Can Xue: Five Spice Street

The widow discovered they were in a kind of helpless state. They sat next to each other, propped against the wall, staring into little mirrors taken from Madam X’s table, unmoving-like porcelain dolls. They kept this up all night long: it was deadly boring. The widow stood in the middle of the room, feeling an immaterial blast. Weird multi-colored flames seemed to leap from the mirrors into midair and broiled her until she perspired. She thought of leaving, but felt uneasy, so, gritting her teeth, she stood and stared: there wasn’t any fire, and the porcelain figures sat leaning against the wall, unmoving, as always. Her expression tense and absorbed, Madam X was observing things on the glass plate with her microscope. At last, she said, ‘‘That’s all.’’ Then everyone’s face glowed red. (Clear-eyed people could see that actually Madam X was talking to herself when she said ‘‘That’s all.’’) On the way home, these kids were high as kites, chasing and teasing each other, all of a sudden climbing trees and leaping down, and at the same time loudly cursing Madam X as a ‘‘scoundrel,’’ ‘‘making fun of people when she has nothing better to do,’’ ‘‘experimenting with our nerves.’’ ‘‘She thinks she’s a fantastic genius, but in fact she’s no better than dog shit.’’ ‘‘What would happen if everyone played this kind of game?!’’ ‘‘Should the government restrict such activity?’’ And so on and on. It seemed difficult for them to supply any information, because they couldn’t grasp what they had experienced. They were indifferent to its significance. Perhaps we can say that they went into Madam X’s home because of a mysterious summons which often appeared on a starlit night. At the time, they didn’t analyze it carefully and quickly forgot the intermittent disturbing sound. Now the strange sound is particularly intense, like bees singing. It comes from the demonic mirrors Madam X is fiddling with. Each mirror is a wonder that sends indescribable things into those numb eardrums, thus causing young people unwittingly to open their mouths wide as if inspired. We can also say that they go to Madam X’s home because they mistakenly believe that she is one of them; they want to advance with her hand in hand. But after entering her room and seeing Madam X’s numb expression and her deliberately superior act, they can’t help but feel indignant. And then how can they still remember the original notion?

The widow was very disappointed. But she didn’t believe in demons and had to get to the bottom of this. One after another, she took each by the scruff of the neck and shook the truth out. They were as if in a trance, all vague about the matter: ‘‘My body felt as if it wasn’t my own-I was speechless with happiness.’’ ‘‘I became confident of my lungs and heart.’’ ‘‘Starlight blazed overhead; I was flying.’’ ‘‘Secretly getting revenge, but abhorring the one who goaded me into it’’-and other strange talk like this. They might as well have said nothing. So, did the widow draw a blank? Could she think of no other way to get to the essence of this business? Hardly. Our widow did not back away from difficulties. After several days of painful vacillation, she had a brainstorm. She made up her mind to find another way to break through. She gave chase for a long time. In a corner of a remote alley, she nabbed Madam X’s husband-this strapping guy, this virginal and handsome man. Rubbing her breasts against his arms, she brought her face close to his arm and caught him completely off guard. Below is their conversation:

The widow: Which part of a woman’s body is the most attractive? (She repeatedly hinted with her breasts and blushed with excitement.)

Madam X’s husband: Why are you blocking my way?

The widow: I’m asking: What part of a woman’s body does a man look at first? What causes his blood to boil until he can’t control himself? Answer this question or I won’t let you go.

Madam X’s husband (looking embarrassed): It’s complicated.

I’m not an expert. It depends on the man, and there are all kinds of men with different standards… The most attractive? Hey, why won’t you leave me alone? Do you take me for a fool?

The widow (despairing): There’s no single criterion? Is there no justice in this world? If demons control men, what’s the meaning of life? You guys really are pathetic!

Madam X’s husband: Don’t be unreasonable. You’re asking for trouble.

The widow: What do you know? You mama’s boy: have you ever experienced overwhelming joy? Have you ever been excited by a mature woman? You’re afraid even to try, aren’t you? You must be suffering from a disease! Is your wife’s ‘‘dispelling boredom’’ connected to your illness? Answer me. Don’t think I’m interested in you. All my life I’ve abhorred baby-like men, androgynous men like you! Can such a person kindle anyone’s desire? I’ve always looked down on you. Sorry, what did I just ask? Oh yes, what does your wife do at night?

Madam X’s husband: None of your business! You’re crazy! (He withdrew from her ample breasts and left, swinging his arms.)

The widow (as if waking from a dream): Ah!

Our widow had been humiliated. Should she retreat and distance herself from Madam X’s family? Of course not. Did she represent only her own bias? In fact, these blows only strengthened her belief, and consequently, she grew even more obdurate. Moreover, before long, the situation took a turn for the better. This time, the widow didn’t act as usual: she didn’t announce the results of her investigation. She didn’t say even one word. The inside situation she understood was exclusively in her mind, and that world was rich and colorful. When someone impatiently asked about the inside situation, she narrowed the spidery lines around her eyes and squeezed out a significant sort of smile. Hands behind her back, she circled around that person a few times and then slapped him on the butt and laughed out loud. She laughed and laughed until the one who had asked the question flushed purple and didn’t dare look up. Then she came up to him slowly and whispered in his ear, ‘‘Which do you prefer-a malnourished young girl or a healthy grown woman?’’ At the same time, she leered and pinched him until he was scared out of his wits. Finally, she shouted, ‘‘What do you take me for? Get out of here!’’

At the same time, all the passersby saw a strange design on the whitewashed wall of Madam X’s home. It was a charcoal drawing of a penis, a crude and childish work. Below it was a postscript: an illustration of a certain person’s second occupation. Madam X gave no evidence she was angry; instead it was as if she’d found a treasure. She was excited for several days and recited these words to herself over and over: had she finally met a kindred soul in the darkness? Where was this person whose feelings struck a chord with her own? Why did he (she) contact her in this odd way? She thought and thought and finally had an inspiration: she decided to go ahead regardless. She placed a long table in the doorway and, light as a swallow, jumped onto the table and lectured to the air. The Five Spice Street crowds thronged there to watch the show. Everything she said seemed to be about sex, including ‘‘sexual intercourse’’ and other matters offensive to their ears. She sobbed as she lectured, and her throat quivered in a few key places. She said a friend would arrive soon; she thought about him or her day and night. She also said the thing she was involved in was the best, most wonderful, lofty thing: one day, it would all be clear. To make this happen, she had lived through her microscope for a long time. ‘‘This thing is so powerful!’’

‘‘Her speech made us want to try it; I think she’s a great psychologist,’’ the coal worker said earnestly, sighing with admiration.