Can Xue: Five Spice Street

The controversy about her age was part of a generally vague and contradictory image of Madam X. She is a middle-aged woman, very thin, with white teeth, a neck that’s either slender or flabby, skin that’s either smooth or rough, a voice that’s either melodious or wild, and a body that’s either sexy or devoid of sex. When this obscure image takes us by surprise and ‘‘discloses its true face,’’ everything unfathomable becomes clear, but only for an instant. Let’s put it aside for now.

We can’t approve of her husband’s impression, because it raises the most questions. Although he’s tall and sturdy, and knows how to handle himself around other people, when talk turns to his wife he acts in a feminine, even servile way. Indeed, when he talks, he suddenly becomes stupefied, as if having a seizure. He forgets the thread of the conversation and suggests that you play ‘‘hopscotch’’ with him. Right away he finds some chalk to draw a grid on the ground. If you refuse, he just forgets about you and throws himself into hopscotch.

The image of Madam X’s adulterer (that’s the way everyone referred to Mr. Q) was the most shocking of all. Out of a sense of duty, the much-admired widow had torn open a letter of his to Madam X. The letter revealed that the first time Mr. Q looked at X’s face, he saw only one immense continuously flickering saffron- colored eyeball. Then he swooned and couldn’t see a thing. To the very end of the scandal, he never got a good look at Madam X. He didn’t because he couldn’t. When Madam X was in front of him, all he could see was one saffron-colored eyeball, and when that eyeball flickered, hot tears welled up in his eyes. How could he see clearly? Perhaps his letter was deliberately mystifying, designed to win favor with Madam X’s odd, shadowy mentality. Maybe it was code or double-talk.

The odd thing is that Madam X’s confession echoed his, and it preceded their acquaintance. (This information is supplied by Madam X’s colleague. Madam X loved unburdening herself in nonsensical ways and could hold nothing back. She was uninhibited with this woman, whose temperament was diametrically opposed to hers. If it had been possible, she would have ‘‘unburdened herself to the whole world.’’) Back then, she sat in her gloomy room, happily preening and boasting, ‘‘The reason my eyeballs are so exceptional is that I pay them close attention. I’m not kidding. I observe them constantly in a mirror-even when walking, I always carry a small round mirror and constantly take it out for a look. I’d really love to see what they’re like when I’m sleeping. It’s impossible, but I just wonder what they’re up to. What is so hard at work behind these lenses? I’ve done research on their excretions. I have a microscope, which I bought especially for this purpose. I’m simply fascinated and have made a lot of headway. I’ve also collected some mirrors for my little darling Bao (note: her only son). When he gets a little older, I want to get him interested in his own eyeballs. Everyone says that eyes are windows to the soul, but no one thinks about this window. They forget this window and let it collect dust until it’s changed beyond recognition.’’ She blinked as she talked, and kept raising her eyebrows for emphasis.

Although she stressed this often, her colleague saw no proof of her supernatural ability, nor did anyone else on the whole of Five Spice Street-including her husband, who cherished his wife very much. Was Mr. Q the only person who recognized Madam X’s supernatural power? Maybe this isn’t exactly right, because the world is a lot larger than Five Spice Street. Moreover, judging by the coal worker’s statement, didn’t X have a certain indefinable ‘‘sex appeal’’? Who could guarantee that men outside Five Spice Street wouldn’t notice her supernatural sexual power when smitten by her? How could you dismiss this possibility just because her husband didn’t see it?

Or-another take on it: we certainly aren’t suggesting that Mr. Q’s perception of Madam X’s supernatural power amounts to understanding her completely and profoundly. Rather, he understands her only superficially, in a one-dimensional way. Q has one major failing: he doesn’t like to inquire into another person’s background and never asks about anyone’s business. He prefers to be alone, where he can speak his thoughts out loud and fancy himself a passionate lover. Mr. Q and Madam X became acquainted by chance and later consorted with each other for six months, but he’s never known her real age. In this respect, Mr. Q isn’t like Madam X’s husband, who assumes she’s twenty-two, but probably is closer to the truth in postulating that she’s twenty-eight or twenty-nine. Of course, this is partly out of selfishness and desire, but we won’t go into this for the moment.

Speaking of Mr. Q’s superficial understanding of Madam X and the absurdity of their relationship, we can illustrate this with a dialogue supplied by Madam X’s colleague.

X: I don’t have to look for you intentionally. You’ll surely come. (X playfully affected a drowsy expression.)

Q: Through the crowds of people, I’ve always walked toward your eyes. I’m confused and muddled, seeing nothing, including you. (Q was acting like an idiot, like a dolt.)

X: We’ll meet each other every Wednesday at a certain intersection. Even if we wanted to avoid this, we couldn’t.

Q: Perhaps I’ll turn into a long-tailed pheasant; then I’ll be able to perch on a high tree limb.

The colleague reinforced this dialogue with the following information: every time they met, their talk seemed a continuation of their last conversation; it was also completely meaningless nonsense, always on the same topic. What’s more, each time, neither greeted the other, as if they were continuing their previous encounter. But when they talked, it was as if-apart from crazy talk-any- thing else (for example, greetings, introductions, remarks about the things around them) was superfluous, discordant. At this point, the colleague covered half her mouth and said in a thin voice, ‘‘Is this a sort of ‘concealed person’-‘The Invisible’?’’ With that, her hair stood on end, and she didn’t dare continue.

As for Mr. Q’s looks, although there aren’t as many opinions about it as about Madam X’s age, opinions do differ here on Five Spice Street. We need to stress a little something: our people don’t really like talking about a man’s appearance, because they embrace the proverb: There’s no such thing as an ugly man. So what does Mr. Q look like? All we have to rely on is the odd adjective and a few unintentional changes in the tone of people’s conversations.

The first to produce an impression of Mr. Q’s looks was the widow’s forty-eight-year-old friend. She thought ‘‘there was nothing remarkable’’ about Mr. Q (she curled her lip and spat). She ‘‘couldn’t even remember what he looked like,’’ ‘‘he seemed to be a big dumb guy,’’ ‘‘anyhow, he couldn’t be more ordinary.’’ After saying this, she felt she’d lost some dignity and immediately changed the subject. She began talking of the miraculous effects of qigong.

[1]As she spoke, she tossed her head, as if to rid her mind of ‘‘disturbing thoughts.’’

On the surface, the women of Five Spice Street had no interest in Mr. Q’s looks, never mind observing him in detail. If you put the question to them directly, they would answer in three words: he is ugly. Did the women of Five Spice Street never make eye contact with Mr. Q? Actually, that’s not the case. After all, those adjectives and the strange tone of voice used to describe him were almost all produced by these women. Speaking of Q, they hedged and evaded, talking lightly and indirectly. Doesn’t this show tremendous interest and sensitivity? Sometimes they affected indifference. One might raise the topic, circle all around it, and then return to sounding out a second person so that this second person would bring up what the first had wanted to say. Thus, they enjoyed a sense of satisfaction.