Can Xue - Five Spice Street

Fifth, there may also be persons with ulterior motives: after ascertaining our true views, they then made unfair use of them with various kinds of guesswork. None of it was their business. They had nothing to do with it. But they tried to play the role of savior, as if we had to depend upon them-those rats who came out from the sewer to manage our community. And so we keep straight faces. We could give a lot of other reasons for keeping straight faces-almost everyone has at least two reasons, which might change several times a day.

If we want to understand this adultery from Q’s side, we can raise the following possibilities: (1) That afternoon Q had the misfortune of falling at X’s entrance, and while he was unconscious a person quick on his feet injected him with a hallucinogen. (2) Since childhood, Q had had a virus similar to rabies lying dormant in his body: when it surfaced, he became manic about self-sacrifice. The writer had just noted these key points when the female colleague, who’d been hiding behind him and spying, scared him by hooting loudly.

This time, the writer reacted promptly: he stood up from the floor and bowed in a refined and humble way. He took the female colleague’s soft hand, brought it to his nose and smelled it, and in a gentle voice asked her what she thought of him. Did she like what he had written? As he talked, he stroked her face with his other hand. This moved her greatly, and she gradually calmed down and told the writer that she liked what he wrote. She just wanted to add something important. This was of the utmost importance: without it, history would be an expanse of darkness. If she hadn’t dashed over here with her strong sense of social responsibility, well, it would be impossible to imagine the losses. She very much believed in the writer’s artistic talent. Ever since he had adjusted his attitude and become endearing, she’d furtively observed everything he did. She believed wholeheartedly that now, with a fine artist as stenographer for the people, everybody would feel that ‘‘life had become rosy.’’ She cheered the writer on, hoping his talent would ‘‘blaze with brilliance.’’ She would be eternally grateful for his success. Their chaste friendship was incomparably lofty: was there anything more beautiful than the pursuit of spiritual communion? Her good friend Madam X had never experienced this sublime ardor; she was interested only in ‘‘going to bed.’’ Thinking back on it now, that kind of person was too pedestrian! Too infuriating! As the female colleague talked, she shed tears. The writer took out a handkerchief and gently wiped them away. He gave her a hand and helped her sit on the edge of the bed, where she rested for a long time. The two sank into a sorrow from which they couldn’t extricate themselves. Finally, filled with melancholy, the writer sent her on her way.

Supplemental Material: Another of Mr. Q and Madam X’s

Conversations on the Street

X: It’s bright out today-are you aware of that? Every time you and I stand and talk in such bright light, I feel dissatisfied with you. Sometimes I have wicked thoughts: I think you’re shrinking day by day. This change was unconscious; it couldn’t be helped. I yearn for the cobblestones in the sunlight (she stretches out her hands as if grasping something in the air). Come closer to me. I’m going to cry. (Pretending to wipe away tears, she took the opportunity to lean against Q.)

Q (gently): Ah, don’t cry. I’m here. There are two guys-one loafing around on the main street, and the other in a dark house. The one on the street is black and supple. He’s about to melt into air in the daylight. The one in the house is white-a solid glaring white light. He would be well groomed even in a coffin. Listen: he’s coming. Every time, he stands on that corner and stares at me, I can’t move. This has happened three times.

X (looking ecstatic): I didn’t bring any mirrors today. I feel very stimulated by you today. Please repeat the last sentence: it was wonderful.

Q: I can’t move. Ah! (He looked frustrated. After a while, he started smiling sweetly again, showing his teeth to the glass of the roadside shop window.)

X (talking to herself): Let the miracle come! Let the miracle come!

Hiding behind a power pole, the female colleague had recorded this conversation in a small notebook without missing a word, noting that it was ‘‘after the adultery occurred.’’ She furnished this conversation to the writer and exhorted him to keep her role secret because she had always felt sisterly love for this adorable, charming Madam X. (In fact, she leaked it to the writer only because she felt that she and the writer were like Damon and Pythias.) Madam X had often sought guidance from her in dealing with relationships between men and women. And because they were always together, Madam X always relied on her charms to attract crowds of men, though some might have thought that Madam X herself was also very good at this. For this reason, Madam X idealized her and babbled all her innermost thoughts to her. She held nothing back and also dragged her into anything she did. Madam X didn’t mind that she had heard this conversation; she knew the female colleague was standing behind the power pole. She even raised her voice to make sure that the wind would carry her words to her friend’s ears, even if she didn’t want to overhear.

There was reason to think that Madam X had deliberately allowed her female friend to record their conversation. Maybe she’d figured that it would become part of the history books! She knew her female friend was loyal and trustworthy and never suspected that she would distort the facts. And so why did the friend insist that the writer conceal her? Did she have some things to be ashamed of? Was this a trick to gain advantages? No, absolutely not. She was always aboveboard. Madam X hinted at what she wanted in a very delicate way, neither by a meaningful glance nor by any twitching of her facial muscles. If Madam X hadn’t given her this hint and if she hadn’t felt sisterly toward Madam X, she wouldn’t have stupidly hidden behind a power pole on the dusty road and-sweating profusely-recorded this conversation! Unfortunately, she didn’t have any natural gift for stenography. She wrote slowly and didn’t hear very well, either. Furthermore, she was disgusted with those insane words. The work left her exhausted. If in the end she was vilified and got the reputation of being a blabbermouth, how could she go on living? Even if she could stand it herself, how hard it would be for her dear friend Madam X!

In that gloomy room of hers, Madam X told her several times: if anything happened to her dear colleague and friend-if she was plotted against and lost her reputation or even her life-she wouldn’t want to go on living, either! Madam X was just like her-a very passionate person. Their relationship had stood the test of time. Anyone would be moved by their mutual affection, so she couldn’t do whatever she wished. She had to consider X’s feelings in everything she did, and wanted her to be eternally happy. If the writer leaked her name so that those narrow-minded persons accused her of being a blabbermouth and the whole thing was made known to Madam X, she would be terminally hurt! She knew Madam X well. How could she bear the pain? Those men had approached her first, and only because of her tactful management did they gradually turn their attention to Madam

X. If she’d selfishly shown off her own charms, those men would have stuck around, so Madam X would never have enjoyed her good fortune. Madam X deeply appreciated this.

After saying all of this, the female colleague turned her moony eyes to the writer and asked if he understood. Had her secret kindled new inspiration in him? Did he want to record their ideal relationship in his notebook using a different style? The writer thought it over and agreed. When he got inspired, he would reproduce this moving scene and enter their unconventional feelings vividly into the history. He had fallen in love with Madam X’s female colleague at first sight, and now he’d fallen deeper and couldn’t extricate himself. He’d never experienced such a strange feeling before. It wasn’t a bit carnal. The writer had only great admiration and heartfelt respect for this beautiful (please forgive the word) female colleague. Any other ideas would be improper. He had to get rid of those improper ideas. If he couldn’t do it right away, he still had to try to keep his mind pure and transparent with her. Only in this way could the writer become enlightened and inspired. Otherwise, he would slip and wallow in the mud of vulgarity, write something garish, and finally get nowhere.