Death Fugue

by Sheng Keyi

  The bulletproof peony silk made Mengliu think of artillery. The peony silkworms were manufacturing munitions for the citizens of Swan Valley. There was no need to pay them a salary or provide them with benefits or accommodation. There was no risk of these workers engaging in processions, protests, strikes, or violating law and discipline. The life of the silkworm ended when it stopped creating silk. From birth to death, they were the most law-abiding citizens in the world. He thought of Dayang’s vast area and abundant resources, with so much land available to cultivate not just peonies, but chrysanthemums, peach blossoms, pear blossoms, lilies…assuming everyone wore silk made from worms living on these flowers, thin as the wings of a cockroach, they would all be invulnerable, and their personal safety, and their quality of life, greatly improved. They would even have time to spend researching the use of Chinese herbal medicines to feed the silkworms, and then who could say what sorts of cures they might come up with for all manner of diseases. It would drop a bomb on the medical profession. They could apply for a scientific patent for the findings. A Nobel Prize would be given, and a legacy would be born.

  The two men made their way out of the orchard and across a terraced field where some girls were picking tea.

  They were still wary of one another. They had nothing in common to talk about.

  Women’s voices raised in song wafted over to them. The bright clean voices melted the clouds and dispersed the mist.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’ve missed the planting ceremony. They’ve already started,’ Esteban said.

  Girls dressed in red and green were lined up in rows across a paddy field, singing as they planted. Their hands rose and fell, quick and smooth, with a steady whooshing rhythm. The splashing produced a metallic sound.

  Esteban said, ‘Rice isn’t the main crop. In Swan Valley planting is a leisure activity – please note that, it is for leisure. These ‘farmers’ are teachers, musicians, songwriters…They’re not the sort of farmers who toil with their faces to the earth and backs to the sky. You can enjoy beauty and art in their labour, and in their happy lives. It’s not just toil, and they are neither poor nor ignorant.’

  Dayang had a lot of people who spent their lives being neither warm nor well-fed. They were only half alive. They had no money, and even when they died, they had to pay out of their arses to clear their debts. The demarcation between rural and urban brought with it discrimination, prejudice, injury, and all sorts of harmful consequences. All of these were compressed, hidden in the silent spaces of individual fate.

  Reclining against a mound of earth and chewing on a stalk of grass, Mengliu asked the raccoon, ‘Shanlai, what grass does the lion eat? I hear that the grass lions chew on has healing properties.’

  The little creature had grabbed a handful of clay and was sculpting a portrait of someone. It looked a little like Esteban’s silhouette. He answered, ‘It’s hard to say what kind of grass lions like. There are lots of different kinds of grass in Swan Valley – Kentucky bluegrass, tall fescue, perennial ryegrass, Bermuda grass, bent grass, white clover, red clover, weeping lovegrass, Bahia grass, creeping dichondra…some kinds of grass don’t even have names. The lion has to nibble on hundreds of them, and maybe the miraculous healing power comes from the mixture.’ The creature paused, then went on, ‘You’re a doctor. You should learn from the legendary farmer god, testing hundreds of types of grass to find a way to cure sick people. If you keep thinking about reaping without sowing, you’ll just be a good-for-nothing.’

  Mengliu spat out the grass. ‘That would be going back to barbarism. If all the good doctors went up into the mountains and started trying herbs together, then all that sick people could do would be to sit and wait for death. Moreover, hospitals have set procedures and a certain mode of operation. A single person can’t be picking herbs and handling pharmaceuticals, as well as seeing patients and performing surgery…That’s not practical.’

  ‘What I’m talking about is the spirit of the legendary farmer god. The spirit, you understand?’ The boy finished sculpting the nose, picked up his work, and took a closer look, as if lecturing the face he had created. ‘What you lack is “spirit.” You can’t even discover the vast majority of illnesses, and when you discover an illness, you can’t find a cure. For the illnesses you can cure, the patient has to wait a long time for you to treat them. With difficulty, he finally takes a number, then when he gets to see you at last, you don’t even take the pains to cure him. Sometimes the cure comes just because the patient has endured the disease and let it run its course so the body can heal itself. But when the patient recovers, you get the credit for curing him. When they die, well, you’ve done your best. So it seems like doctors don’t do anything.’

