hob…Even so, they will not, for the sake of some gain, give up the fight. They want to dominate others, they want love and sex, they want to take control of their lives and seem normal. I include myself in this. I’m a coward, just dragging out an ignoble existence, a louse lying on the gigantic body of the nation.’

  Sandwiched between the pages of his diary was a photo of the Three Musketeers. In the picture, Bai Qiu’s arms were crossed over his chest, the very image of an independent, eccentric spirit, with a sort of uncertain, confused look in his eyes. A renowned literary critic once said of Bai Qiu’s poems that he heard a trumpet sounding in his lines, which was perhaps the most poetic appraisal that could be made of them at that time. Bai Qiu had an innate fascination with the grave, and his poetry was full of death, corpses, skulls and other such imagery. For him, death was not something that came by chance.

  On the afternoon of the dissolution of the Dayang Poets’ Society, all five or six of its members slunk off to the Green Flower to drink in the gloom. Up until then Bai Qiu’s poetry had merely served as criticism or warning, and it had not been appropriated by people who operated with ulterior motives. Now it was all completely banned – though the word ‘banned’ may be too politically charged. To put it more precisely, no media source would publish his work. The editors stammered and stuttered, dodging behind various pretexts. Even those intellectuals who had previously valued Bai Qiu’s poetry quite highly now began to have reservations.

  ‘Hey, Boss, I’ve come to recite some poetry. Can you send a jug of wine over?’ Bai Qiu said to the proprietor, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He took a slim little notebook from his pocket. In it were three poems he had just composed. It was exciting then to listen to a poet recite his work, and many in the audience counted it an honour to have their photos taken with him. Poets were like movie stars. If a poet tried to board a train without a ticket, the conductor was likely to let it pass in exchange for an autograph. He would even try to arrange a comfortable seat for him, free of charge.

  ‘The jug of wine is no problem, but please don’t recite poetry here,’ Shunyu’s father answered, surprising them. Everyone took it as a joke.

  A few days later on a hot rainy afternoon, all sorts of rumours were circulating, and it was hard to verify which were true. Bai Qiu invited Mengliu to travel back with him to his village. On the train, he spoke at length about poetry, saying that death was the best subject matter for it. The next day just as the sun rose, they reached their destination. They walked along the narrow country lane, noting all the peaceful details of the village. Dewdrops formed on the tips of the grass, the vegetables and crops grew plump and full, the chickens and dogs were content. In the midst of this tranquil scene, a peasant woman sat at her door feeding her infant, her powdery white breast announcing that the world was sweet as a dream. The dream was limited, however, to this remote village. Mengliu had no inkling that this would be Bai Qiu’s final farewell to him.

  12

  Wrapped around the outer wall and roof of the house were many creepers. In front of the windows, where there was no surface to attach themselves to, the creepers gave way to stalks of rattan, their shadows dancing along the floor as they swayed in the breeze. The faint fragrance of flowers floated all over the house. The window frames, timber doors, and the different pieces of furniture were carved with complex patterns, flowers, birds, fish, all sorts of living creatures, each showing traces of the Chinese Ming-Qing style. A pair of lion snouts with rings through their noses served as door handles on the wardrobe in the living room, looking dull and cold. The doors opened at Mengliu’s touch, releasing the scent of sandalwood. He found himself faced suddenly with a hidden library set in a recess in the wall with books placed neatly on the bookshelves, and arranged according to categories. This huge library took his breath away. Some of the books’ covers had been repaired, and others wrapped in craft paper. It looked as if they had been handled with great care, like the care a wounded soldier would receive from a nurse. They were arranged in terms of history, politics, literature and philosophy, with not a single extraneous title grandstanding there amongst them. There was one work in the original English version. It was Su Juli’s doctoral dissertation, and it was very thick.

  When Mengliu had looked the dissertation over for a while, he felt a tightening in his chest and shortness of breath. Seeing that the window was closed, he pushed it open. The fresh breeze buzzed into the room like a group of lively young girls. He almost thought he could hear their laughter as they frolicked.

  Feeling a little more comfortable, he looked out the window at the beautifully delin
eated landscape. Above was a pale blue sky without a cloud in it. A touch of snow covered the expansive green mountains, which were skirted with a thin fog. The colour of the trees was well-distributed too, growing in light yellows along the slopes, orange at the peak, and green near the base of the mountains. Most beautiful of all was the river flowing at the foot of the scene, a bright, sparkling ribbon – for Juli had rolled up her skirt and was wading in the water. Her smooth legs seemed to wade right into Mengliu’s heart. He settled his elbows on the windowsill, rested his chin on his arms and enjoyed the moving sight of her figure.

  He saw her hair, with drops of mist clinging to it, and glimpsed the shape of her body through the sheer skirt as it dragged in the water. The light shone on her, highlighting the fresh round breasts that hung from her body. Due to the weight of the fruit it bore, her slender waist seemed especially pliable and strong, as she bent over and straightened up. As the skirt brushed against her skin it showed the curve of her buttocks. In this way, her shapely form rose and fell as she rinsed out the laundry with her hands.

  ‘You aren’t supposed to open the windows. The books will get damp.’ A voice emerged from the corner of the room.

  Mengliu flinched, and the lust he’d harboured inside him leapt out of the window like a startled cat. He turned and saw a tiny figure sitting on the floor in the corner.

  ‘Oh, Shanlai, you little scholar…what’s that you’re reading?’ Mengliu closed the window, though the tender feeling inside him hadn’t quite cooled. His theatrical tone was gentle and pleasing to him, and he instinctively felt that this was his chance to initiate a positive relationship with the raccoon-like child.