Can Xue - Five Spice Street

‘‘Just then, Old Meng grabbed the writer’s other hand and began shouting that the writer ought, in good ‘conscience,’ to make a historical record of the housing issue, and mustn’t ‘forfeit his point of view’ just because of a certain pressure. His foot was already broken: this was the sacrifice he’d made in championing the truth. Pushed and pulled between these two peremptory men, the writer was almost cut in two. They also tickled the writer in the ribs, so he giggled foolishly. In this hopeless state of affairs, the widow landed a fierce blow on his chest, and the writer fainted to the ground. He didn’t know when the crowd dispersed.

‘‘After the writer came to, he massaged his throbbing temples and, despite the pain he felt all over, went on with his work. He found that his chair was gone. He remembered that Old Meng had smashed his chair: maybe he’d only pretended his foot was hurt so that he could throw the chair out and come back later and steal it? Anyhow, there was no chair, so he’d better just sit on the floor. The writer put his notebook on the bed, sat on the floor, and began to write rapidly. He wrote day and night. Most of the righteous people approved of and admired the writer’s work. Every night, they discussed the writer’s drafts at meetings in the large hall, adding detailed explanatory notes, checking the records against their own experiences, broadmindedly weighing all the views in the document, and also making some suggestions, such as including photos on each page. But some did not approve of the writer’s laborious work; instead, they demolished it. They broke in every day with unreasonable requests. They even became arrogant: they took the furniture out of the room and splashed ink over the manuscript. The hooligans’ tricks were beyond imagination.

‘‘The original text of part of the writer’s manuscript read: ‘In the early morning, suffused by fragrance and flower-like clouds, the scent of grass flowing from the faraway sky into the ancient three- mile-long street touched people’s hearts and intoxicated every righteous, virtuous resident with the breath of spring. People’s faces were like peach blossoms and filled with passion. A dark shadow appeared and made straight for the little door to Madam X’s home. The sound of rapid knocking fell on each person’s heart, just like Beethoven’s Fifth…’ Later, this splendid section (exhibiting the writer’s skill with words) had to be deleted, or the writer’s life would have been endangered. Just as he was penning these words, a few ugly shrews charged in and looked on brazenly. They yelled and screamed, and kept brushing against the writer’s face with their coarse, greasy hair, so there was no way the writer could continue with his work. They became even ruder, snatching his notebook and reading it aloud. After that, they glowered and flew into a rage, saying that the writer contradicted fact and toyed with words. If this flashy, false document wasn’t changed, if the true history couldn’t be restored, they wouldn’t have the face to see people again. So they had to struggle to the death with the writer! The most poisonous sentence in the document was ‘made straight for the little door to Madam X’s home.’ Who saw him ‘make straight for’? Where’s the evidence? As to the mystery of Mr. Q’s arrival, they had at least a few hundred views, each with solid evidence, as well as historical proof. The writer, however, disregarded the crowd’s wishes and went his own way. With a ‘made straight for,’ he peremptorily extinguished everyone’s individuality. Who could put up with this? If he was going to persist in taking a cynical approach to historical documents, he’d better stop right now and avert a blood-letting incident. If he kept to one side and did nothing, well, the facts were still the facts, and everyone would remain confident that no one would be so pessimistic or desperate as to doubt the value of his existence. What he had done was no different from placing these women on a tightrope: any slight movement would cause them to fall and break their necks. It was extremely vicious! There was no point in keeping this document that distorted reality. In order to salvage his notebook, the writer could only endure the humiliation, publicly admit his wrongdoing, and delete the most exquisite part of his text. He also guaranteed that nothing like this would happen again and that he would always be honest and respect others.

‘‘In the process of writing the document, the writer had run into another problem difficult to wriggle out of, an obstacle there was no way to get over: he had to track down the historical roots of the story. In this, he faced immense handicaps. He was isolated, with no one to help him. All he could lean on was his own talent: after days and nights of pondering, he was inspired in a dream and wrote down some very graceful words: ‘… On our flourishing, colorful street, each resident enjoys full freedom to the best of his ability. Like a duck taking to water, everyone is relaxed and happy. Vehicles full of wonderful foodstuffs roll past on the street, a photography studio with the best technology is open for us day and night, the green trees at the roadside are set off by the translucent blue sky-scenery that delights both the eye and the mind-and flocks of pigeons settle on the roofs of our temples… The instant every person opens his eyes each morning, he takes a deep breath and shudders with joy from head to toe. Indeed, sometimes this beautiful rhythm moves us to tears and silent sobbing. In this worldly paradise, this Xanadu, people are peaceful and affectionate, caring for each other as for family members. There is no reason to be on guard. Everyone is magnanimous and passionate: everyone who comes here is given close attention. Everyone is sincere, and everyone displays chivalry. To draw a visual analogy: this ground is so fertile, the natural resources so abundant, that on this free land every seed that is sown has the chance to grow and mature and complete its life course. Peremptory actions and brutality have never been heard of here. It is like a large garden with a hundred flowers blooming at the same time, fragrant all day long, the scene alive with the joy of spring. Immortals sit with their eyes closed amid the flowers, and the mellow sound of stringed instruments resounds in the sky… Could we guarantee that all the seeds would be strong and healthy? Could they all send forth exquisite flowers? Perhaps two seeds were sick and deformed, marinated in venom, and, after gestating in the spongy, fertile earth, then fanned in the warm spring wind, grew into weird shapes and occupied a plot of land among the hundred flowers. They were a flashy eyesore as they desperately dispersed their toxins everywhere. This has become the present reality. Is this way of putting it rather exaggerated? Well, then, say this is a tiny contaminant, such as a little boil on one’s body: there’s no need for surgery. One can let it run its natural course; that’s a lot more practical. We certainly don’t have to regard Madam X and Mr. Q as loathsome enemies or horned fiends. We won’t consider this problem from the point of view of ignorant women. If the two of them are demons, how could our place still be called a Xanadu? Could we still enjoy our perpetual, serene paradise? We aren’t looking at them this way (our magnanimous nature won’t allow it), but we can come up with some reasonable, bold assumptions that will be authenticated in the future. For now, they can enlighten us and strengthen our confidence in exploring the truth. The writer has plenty of reason to assume that these two persons’ ancestors must have included an endless succession of mentally ill people, even people suffering from hemophilia or gonorrhea. Naturally, their families had nothing to do with Five Spice Street. They had probably flourished in a remote little mountain village, a bare mountain where grass and trees didn’t grow, a village filled with stupidity and barbarity, preserving shocking vices. A large fire consumed the village. This man and woman were the only two who survived: they left the village and came to our city and were mixed in with the residents of our city. They settled down here.