Can Xue - Five Spice Street

They not only quit their own jobs but agitated, provoked, and sneered at those who didn’t. They wanted to mess up our rank and file. Every day, others went to work and got off work on time: they sneered that they were ‘‘robots,’’ ‘‘klutzes,’’ and were ‘‘born with crucifixes.’’ Those who worked hard ‘‘were dumb oxen,’’ ‘‘losers,’’ ‘‘had no prospects,’’ blah, blah, blah. They even goaded a certain person into destroying his tools, saying that they wanted ‘‘to smash to smithereens this thousand-year-old ball and chain’’ and wanted to ‘‘struggle for freedom.’’ Their so-called freedom was no more than to live calmly on other people’s hard work while they themselves squatted in the toilet and drew filthy doodles and used unbearably dirty language to besmirch our ancient culture. Even this wasn’t enough: they sang tragic songs about Madam X’s future and said that Q himself was the reason her future was tragic! They resentfully lambasted Q, claiming he was ‘‘a dabbler,’’ ‘‘not thorough,’’ ‘‘a neuter,’’ and so forth. As they cursed him, they walked grandly past X’s window, where they fawned, made eyes at her, tapped on the lattice, and dropped slips of paper inside. Some even climbed in the window and stole mirrors or pasted love letters on the door. One parent hanged himself from a tree outside the door because his child had disgraced him this way.

After the pessimists expressed their opinions, they dispersed, and let the setting sun draw out their long, thin shadows. They were numb and didn’t talk anymore. What could be said? The end of the world was coming. We could only close our eyes and wait.

On the opposite side: the great majority of the people took an optimistic attitude toward Madam X’s future (this was also Five Spice Street’s future). They thought Madam X was a unique eccentric who couldn’t change, and though she deliberately opposed our people, someday she’d melt into our generous embrace and disappear. From the very beginning, this trend had become more and more obvious. Right. She was still selling peanuts at the intersection, but her existence and her position were less visible. While we were busy, we didn’t even ‘‘pay any attention to her.’’ Someone even ‘‘swept her from his field of vision with a wave of his hand.’’ Especially in the winter, when snow covered the roofs and the street, X, curled up all alone in the cold, couldn’t provoke any response, no matter what disturbance she caused. In this season, our people ‘‘fought a great war against the cold’’; ‘‘our spirits as red as fire,’’ we were ‘‘struggling grandly against nature.’’ In such a time, who would pay any attention to Madam X’s mosquito-like moaning? X’s excuse was that the ordinary people ‘‘could not understand the profundity of her voice.’’ Actually, we understood it all too well. Both the elite and the ordinary people had seen through her superficial tricks long ago and were quickly distracted from it. They felt ‘‘it wasn’t worth further probing.’’ Though still in the dark, she did everything to ‘‘attract people’s attention’’! We believe that someday she will have ‘‘used up’’ her energy and will never be able to ‘‘attract people’s attention.’’ We can imagine one or two curious guys going into her little room at dusk on a snowy day and bringing their ears close to her mouth. They listen carefully for hours, but what can they hear? Only monotonous, repetitive murmurs that don’t come from the heart but from her abdomen-indistinct and intermittent. Perhaps the only sound comes from their own fantasies, so that finally they rush out, stamping their feet, cursing, and vowing never to give X the time of day again.

The question of whether Madam X would melt and dissolve was raised not only by herself but, mainly, through the insight of our elite. To change heaven and earth, all we had to do was turn aside our mysterious vision. One day, drinking tea under the eaves, we spoke of her as of an ancient barbarian. She had gradually vanished from our memories and our field of vision. Indeed, in our annals, there was only a brief note about her, a historical reference-written as a small footnote to our people’s great achievements. As an individual, she is now so abstract and vague that the only thing left is a symbol (that is: X). Someday, even the symbol will disappear from conversation, and she will exist only in the brief note in the dusty annals of history. To later generations, that note will be a riddle that can never be solved. As always, the tide of history rolls to the east. So splendidly bright is the rising sun!

After imagining this pleasant vision, we didn’t rest on our laurels but remained very cautious and adopted suitable countermeasures aimed at X’s last struggles. Our vision told us she was about to dissolve, but this wasn’t at all the same as her ‘‘having already been finished.’’ So we had to redraw the diagram. We all acknowledged the ironclad fact of her existence and knew that she would still furiously show up. For example, the day before yesterday, she announced a premonition: a new person would take Q’s place in her life. She waited in high spirits for this new person so as to ‘‘experience’’ sublime feelings again, to ‘‘purify herself’’ and ‘‘be even more exuberant,’’ blah, blah, blah. It was clear that she intended to bob up like a cork again. None of us was afraid: we felt happy from the bottom of our hearts about her bobbing up like a cork. Wasn’t this a good opportunity for us to unfurl our spirit again? We hid at home and made our preparations. We even chose the place for her. This time, it wasn’t the granary, but a lonely valley. We would call it ‘‘love in the valley,’’ a significant title. As for the man, we called him Mr. P. Ah, before our Madam X dissolved, there was still a long, hard row to hoe! Our hearts were kind and bountiful, and our minds sensible and far-sighted. If this were not so, how could we have systematically reached the point where ‘‘the clouds parted and the fog dispersed,’’ and ‘‘a new vista appeared’’?

Looking at it from a grand historical perspective, from the roof of the thatched cottage, we saw that this X had all along been mixed up with the rag-tag crowds and danced with a mask. She had been sneaky, sometimes hidden and sometimes visible. She was the kind of inferior person who was always in the majority. People who underestimated the enemy thought that in ‘‘the blink of an eye,’’ she would disappear no later than tomorrow or the day after. Opposed to this mistaken belief, our optimists thought that the future would be rosy and beautiful, yet the task arduous. Madam X certainly wouldn’t vanish in ‘‘the blink of an eye’’ (though the day would eventually come). We had to watch her actions carefully, rapidly work out our hypothesis, and draw up a blueprint that would be more real than her real existence-as vivid as a movie. If she took one step, we had to take five and see what she would do. She came up with an idea the day before yesterday, and today we’ve figured out the place, the name, and everything! Even though ‘‘nervier’’ and more daring, she can’t hold out much longer in the face of our collective will. She can only move quickly to announce that ‘‘the new experience is finished!’’ Then she’ll lie in her small room and moan soundlessly. And if a certain person again approaches to listen closely, he’ll hear no melody. Conditions are ripe to end that mysterious ‘‘blink of an eye.’’ Then everything in the world will be young forever, X will retreat from this earth, and the brief note about her in the annals of history will offer a new and different explanation. That explanation will turn into a riddle-like symbol. Years later, when our children and grandchildren ask about this symbol, a white-bearded, tottering old man will tap the cover of the annals with a withered finger and tell them: ‘‘Shhh. This is the secret to success. Please study the diagram of the maze.’’ Wow! The diagram of the maze is blossoming and resplendent. Following the diagram, a large group of children and grandchildren will climb to the roof of the thatched cottage and to the mountaintop. And the lonely forerunner that was the writer? They will eventually exhume his name.