Can Xue - Five Spice Street

After being enlightened by such analysis, as well as by the depictions of the street murals, we found in the granary a likely solution (for the moment, we hypothesized that the adultery was being carried on there). Never mind whether Mr. Q had ‘‘an unmentionable disease’’ or whether his body had ‘‘broken into two’’ or whether Madam X had a premonition that there would be a day when they would ‘‘part company,’’ right now they were like dry kindling, burning until they were possessed. In Madam X’s words, it was ‘‘her sexual dream come true,’’ ‘‘this life was not in vain,’’ she was ‘‘thawing in multi-colored eyes,’’ and so forth. Of course, this was all just beautiful words, perhaps used to conceal something. (Deep down, she should have been embarrassed by her abnormal lust.) After mulling her words over carefully, we finally understood that the words were hiding her thirst for sex, the number of times she had had sex, time after time of satisfaction and dissatisfaction, and so forth. Madam X herself understood what it was that she wanted to express, and so did Mr. Q. No matter how it was covered up or what pretexts were concocted (conversation at the intersection, the mirrors, the waves in the eyes, and so forth), sex was the only reason they met. For years, they had yearned for sex day and night, earnestly longed for it. (In this, Mr. Q lagged far behind Madam X. It was only after she teased him that his lust burst out.)

As the saying goes, ‘‘One who eats well doesn’t understand another person’s hunger.’’ Because of their unusual appetite for sex, Madam X and Mr. Q were always hungry. Ordinary people couldn’t understand this, either. We all liked a disciplined sex life (for example, two or three times a week, or up to ten times for some people) and were disgusted with lust that knew no bounds and harmed one’s health. With healthy sex, one could think straight and be active in life. It filled us with appreciation for life. Now two perverted persons had suddenly appeared among us. Not only did they engage in unlimited sex and not only were they shamefully lewd, but they probably were spreading this disease, making people uneasy. Their thoughts always wandered to this possibility. Acne had recently appeared on the faces of some young and middle-aged men. Blushing, their wives complained, ‘‘This is just too much.’’ Some others transformed bodily desire into spiritual desire and started painting. They also made up their minds ‘‘to devote themselves all their lives to artistic endeavors.’’

Mr. Q still dribbled balls, and in the daytime he was still a handsome, robust man. Even the widow often told people, ‘‘The instant his libido bursts forth, this guy is dazzling.’’ As for who caused his ‘‘libido to burst forth,’’ she had her own opinion. At this time, Madam X’s appearance also underwent a great change. The most notable change was in her eyes. Her pupils were darker than before, and her eye sockets were not as dry, but were shimmering with tears that flooded her pupils. Maybe she had caught this from Mr. Q. Her tear ducts were actually exceedingly developed. She couldn’t control them. When she blinked, liquid spilled out, blurring her vision. She had to carry three or four handkerchiefs and now and then pretended she had ‘‘caught a cold.’’ Frequent creative and exciting sex transformed Madam X’s internal secretions, as well as her breasts, which had been flat but now began to ‘‘grow higher and softer by the day.’’ Even the widow, who had ‘‘observed close up for a long time,’’ had ‘‘nothing to say.’’ She now ‘‘scorned talking of this matter.’’

The widow had gradually formed a new viewpoint, which represented something latent in the annals of history. As a result of her own transformation, she gradually felt the solitude of an outrunner and became even more superior and aloof. Sometimes she didn’t participate in the people’s activities. One day, the writer respectfully listened to her new thoughts: ‘‘To tell the truth, the ass, tits, or whatever aren’t the crux of the matter. The most important thing is a woman’s inner spirit. Without this, a woman is no different from an empty shell, a pillowcase, an ashtray, a pair of slippers-that sort of thing. A person’s appearance fades with the years, but the spirit blooms forever. Of the women I’ve known in my life, very few were enchanting. Excuse my honesty. Now my vision has changed a lot. I hardly see a person’s appearance. When I look someone over, my eyes perforate his (her) body and go straight to his soul.’’

At her last words, the writer shivered uncontrollably and felt ashamed. Glancing at the writer for two seconds, she lost interest. She swallowed, and closed her eyes.

‘‘Do you think I’ve finished talking?’’ She abruptly opened her eyes. ‘‘Hunh.’’

The writer had wanted to leave, but now he was too startled to move. He just stood there. He waited, but she didn’t go on. When the writer was again on the point of leaving, she once more said abruptly, ‘‘Do you think I’ve finished talking? Don’t get any ideas!’’ This was repeated four or five times. A thread of a sneer hung from her face.

Madam X had now become a full-figured woman, although her tear ducts were a little overdeveloped, so she often looked as if she had a cold. Though small, this flaw disgusted people. There are now fresh opinions of her looks. Here are some we’ve collected:

‘‘Even if she’s icy cold toward me, with a severe expression that has nothing to do with sex, I still maintain that she is now more sexually attractive than before, with more lasting appeal, too. ‘She gives off the scent of a mature female.’ A full-bodied woman is more attractive than a skinny chick, especially at about age thirty. She certainly shouldn’t be so cold to me. Don’t I understand life?’’

‘‘I still think she looked much prettier before. Her appearance now hints at danger. She can’t stand still. Whenever I run into her, I feel dizzy. A thin woman gives an impression of purity; my mother, for example, is that kind of woman. We always take her as the standard. She wears a white apron the year round.’’

‘‘Formerly, although X scorned others, we could still see her pupils, and so we felt we knew her fairly well. Her image today is simply too dreadful. Even if you look straight at her, you can’t see her pupils. There are just two flashes of turbid liquid that make you uneasy. It’s as though you’re going to do something evil. As if you’ve committed a certain crime. You feel disgraced. It’s diabolical.’’

‘‘A lewd sex life brands you. Isn’t it monstrous when a woman who’s always been sickly pale suddenly turns so seductive? There’s nothing good about this kind of flash in the pan. She must have suffered greatly at night from the turbulence of her inner secretions. You can prove this just by looking at the precipitous increase in her tears. I am not a bit impressed by the superficial changes in this person. I pity her from the bottom of my heart.’’

‘‘I had already lost the hope I had for her, and had decided to let go of her problems, but the dazzling change in her has rekindled my former feelings, and I feel stirred again in my innermost being. After all, this woman is the most troublesome woman I’ve ever known. You couldn’t break away from her. I can’t help but connect my lot with hers. Every change in her elicits a physiological echo from me. I’m going to suffer from insomnia again. My character contains a little too much of the tragic.’’

In all of this confusing chatter, Madam X’s husband’s good friend’s opinion was unique. Sticking his long, emaciated head out of his window that faced the street, he told us a story: