Can Xue - Five Spice Street

The writer still remembers that one person waited outside her window for three days and kept whisking with a broom at the black curtain Madam X called a ‘‘miracle.’’ That person did this seriously and diligently. He asserted that he was doing ‘‘the most significant work.’’ When he grew lightheaded from sleepiness, he pounded his temples with a stone so that his spirit would rebound! If he had known that no one was behind the curtain, and that Madam X was at the granary, location unknown-‘‘creating a miracle’’ out of the male body and feeling extremely happy about her evil actualization — how disappointed he would have been! ‘‘All rivers lead to the sea.’’ After tracing so many other people’s routes, we still have to go back to our conclusion: creating miracles was one facet of murder. Madam X didn’t care a whit about Q or Y. All she cared about was revenge. When certain people fell for her plot and waited beneath her window, she lit up with pleasure! Her announcement on the street was not motivated by how much charm Q held for her, but by her wish to ‘‘smash to smithereens’’ everything in this world.

According to her husband’s good friend’s disclosure, one day Madam X’s son, Little Bao-doubtless under his mother’s influence — overturned a blackboard on the ground and then swiftly fled back home. Madam X strove to conceal her obvious joy and with a straight face gave her son a dressing-down. This dressing-down was unique: ‘‘if that board fell over and hit you on your little head, you might die,’’ ‘‘if other people discovered you did this, your parents would be fined or locked up in jail,’’ ‘‘you’re just a kid-you mustn’t interfere in adult matters; it’s better for you to hang out with other children-playing marbles, catching birds, and so forth-that’s much more interesting for you,’’ and so on and on. She didn’t mention that his behavior was evil or stupid, because she knew very well that her son had been influenced by what he’d seen and heard at home. The same kind of murderous psychology was gradually coming into being in his little body. And because of this, she saw her son’s future ‘‘gradually taking shape’’ (she said this to her husband, smiling as she did so, just like a loving mother).

Though only seven years old, it was already evident that he was replicating Madam X’s childhood. He was even more audacious- ‘‘passionate’’ in Madam X’s words-because he had never been disciplined at home. When his mother’s adultery began, he was called a ‘‘whore’s kid’’ by the other children. He didn’t bat an eyelid, as if he hadn’t understood. He inherited his mother’s inane, dream-like expression, which enabled him to recover and rapturously return to his companions. This child’s mold was already set at the age of seven; his whole body was soaked in toxins. Nothing could have shaken him. However much zealous adults tried to enlighten him (Madam X’s husband’s good friend exhausted nearly all his energy on this until, once, ‘‘the tip of his tongue was blistered’’), he didn’t change at all: ‘‘My mama, my papa, and even Uncle Q are all wonderful people.’’ If you asked him why, he said, ‘‘Mama can see things in the sky in her mirror. At midnight, she can also fly. The peanuts that Papa fries are fragrant and crisp. No one can do this better than he does. Uncle Q can dribble a ball more than a thousand times in a row. I can do this only fifty-seven times.’’ He had an inspiration and suggested to his mother: ‘‘Ask Uncle Q to move to our home. If the four of us lived together, wouldn’t this be even more interesting?’’ These words were like a heavy slap in the husband’s good friend’s face, so much so that his face was partly purple and partly pale for a week.

When the incident ended, Madam X wrote her sister a long letter. The widow prudently tore it open and read it with other members of our elite. This letter proved that the writer’s diagram of the maze was one hundred percent correct. She had never had eyes for either Q or Y. She was simply acting. In her letter, she professed she had mistaken Q for a peddler from far away wearing a baize overcoat, when in fact Q was an eccentric who had been born and reared here. But what she had looked forward to was a peddler from afar. Reason told her that this kind of person could exist only in a mirror. Although she was capable of creating miracles, she couldn’t create a person out of thin air, so she had to find a stand-in from among the local weirdos. Every stand-in had some characteristic of her ideal peddler from afar, but she would never decide to ‘‘unite’’ with this stand-in. All she could do was continue looking and continue ‘‘changing direction.’’ Each time she might experience that greatest joy. And for that, she could ‘‘ignore everything else.’’ Even though she was now discredited in the eyes of others, she ‘‘didn’t care.’’ She had enough physical and spiritual strength ‘‘to start over again.’’ If she had this kind of opportunity again, she ‘‘wouldn’t let it go.’’ Of course, she didn’t intend to harm anyone. She hoped to be ‘‘on friendly terms with everyone.’’ If she unwittingly hurt others (for example, she always felt very kindly toward Q’s wife and couldn’t figure out why she took this dead end. In X’s view, Q’s wife could definitely have found a much better way out), she was anguished but had no choice: everything she did was involuntary.

After tearing this letter open and reading it, the writer and the widow went to the snack shop on the corner and observed X closely for an entire day. They wanted to see how she would ‘‘start all over again,’’ but their labor was futile: Madam X’s eyes had once more become sightless. She could see the counter, the roasted nuts and seeds, and the marks on the steelyard (she wasn’t off even a little), and so forth. But she couldn’t see people. When she jostled against us, we felt flustered. It seemed she was still adhering to old principles and wanted to ‘‘meet by chance.’’ ‘‘Waiting for the fish to rise to the bait’’ was written all over her face, and a lot of people on Five Spice Street wanted to be that ‘‘fish.’’ They all nosed around Madam X’s fishhook, and all of them suffered! Madam X didn’t consider them fish at all, but only ‘‘dust rags.’’ The writer assumed that if she did consider some Y or Z to be a big fish, her objective would not have changed. Her respectful expression as she weighed out peanuts and beans told you that her joy was extraordinary. Her pleasure was murder. Whoever took her bait was finished. In the beginning, that person may have thought it was a good thing (like Q-with ‘‘hot tears brimming in his eyes’’-rapturously hurrying to the rendezvous at the intersection). Only later did Q discover that he was a big fish caught in a net. Either the fish died and the net was torn, or the carp jumped out and fell heavily to the ground-and was left deformed. Meanwhile, Madam X just sat by. Nothing made her sad. She had never been accustomed to sorrow or regret. As before, she sold peanuts and quickly forgot the incident. Later, if possible, she would secretly throw out her line and wait, full of hope, for the next fish. She confided to her sister that she was destined to reenact this procedure for a lifetime. Even if she were a ‘‘discolored pearl in old age,’’ fish would still jump to her bait. ‘‘This world is very large,’’ she said, and then immediately added, ‘‘But this large, deserted world wouldn’t hold a peddler from afar. I’ll wait a lifetime in vain.’’

Our diagram of the maze is finished to this point. People will want to shout, ‘‘We’ve done so much miscellaneous work-meetings in the dark room, doodling, pasting up posters, tailing her, and so forth. We’ve worked so long, and yet everything has been fruitless from the beginning: all along, X and Q were simply acting. Was X merely toying with the crowd? Is that what you mean? Or was it that you, the gloomy stenographer, came up with this sophistry to demonstrate your own damn literary talent? If you just want to promote yourself, be my guest. But you shouldn’t turn the crowd into horse- shit while making a hero out of a whore. What you did was too-’’ Hold on, friends: the writer never said X had great talent, that she could make life into a stage and then put on a play or something.