  The public cafeteria was housed in a stand-alone building surrounded by a grey stone wall covered with carvings of animal figures, water buffaloes, dogs, birds, and goldfish. The door was propped open, and the windows had coloured wax drawings on their panes. The cafeteria wasn’t large, and had timber walls, floors, tables and chairs. The atmosphere was rustic and warm.

  A stream of people wandered in and took their seats. Some poured rice wine from a large jug into smaller jugs, cups or bowls. When the food was served, there were buckwheat cakes, corn on the cob, cubes of jellied blood, sour fish soup, bacon, fruit salad, salmon, sushi, and rice dishes. Mengliu had learned the names for many of the dishes. He liked the buckwheat cakes and salmon. He had been hungry for some time, and he eagerly took up his chopsticks and was about to pick at the dishes. But no one else had moved to do the same. As it turned out, there was a ceremony to be observed before the meal.

  A man who looked like a pastor took a small book from his breast pocket. His beard quivered as he cleared his throat, and began reading from his bible.

  A young man beside Mengliu started playing a flute. It was a sparkling melody that brought to mind harvest festivities. The atmosphere was relaxed but dignified, and everyone spoke lightly as they ate. They were gentle and polite, and the sound of chopsticks striking against bowls was seldom heard. Some used a fork and knife. They conversed in Swanese, sometimes mixing in a bit of Chinese, such as the words for ‘soul’ and ‘reincarnation’ and the like. Their laughter too was typical of Swanese, used sparingly, with their merriment more evident in their soundless smiles. Occasionally there was a monosyllabic utterance, such as ‘eh’, ‘huh’, or ‘hey’. There were dozens of diners, but it wasn’t noisy or disorderly. Unlike Beiping, where restaurants were always full of a wanton clamour, everyone here ate and behaved moderately, with movements as careful as if they were meant for feeding a baby.

  They discussed the soul and death, the spirit and its ideals. This was their version of small talk.

  The raccoon-like child raised the question of the immortality of the soul. No one treated him like a child, and his question was taken seriously.

  ‘God started with the body and breath. When he put these two elements together, the soul came into existence. When a person dies, the spirit goes back to God, and the body to dust. The Bible never records anywhere that the soul lives on after leaving the body and walks about here and there. The soul or spirit cannot exist apart from God’s living power in the body,’ the man who looked like a reverend said.

  The small fellow didn’t even blink as he looked at the speaker, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Suppose I have boards and nails, and I hammer the nails into the boards and make a box. I have three things – boards, nails and a box. If I take the nails out, I’ll only have boards and nails again. The box will be gone because the box only exists when the nails and boards have been brought together.’

  The raccoon glanced at Esteban as if looking for encouragement or expecting praise, then carefully concluded, ‘The soul is a box.’

  ‘The soul is indeed a box,’ Esteban said, nodding in agreement. He commented that Shanlai would be a distinguished philosopher in the future then, changing the subject, said, ‘Now let us listen to the great poet’s thoughts.’

/>   He turned to Mengliu and said graciously, ‘Mr Yuan, Buddhism teaches that there is reincarnation. What is your belief about life and death?’

  Mengliu did not believe in reincarnation, but he could not deny that life was indeed a misery, and that both rich and poor endured suffering. When the mind became derailed, ideals vanished, then the spirit became an empty box, and no amount of talk could fill up this gigantic void. He did not want to lose face, so he began with the caution of a surgeon in an operating theatre.

