Can Xue - Five Spice Street

After turning her somersaults, Madam X went back to the snack shop without paying the least attention to the commotion she had caused. As she worked, she was humming ‘‘The Lonesome Little Boat.’’ Just as she dumped a basket of peanuts into a wooden barrel, she suddenly saw two bolts of lightning flash by, kecha kecha. This really frightened her. She set the basket down, jumped back, and asked fiercely, ‘‘Who is it?’’ Hiding outside the door were two photographers. Shrewdly, they didn’t make a sound. Their faces were filled with the joy of adventurers as they waited for Madam X to lose her temper and jump out: they wanted to get two frontal shots. But after asking that question, Madam X seemed to have no thought of jumping out. They waited several hours without getting a chance to photograph that histrionic scene. As their legs were going numb, someone inside said, ‘‘My work is finished now. I can strike a pose, but you have to pay me for it.’’

With reverence and awe, the photographers nodded and immediately aimed their cameras. She had changed her costume: she had a belt tied at her waist, and she held a sword as she stood there. Her ‘‘bearing’’ was absolutely ‘‘heroic.’’ She said humbly, ‘‘It’s too bad I don’t know how to play with this sword. I’ll sit on it for a picture!’’

The photographers thought this was ingenious and agreed. So she laid the sword under her butt. They didn’t take just one photo but ten! Each was special. Although the expression was the same, because of the photographers’ high level of skill, the more you looked at them, the more extraordinary they were. After a few days, Madam X wrote to the photographers asking to be paid. This startled the studio. Such a screwball! Others had brought her to the forefront, but it was as if they owed her something. Her tone was tough: she spoke of current financial difficulties and the work which had been delayed because of the photographs.

At first the photographers’ eyes bulged, and then they began cheering because they remembered the fine outline that Dr. A had published in the newspaper. All their doubts were dispelled. It was reasonable for a wave of the future to act oddly: if her actions were commonplace, they wouldn’t be worth the photographers’ while to photograph her. Now it was clear that they hadn’t been wrong: the odder her actions, the better, for this would have a direct impact on the studio’s reputation. They would also contact the stenographer, who would make a special effort to write something that would describe her peculiar relationship with the studio. As for money, although they couldn’t be completely satisfied with her request (this was at odds with the financial system), they decided to pass the hat, and each dug down to express his regards. They did this willingly. They all felt that they’d become part of the romance.

After electing Madam X as their representative, the people felt very excited. Now they loved congregating to talk about this. ‘‘Our Five Spice Street is really full of talent.’’ Soon afterward, ‘‘innovative movements’’ began to appear spontaneously on Five Spice Street. One morning, a few young guys coincidentally showed up on the street with wool sweaters wrapped around their heads. That was really a novelty. From a distance, it was as if a large bundle had grown on top of their heads. Someone commented that it ‘‘was as if the neck were weighed down by heavy thoughts.’’ They went back and forth several times on the street. The next day, more than half the people on Five Spice Street wound their sweaters around their heads. Most were young people. They were the nucleus of the new movement. Of course, the old philosopher Dr. A led the movement and in doing so discovered a fatal weakness: this weakness led to certain individuals’ dissociating themselves from people in general. They unilaterally pursued odd and flighty styles and gathered in small groups of three or five, ‘‘as if they were rebels.’’ They had given up winding sweaters around their heads and had begun talking day and night. When their talking reached a fever pitch, someone jumped to the window and ‘‘shouted and screamed,’’ which made all the people on the street very nervous.

Enraptured, Dr. A observed these guys for a long time and finally discovered the sticking point. From the time this phenomenon began, it was clear that its creed was fuzzy. When we elected Madam X our representative, our heads were muddled by a certain blind emotion. We forgot that at present this lady still didn’t share our objective. She was merely a symbol-a gleam of the dawn of the future. The reason we wanted to canonize her was certainly not to serve today, but to serve our descendants hundreds of years hence. So certain people’s blind imitation of her style was absolutely unacceptable. To transplant her style into the context of present life would only create jokes. It was ridiculous.

Dr. A proposed several more discussion meetings. He told everyone clearly: what Madam X does and is today is not at all related to real life. It’s an artificial performance. If we do not understand this, all the positive aspects of our canonization of her will be lost. Dr. A also said this kind of movement could proceed only under his leadership, for it needed a great spirit of risk-taking. If it wasn’t done well, it would become ‘‘rebellion,’’ and that was a capital crime. If he didn’t watch everything strictly every minute and every second and ‘‘correct errors,’’ all kinds of consequences were possible. He was a seasoned person with abundant experience. Ten years ago, he had gone through a similar movement. That movement, not having a leader like him, never developed and finally became a child’s game of hide-and-seek. Now it pained him to think about it, because it represented the retrogression of human intelligence.

At this point, Dr. A remembered the heated dispute he’d had with other scholars over who had taken the initiative. He had mentioned that everyone should pay attention to the meaning of the word ‘‘symbol.’’ ‘‘It’s only a form, a matrix, an indeterminate matrix. There’s nothing more fitting than our electing a woman to be the representative. In this, there are a lot of things worth thinking about.’’

As for Madam X’s remaining a bystander in the election, Dr. A commented: ‘‘She understands her position. What else can a woman do? Especially a woman like Madam X, who has been scrutinized by the crowd. Being a representative is a mere form-an honor generously bestowed by everyone. She should cherish and esteem herself. Apart from improving her skill in turning somersaults, she should make no further changes. If she is overbearing, stops practicing, and lets her skills get rusty, she’ll lose this honor. Honor isn’t inexhaustible capital. If it isn’t handled well, it becomes a burden!’’

The writer has brought this complicated story close to its end. This morning, he met with Madam X, who had just been elected representative. The writer found but a slight wrinkle on her forehead, the mark of past years, yet it could be ignored. Madam X had not aged; she was still ‘‘hot.’’ And the writer speculated that even Dr. A (more than ten years older) might wish to marry her if she gave up her celibacy and A’s wife died. After all, he was still in good health and had an eminent position. Not to mention the young coal worker and her husband’s good friend-if they wanted to marry, both of them would think of her first. This morning, the writer was a little indirect: after her husband left and the incident with Q was made public, did she intend to marry a handsome man of about the same age? After she served as representative, did she want to walk hand in hand toward a beautiful tomorrow with someone who could also be a career partner?