Can Xue - Five Spice Street

After he sent the female colleague off, the writer’s thoughts returned to Madam X. The protagonist of this long story-the most colorful and romantic witch on Five Spice Street: what was she like when the adultery was going on? She couldn’t be as abstract as a symbol or a thread of steam, could she? Could we reach a fair and reasonable conclusion by relying on those petty clues? There must be a lot to discover. If the writer didn’t persevere and painstakingly sort out the main threads from this mess, the riddle would never be solved.

The most reliable first-hand information came from a woman whose husband was a friend of Madam X’s brother-in-law. She was an emaciated, dark-skinned woman. She angrily drove the mosquitoes away with a big fan. Shaking her knees, she casually told the writer, ‘‘It’s embarrassing to talk about this kind of thing.’’ Then she blushed and jumped up and down as if bitten by bedbugs. She glanced at the crowd cooling off outside. (People were staring at her and pricking up their ears. Some who’d been sitting a little farther away moved their chairs closer.)

‘‘Let’s find a place where we can talk!’’ She started to run, dragging the writer by the arm. People followed closely. They were shouting who-knows-what. The writer was sweating profusely, but the woman seemed tremendously strong and lifted him up onto her square, thin shoulders and rushed ahead. We don’t know how far they went. Finally, the woman placed the writer on a bed in a dark little room and bolted the door. The crowd besieged the little room: some kicked the door and rapped on the window. Others hurled stones inside.

‘‘Shhhh! They’ll leave. It’s just vulgar curiosity. They’re just like gluttonous children-never satisfied,’’ the woman whispered to the writer.

After a while, they heard someone say in a high voice, ‘‘Probably she doesn’t have any interesting secrets. They’re probably just using this as an excuse to make out inside. The stenographer is kind of cute!’’

The people fell quiet, and then they began grumbling, complaining that they’d run over for nothing. They gradually dispersed and went far away. In the dark, the woman kept poking the writer in the ribs, and giggled as she snuggled up to his neck, so happy she couldn’t contain herself. When the writer finally really responded intimately, she jumped away and sat at the other end of the room as if disgusted. Her knees bumped together like the beating of a drum.

‘‘Impressive!’’ she said all of a sudden.

‘‘Who?!’’

‘‘Who else?! She said he was impressive, that he was an impressive man! A man out of the ordinary! Do you understand? You idiot! What are your qualifications to be a stenographer? Who chose you to come here? How do you dare assert that you’re a stenographer? As you sit here in the dark, I see that you’re simply a pile of mud! A pile of useless mud! My God! What could I have been thinking to carry this wooden pole and dash over here? How can this be? I’m finished!!’’ She sobbed, and her fists fell like hail on the writer’s back.

She said that because his conduct had tainted her image with the people, she wanted the writer to ‘‘make up for the damage.’’ She also said that she had never laid eyes on a stenographer: she had been friends with a government official! People like artists weren’t trusted by the people: nobody could take them seriously. As for their considering themselves important, that was just fishing. Who would fall for an artist? If you did, you’d better not count on holding your head up. She didn’t want to be swayed by emotions-that would just make trouble for her. The writer patiently endured this beating, not uttering a word until the woman’s sobs subsided.

‘‘X and Q also mentioned the leak in the boat,’’ she added, and then tweaked the writer’s cheek to show that they were all right again.

Eyes blurry with sleep, the writer left the little room with the dark woman, who immediately disappeared. The writer had no choice but to stagger ahead in the dark. He didn’t see anyone anywhere. All was quiet. The many houses at the side of the road were a frightening black color. What lay ahead? The writer was nervous, and beads of sweat seeped slowly from his forehead.

‘‘I can give you first-hand information.’’ He didn’t know where Old Woman Jin had come from; she was blocking his way and smacked his shoulder. ‘‘Haha,’’ she laughed out loud.

‘‘Where am I?’’ The writer was confused.

‘‘On our street! Are you possessed? Why don’t you recognize it? Come, let’s sit on the curb and chat. Listen, everyone’s asleep. No one will disturb us. I guarantee I’ll give you first-hand information. You mustn’t believe other people; don’t believe anyone. They’re all making things up, that’s for sure. They want to toy with you. For example, the dark woman just now: do you think she’s still young? She’s sixty years old-ten years older than I am! She must have told you she’s only forty; that’s what she always tells people. She wears bright clothing to make herself look younger, figuring that she can fool the men. What a joke! How can anyone lack self-understanding and want to play an inappropriate role! Isn’t this crazy? There’s nothing more frightening, more tragic in life, than a person going crazy. When a good person goes crazy, she’s no longer worth anything. Yet, she isn’t aware of this; she gives attention only to playing the role of a clown. It’s macabre! When that crazy woman locked you up in her room, I smelled something wrong and watched out for you here. (I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for you.) I did this just in case she tried to murder you in desperation when she couldn’t get what she wanted. You know, she could have done this, since there weren’t any eyewitnesses. I know this sort of person. I had to wait in the dark and protect your life. You know: a mixed-up woman can be much more dangerous than an ordinary gangster. She is capable of all kinds of brutal things. Just now, when I saw you leave there safely, a big load was taken off my shoulders. In the end, she didn’t do it to you! Just now I mentioned supplemental information. I tell you, what is the very most important thing to a stenographer? Sources. This is a vital issue, for it determines success or failure. A lot of people slip up here. If I want to find good material, the first thing I have to do is find a person who can supply such material. For instance, just now you almost made an irreparable mistake. In your confusion, you actually made inquiries of a mentally unbalanced sixty-year-old floozy. You fell into the trap she set for you and stayed in her room for one hour and twenty-five minutes. I wanted to rush over to warn you, but I couldn’t because when it happened, I was arguing with someone about whether we should insist on printing enlarged color photos in our blackboard newspaper. What material could that lunatic give you? If I hadn’t been secretly watching over you, any kind of tragedy might have occurred. People who give material to artists must be tough, wise, and experienced. Perhaps they’ve experienced the vicissitudes of life but haven’t been struck down by brutal realities: they have an innate ability to turn all the suffering into nourishment for life…’’

Old Woman Jin looked up at the vast night sky and seemed so intoxicated by her emotions that she forgot to go on talking. She was absorbed in humming a march. As she hummed, she beat out the rhythm by tapping her heels on the road.

After about ten minutes, the writer tugged at her sleeve and gently reminded her: ‘‘The material?’’

‘‘Right. This is of the first importance. You have to be strong- minded and sharp-sighted and be able to distinguish the true from the false with just one look, and then your work will evolve. Some people who used to have talent were unfortunately taken in by a certain pose and went astray. They worked hard for a lifetime but didn’t get anywhere. Lessons like this are widespread. We can’t keep these schemers from living in this world, nor can we annihilate them; we can only heighten our ability to discriminate, and prevent tragedy. Too bad there are so few people with sufficient life experience and wisdom. Otherwise, how many brilliant talents would they train?’’ Her attention wandered and she began humming the march again. She tapped da, da, da …, her chin moving along with the rhythm.