  ‘Where there is life, there must be death. The Chinese philosopher Laozi says that every person must walk the path of life before he can attain immortality. Some people cling tightly to life, and they fear death. Sometimes, the value of life is to be found precisely in death. For some, beliefs are more important than life, and ideals greater than any individual. There’s an idiom, Some things are worth dying for. For example, there’s justice, enlightenment, democracy, freedom, and so on. That would be the best way to understand life and death…’

  Mengliu had begun with an attitude of diplomatic sincerity, but as he spoke, numerous English terms welled up in his mind. They were like a red-hot iron poking into his bloodstream, and making his whole body feverish. ‘Because of justice, enlightenment, democracy, freedom,’ he spoke so eloquently and expressed himself so boldly! He was moved by his own speech. Someone led a round of applause, and everyone joined in. The applause turned into a rumbling sound, a pressure closing in from all directions. He felt a bit weak, as if he were going to fall to the ground in a faint. He grasped the edge of the table with both hands. The action restored him to a more assertive disposition, and he steadied his emotions. His strenuous tone and attitude made what came out of his mouth next seem extraordinarily solemn.

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, here in Swan Valley, has there ever been bloodshed and sacrifice?’

  16

  As Mengliu and Qizi approached the dorms in the Literature Department, they heard Hei Chun’s voice talking about the current political situation, as it had arisen from the Tower Incident. The light in the room was dimmed by smoke filling the air. Cigarette butts were littered all over the floor. The people inside could only be vaguely made out, a pair of legs here, half a head there, and some moving shadows. It was a gathering of scruffy-looking ghosts.

  Hei Chun hopped down from the windowsill and, as if passing through a smoky battlefield, walked across to meet Mengliu. He grasped Mengliu’s hand and cranked it up and down several times. He smiled and said, ‘The Unity Party welcomes you,’ ridiculing him for hiding out at Qizi’s. They could not find him, so they had to have the meeting without the VIP, and hoped he did not mind.

  The cigarette Hei Chun held had burned down nearly to his fingertips, so he threw the butt on the ground and stepped on it with the toe of his shoe, then turned to shake Qizi’s hand. He observed her crimson cheeks, her slightly parted lips, and the length of her white neck where it met the boundless expanse of her alluring chest. His gaze could only go down. He stretched out his hand for hers, as if he were waiting for a hand to slide into a glove, a fish to swim into a net, or a bird to fly to a nest, like a young woman walking into her own house, which contains everything she loves and values. But the little hand he held bounced and jumped, shattering all of his fantasies. Qizi said, ‘Nonsense,’ and slapped his hand away, laughing at his addiction for meetings.

  Hei Chun shrugged and ignored her. He invited Mengliu to take the seat of honour – the windowsill – saying that everyone wanted to hear him speak.

  Mengliu had come to extract himself from the party, but before he could say anything, he had been pushed onto the seat of honour, and he found it difficult to get out of it. By this time, he had a clearer view of the people in the room and noticed a few familiar faces amongst them, though he could not recall their names. He was sure they were all from the Wisdom Bureau. He shook hands with Quanmu, who looked like he had been through a lot since they last met during the interrogation in the basement, and had become more experienced. Perhaps it was due to the lighting, but the eyes of everyone in the room seemed to glow, as if they had already been through an intense discussion or dispute. The air was still tense.

  Mengliu thought, Since I’m already here, it won’t hurt to contribute a little wisdom. Qizi won’t blame me. But he didn’t have a chance to discuss the matter with Qizi, for she had long since squeezed her way to Shunyu’s side and both were busy whispering. So he sat on the windowsill with Hei Chun, propping one foot on the radiator and placing his elbow on his knee. Behind him, he could hear the leaves of the gingko tree rustling in the darkness.

  ‘I don’t think our meetings should be held in salon style like this. The Unity Party has been established, and the list of names publicised, so now it must create a structure and recruit talent. Democratic mechanisms will be the key to success,’ Mengliu began. ‘An organisation must first learn how to hold meetings. This haphazard style – smoking, reading books, eating food and everyone chattering on their own – it lacks discipline. There’s no agenda, and it’s just a waste of time.’

  The room fell completely silent.

  After a brief pause, several people closed their books, put out their cigarettes, or put aside their snacks. They sat up straight and turned all of their attention on Mengliu.

  Hei Chun voiced his approval. ‘This is our first party meeting, and we are all inexperienced. We need to develop a process.’

