Can Xue - The Last Lover

The fragrance of wildflowers assaulted Joe’s nostrils, and he sighed, saying, “I never thought, I never imagined.”

That man raised the good hand on his left side and grabbed his right armpit. Flies tore crazily around the netting. His armpit was an abscess. Numerous flies sucked on the inside.

The boy, with a wild expression of joy, crawled over, lightly fondling the putrid leg from the foot all the way up toward the penis, where he stopped, kissing the putrid hole in infatuation, stretching his tongue to lick it. Inside the netting there was an indistinct sound of running spring water. The man, fondling the boy’s naked back, moaned comfortably.

The boy turned his head to glance at Joe, saying, “Quick, get out! The lamp’s tipped over and started a fire!”

Joe felt in the dark to the outer room. When he reached the shop front, the netting and the wooden bed had already kindled into a huge blaze. He heard the boy stamping his feet on the bed and yelling at him to get out quickly.

A number of people had already collected on the street. All were wearing the dress that exposed the back. This kind of clothing made them appear very easy and natural, especially when the wind lifted the lower hems and they looked like so many hawks. Now these people all stood surveying the fire in the silver shop from the street, excitedly craning their necks and sniffing the strange fragrance in the air. No one noticed Joe. Among them was a woman with one breast exposed who was especially beautiful. She lifted an arm, seeming to greet the people inside the silver shop. The fire grew larger, and poisonous smoke rushed into the street. Everyone began to cough violently. Joe hid far away, avoiding the smoke cloud. He saw all of them stooping to the ground to vomit, or they might have been spitting out blood.

The man who’d helped pick up his luggage at the airport appeared again.

“I said you wouldn’t get lost and you didn’t! My name is Kim.”

He picked up Joe’s suitcase, swayed a few times, and asked: “What’s in your suitcase?”

Joe answered that it was clothing and toiletries.

“Very good. You are frugal. Come with me to King Street.”

Joe tailed him as he turned onto a wide gravel road. In Joe’s eyes, from behind Kim looked solemn and mournful. It seemed there were many stories inside him, stories that exceeded Joe’s experience. All the people and things of this place had nothing whatsoever to do with the web of his past stories, with that square. With his mind occupied, he ran into someone. It was a local man, who pushed Joe away and continued to walk ahead. He wore only a thin green robe, his feet bare, and he walked along the road airily. Joe looked again at the stone road full of local people, all wearing thin robes, with bare feet, slowly, airily moving about. The man named Kim turned his head and said to Joe:

“These people all smoke opium. Every person’s heart holds a ball of fire. Have you seen the flower gardens? The poppies in them are their lifeblood. A cold place like this doesn’t grow poppies natively, but there are hot springs in the gardens, and the enormous ground heat changes the temperature. The poppies grow lush in those areas.”

Joe didn’t see anything because only businesses lined the two sides of the road. He thought, Perhaps this man named Kim smokes opium and is recounting his hallucinations.

“Where do you plan to stay? A hotel or the poppy plantation?”

“The poppy plantation,” he blurted.

The man named Kim stopped by a low iron gate, saying, “You’re already there.”

He pushed open the door. Inside was a deserted compound. After a while, a side door opened on the courtyard’s right side. A man with an ardent expression walked toward Joe. He reached out both hands, grasping Joe’s hands firmly.

The man’s mouth spit out a string of the local language. His gaze was firmly set on Joe, as if he wanted to remember his features. Joe thought sadly that he had no distinctive features — what could be remembered? Suddenly the man left Joe aside, walked off and sat down in the mud. He was thinking deeply.

Kim said in Joe’s ear: “This man is an opium smoker, too. Stay here with him.”

As Kim went out, he locked the gate of the courtyard from the outside. Joe at once grew nervous.

He leaned his suitcase against the wall, sat down, leaned his back on the suitcase, and from that spot observed the local man sitting opposite. He was a little weary, and his eyes soon grew dim. In a drowsy state he saw the man slowly stand up and move as if he were swimming in front of him, holding a bunch of poppies in his hand. The man was just opening his mouth when there was a confused sound at the courtyard gate. A terrified expression appeared in his eyes, and he threw the flowers to the ground. He seemed dejected. He put a hand into his clothing and felt around, as if he were stroking the painful region of his heart. Joe kept a concerned eye on him.

He stood in front of Joe, watching the wall beyond Joe as if absorbed in his thoughts. Joe looked up at him from below, curious about the hand always fumbling in his clothing. That weathered hand was very focused, but also a little hesitating. It seemed he was exploring a method to dig out his own heart. Joe waited.

“Oh, oh!” he said. He drew out a coldly glittering dagger from his chest.

Joe stared.

The man tested the knife point with his thumb, then squatted down, looking into Joe’s eyes as if seeking his opinion. Joe felt a numbing chill in his neck. He involuntarily nodded his head. His last thought was: Why do people who smoke opium also have murderous impulses? But his judgment was mistaken. The man threw away the knife, stood up, and left him.

Joe fixed his eyes on the blood on the floor. Was it his blood? He touched his neck; it was fine. So it must be that local man’s blood. Joe picked up the dagger from the ground and looked it up and down, yet did not discover any blood on the knife. Someone above him was speaking.

“This kind of bleeding is unconscious.”

It was the man named Kim, who’d come back in. Joe saw that the courtyard gate was wide open and there was a rush of people outside. They all peered in, but why didn’t they enter?

“Let me look at the knife,” said the man named Kim.

He accepted the knife, pointed it to the heart in his chest and pushed it in. Then he knelt down, motioning to Joe with his eyes, asking him to help pull out the knife.

Joe’s hands shook severely, but once he held the knife fast he immediately gained strength. He grasped the knife handle, agitated it a bit, then pulled the knife out. Kim looked gratefully at Joe. Blood gushed from the wound, but stopped in a short while. He covered the wound with his clothing. A row started outside the gate.

“This poppy garden is where our ancestors dreamed. People today, even though they smoke opium, cannot enter that territory. Someone who has the wrong intentions, like me, tries to achieve that end by slaughter, but blood cannot conquer those noble hearts. The result is predestined.”

Joe saw Kim’s face become extraordinarily white and fill with deep pain. He grabbed the yellow mud wall that circled the courtyard as hard as he could. Clay lumps fell in pieces to the foot of the wall. The row grew louder, as if the people all wanted to come in, but something blocked them. What was it?

“Where did the man go who was just here?” Joe asked.

“He’s a fearless bastard. I’ve seen him swallow a knife with my own eyes. But even that is a futile effort. For many months he’s stayed inside this poppy garden. According to him, no one comes out to drive him away, but no one admits him either. Opium’s effect is mysterious. He draws support from it to survive these days of despair.”