Can Xue - Five Spice Street

‘‘I would comfort him patiently and tell him there was still time for everything. His past mistakes were actually a good thing. He could change to be even stronger and more energetic; he could be indomitable. Without those thirty years of mistakes, there couldn’t be this enlightened person of today. Every one of us has made mistakes. These mistakes become the motor for progress. I think that after this kind of misunderstanding, each of us sees the other’s face clearly. The person I see is no longer a little boy but a charming man. This is very gratifying. The guidance I gave wasn’t in vain. It had the desired effect. From this, you can also see that my feelings for him were virtuous. This defies certain people’s dirty lies. Filled with confidence, I sat in the doorway waiting day after day. I was waiting for the time for our meeting, watching the young guy’s expression become more cloudy and despairing by the day, watching the situation gradually become more favorable for me, watching certain people’s conspiratorial performances. I saw everything. I foresaw everything. I just didn’t guess that he would lift his bag to his back and take off. I didn’t reckon that he would so resolutely end our friendship. Of course, I can also understand his drastic action: this was an unexpected result of the guidance I had given him. After being enlightened, he was ashamed and made up his mind that only by cutting himself off from the past could he adopt this drastic action. It might even be a good thing that he acted this way: it saved us a lot of trouble. Now we can simply write him out of the history with one brushstroke. Because now it is the same as if he had never existed on Five Spice Street. As for the time after he grew up, he went to another place to start over again: this had nothing to do with us. From the point of view of ordinary people, it is fair and reasonable to think this way, but I am a mother. Seeing a newborn infant leave me and go far away to an alien land is not easy to accept. I can tell you that when he disappeared at the end of the street, I even shed tears! He certainly could have stayed here. My door was wide open to him day and night. He could come to me whenever he wanted. Why couldn’t this child think of this? Had a certain person’s spiteful lies reached his ears, and so, to keep people he cared about from being hurt, he decided to sacrifice himself? By contrast, that person looked so filthy and ugly. When this child left, at one stroke he exposed the schemer’s inner world. Under our august gaze, did she still have the courage to make her fallacious arguments? My dear stenographer, when I saw you just now and found that you and I are working for the same cause, I immediately felt more relaxed: I’m not the only one paying attention to this incident. Have you considered that this matter before us is ingenious? If you can record the subtle psychology I just described so brilliantly and eloquently, this will educate and enlighten everyone, and the schemer will be too ashamed to show her face. He certainly isn’t gone forever: do you believe this? If a person falls into this kind of situation, even his own existence becomes problematic. Everyone forgets his name and just calls him by the awkward name ‘X’s husband.’ It was difficult enough for him to stand up again at the spot where he fell, and he also faced other obstacles. He didn’t have time to bare his heart to me and get my protection. So he became temporarily depressed and couldn’t see a way out. In leaving, he was subjectively embracing a self-destructive resolve. Of course, in reality, it can’t turn out this way. My latent influence on him must have determined his whole life. After he got a new life, he made a circuit outside, finally returning to his mother’s side-the only friend he revered-to live out his life. My dear stenographer, after discussing all of this with you, my train of thought has gradually become clear. Isn’t this an astonishing skill? Now I’ve become optimistic about X’s husband’s future. He’s already been transformed from an awkward symbol into a person. After this, he will complete his travel in the outside world, and finally he will throw himself into my embrace. Twenty minutes ago, I had a heavy heart as I watched him leave me, and aged ten years all at once. You saw this yourself. But after only twenty minutes, I’m the same as ever. Now how do I look?’’

The writer told her that she couldn’t look better, that she could absolutely be called ‘‘a budding flower,’’ but that she was even more gorgeous than ‘‘a budding flower.’’ After experiencing her loveliness, no one would be satisfied with those young girls. She was really the epitome of perfection.

Only now did it occur to the writer that he had left his house early and until now had taken a twisting path. His objective definitely hadn’t been the small loft next to the wharf-that was just an excuse, a feint. After the writer left that place, the gods had led him to his real destination. Now the problem was already solved. The solution was ‘‘to wipe out all the records about this man.’’ This was wonderful! Too bad the writer hadn’t brought his notebook. Otherwise, he would have been able to finish this major pioneering work right away. This was precisely a case of ‘‘great minds thinking alike’’ and ‘‘reaching the same goal by different routes.’’ Today really was a memorable day. In essence, this major pioneering work was both merciful and humane. We constructed a home for a stranger, and the door to this home was wide open day and night to people traveling far from their own homes. This was so inspirational.

The widow made some additional comments to the writer: at daybreak, she had taken a pair of that man’s shoes from the windowsill of X’s home. Now she was keeping these cloth shoes, full of symbolic significance, in her drawer of memorabilia. This was also forceful evidence. If she met with an accident, the writer should remember this pair of shoes. He could use this fact to fight off the possible attack.

Now, the writer had finally finished dealing with the problem of these two vague persons. He doubtless felt greatly relieved. The writer got that pair of cloth shoes at the widow’s home, and so the two of them uttered a sigh of relief in unison. This spelled the end of one section of our work. The widow sat down on a recliner in her doorway, her gaze slack and numb. She also seemed to have become much thinner. The writer secretly thought she was indeed getting old.

‘‘Nothing matters.’’ She suddenly gave a forced smile. ‘‘The wind is blowing in front of you, the road stretches out before your eyes. None of this means anything at all. I keep asking myself: what happened to me? I’m gorgeous, young, and pretty-so what? Even if I were as old as the woman wearing the little black felt hat, I would still look okay. But whenever I cast off my responsibility to society and come back home and sit in this small coffin-like room, I am caught up in frightening thoughts of death. Most recently, I’ve worried more and more about the future of human beings, and I’ve had more and more self-doubt. All along, I’ve been exhausted from carrying too heavy a burden on my back. Now I’m telling you the truth: just now, if that man hadn’t been so ruthless, I would really have wanted to go far away with him and start over. This place of ours is really a little too closed. All at once, I’ve abandoned myself to despair.’’

She gave another forced smile. Her mood infected the writer, who had a sudden impulse: he thought he would go home and burn this precious historical record. Luckily, that impulse lasted only thirty-seven seconds. Luckily, after those thirty-seven seconds, another new question occupied our beloved friend’s brain. Only then did we cast off our individual sentimentality.