  ‘Right,’ said Qizi, ‘I suggest everyone read a couple of books. The first, written by an American, is Robert’s Rules of Order, and the second is Preliminary Comments on Civil Rights, written by a Chinese. Both teach how to go about meeting to pass resolutions. When I was a junior at the university, I flipped through them, and found them very interesting.’

  ‘I’ve read those books too. I didn’t know it took such a lot of knowledge just to hold a meeting.’ Shunyu raised her hand in agreement.

  Mengliu, surprised and distracted, immediately adjusted his mood. ‘Shunyu, can you find those two books and give them to Hei Chun?’

  Shunyu blushed.

  After he had spoken a little longer Mengliu slid off the windowsill. When he said he was leaving, the room was suddenly engulfed in a bright glare. All eyes were trained on him, and the spots, blackheads, acne, pimples, disappointment, surprise, regret, and discontentment on his face could all be seen clearly.

  Quanmu was the first to stand up, his shadow falling across the floor. ‘Mengliu, we’ve all put our personal matters aside. You can’t just go like this. The Party needs you.’

  Some people blocked the door.

  Mengliu’s eyes flew to Qizi and he said, ‘I came today to ask you to take my name off the list. I have never wanted to participate in any organisation, or anything other than literature. But this does not mean I don’t support you. If I have anything to offer, I will certainly tell you.’

  Qizi stood up too. ‘We’re planning to go overseas. We don’t have time.’

  Hearing this, Hei Chun’s face suddenly went cold. He turned to look out the dark window. His hair formed a messy canopy around his slumped shoulders.

  ‘Yuan, give it more thought. The Party needs your wisdom.’ Quanmu, with his high forehead and delicate handsome look, tried tactfully to persuade him.

  ‘Those who escape are cowards,’ Hei Chun suddenly spat out in a strong Southern accent. ‘Who doesn’t want to save his own skin? If the nation is rotten, how can individual lives flourish? And what is the point of feasting then? Of the young people now in Round Square, who does not have his own ideals and future?’

  His words left no room for equivocation. Mengliu went off in a huff amidst the smell of gunpowder.

  He vented his frustration as they walked. ‘The most annoying thing is to have a person acting with a mysterious authority, and telling me how to live my life and how to do things. Now that he has set up the Unity Party he thinks he’s quite a figure! He’s lost his sense of direction. Am I just saving my own skin? Well, wh
at’s that got to do with Hei Chun? Who does he think he is? Why should he humiliate me in public like that?’ Mengliu did not quite know where all his anger had come from, but it seemed to have been long repressed. ‘I write my poems and I mind my own business. I don’t join organisations. I live my own life. Am I hurting anyone?’

  Qizi felt his tirade was directed at her.

  ‘I’m not putting my own neck on the line. I’m not joining the party, and I’m not staying here any longer.’

  He plopped down on the grass, legs splayed. The street lamp glimmered through the leaves, and a few fireflies chased one another.

  Shunyu caught up to them. ‘It’s not worth getting so angry with Hei Chun. I don’t think he meant any harm. He just likes to talk in that sort of scathing, preachy tone. But you’re right to resign. Let me tell you, your speech that night at the double-tracked wall was recorded. I’ve heard that the tape has been sent to the Security Board.’ Shunyu spoke cautiously. ‘You’ve got to be extra careful. My father won’t let me leave the house. He gave me an ultimatum.’

  Mengliu breathed out between his teeth. ‘You’re like your father, always thinking of how to take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’m doing this for your good. Why are you turning on me? It’s really biting the hand that feeds you…I’m tired of looking after you. You’re on your own.’ With that, Shunyu stomped off.

  The night was black as water. Every now and then fish swam by quietly and the seaweed swayed.

  Qizi was also unhappy. ‘Okay, you obviously want to join the party. Go ahead. You don’t need to compromise.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m a poet. I don’t want to be a stickler for any kind of form.’

  ‘Acting like this makes us seem boring. Everyone will look down on us.’