Can Xue: Five Spice Street

When it comes to Madam X’s age, opinions differ here on Five Spice Street. One person’s guess is as good as another’s. There are at least twenty-eight points of view. At one extreme, she’s about fifty (for now, let’s fix it at fifty); at the other, she’s twenty-two.

The one who says she’s about fifty is a much-admired forty-five- year-old widow, plump and pretty. Her husband died years ago. It’s said that she often sees Madam X making herself up in her room, applying ‘‘powder an inch thick’’ that ‘‘completely masks the wrinkles in her neck’’-a neck ‘‘almost without flesh.’’ What is the widow’s vantage point for spying? She indignantly ‘‘refuses to divulge it.’’ The writer would like to interject something about this lovely widow. She’s classy, a cut above others, and plays a pivotal role in this story. She’s influenced the writer his whole life, and he, in turn, has always paid her special respect.

The one who says Madam X is twenty-two is himself twenty-two. In his words, one foggy morning, he ‘‘chanced to meet’’ Madam X by a well; ‘‘unexpectedly, she gave him a winsome smile,’’ ‘‘revealing a mouthful of white teeth.’’ And from the ‘‘uninhibited melody’’ of her laughter, ‘‘the sturdiness’’ of her teeth, the ‘‘sexiness’’ of her appearance, and various other factors, he concluded that Madam X couldn’t be a day over twenty-two. This guy works in a factory that produces coal briquettes, and that’s what he said to a neighbor as he squatted in the public toilet after getting off work and washing away the coal dust. ‘‘Hmmm,’’ the neighbor wondered. On closer examination, why did he say precisely twenty-two, and not twenty-one or twenty-three? Neighbors see each other all the time, so why hide behind this ‘‘chance meeting’’? There must be something shameful. Not to mention words that always mean trouble, like ‘‘foggy’’ and ‘‘sexiness.’’ Clearly, we must discount much of what he said.

And then there are the twenty-six other opinions, each with some validity. One respectable middle-aged man is worth mentioning. He’s a good, loyal friend of Madam X’s husband. Whenever someone mentions his good friend’s wife, he pulls at the person’s sleeve and solemnly proclaims that Madam X is thirty-five, because he’s ‘‘seen her ID card with his own eyes’’ (X’s family were outsiders on Five Spice Street). His voice would quaver. He would grow livid, but no one appreciated his chivalry. Instead, they thought he was ‘‘poking his nose into other people’s business’’; he was a ‘‘hypocrite’’; maybe he had even ‘‘tasted the sugarplum as well.’’ The man ‘‘grew thinner by the day’’ from this vilification. Dyspepsia gave him bad breath. The one who divulged this was the widow’s good friend, a graceful and charming forty-eight-year-old woman.

Once at twilight, these longtime doubts and suspicions seemed to reach a resolution, but it was short-lived. In fact, there were two resolutions. The crowd was split into contending factions. No conclusion could be reached.

It was dusk on a sultry summer day. After dinner, everyone was sitting out on the street to enjoy the cool breeze when suddenly ‘‘two balls of white light,’’ like meteors, streamed in the air and Madam X’s white silk skirt that ‘‘shone all through with light’’ flashed in front of them. The little boy was also dressed in white, but no one could tell what the material was. When their astonishment subsided, people clamored. The faction of young and middle-aged men led by the young coal worker asserted that Madam X was about twenty-eight. And judging from her ‘‘graceful, slender’’ figure, the ‘‘smooth softness’’ of her arms and legs, and various other factors, they decided that indeed she was ‘‘even younger.’’ But the crowd of young and middle-aged women led by the much-admired widow asserted that Madam X was ‘‘more than forty-five.’’ Through close inspection, they discovered that her neck had been disguised. Indeed, in several places there were ‘‘pores as large as grains of rice’’ and ‘‘layer upon layer of flabby skin.’’ They accused the men of ‘‘shamelessly peeking under the woman’s skirt.’’ Enlightened, the men inquired with great delight into the particulars of the women’s ‘‘close inspection.’’ The commotion went on for about two hours. Madam X’s husband’s good friend constituted a faction by himself: he took on the whole crowd, and several athletic young men knocked him to the ground. He ‘‘burst into tears.’’ When it was over, the widow hopped onto a stone table and, thrusting out her full breasts, shouted that she wanted ‘‘to uphold the values of traditional aesthetics.’’

Madam X’s age became a major issue on our street. When anyone left a group, he stood his own ground, and so at least twenty- eight different views flourished. No one wanted to argue continuously anymore. Madam X’s husband, a thirty-eight-year-old stud, also-without rhyme or reason-simply accepted the young coal worker’s view that his wife was twenty-two and not thirty-five, as his good friend had insisted on the basis of her ID card. Weighed down by habit and inertia, he was always tender and affectionate toward his wife. It’s said that from the very beginning he ‘‘couldn’t see a single blemish in her.’’ Consequently, we judged his opinion the most unbelievable, because ‘‘it seemed that he didn’t use his eyes to look at the truth; he let his imagination run wild. His head was filled with optimism.’’ (These are the widow’s words; the facts narrated later bear out the brilliance of her perception.)

The mystery of Madam X’s age wasn’t resolved, and later, more and more doubts arose. The day after hearing that Madam X and a certain Mr. Q, an office clerk, were involved in a furtive, sneaky way, the much-admired widow secretly entered her room and stole a look at her ID card. She noticed that the column with her age had been artfully altered, but the evidence left by the alteration not only confirmed the widow’s estimate, it ‘‘proved it precisely.’’ At the same time, another of X’s husband’s friends-a young man with sideburns — declared that Madam X wasn’t thirty-five, but thirty-two, because he and Madam X had been born in the same year and had been childhood sweethearts. Their parents had even considered betrothing them. As for X, in her youth, she had always been shy and tender with him. It was only because he hadn’t yet understood male- female relationships that he hadn’t allowed their relationship to develop. How could X suddenly have become three years older than he? Several other guys also tried to muddy the waters. Apart from the twenty-eight opinions already noted, one said she was thirty-seven and a half, another said forty-six and a half, another said twenty-nine and a half, and the last claimed twenty-six and a half. With the addition of a half-year’s difference, the issue became very profound and philosophical.

Though the matter remains unresolved, let’s take her husband’s good friend’s investigation into her ID card and postulate that she’s thirty-five. This is expedient for a number of reasons: we don’t have to consider her a young girl (after all, her son is already six years old), nor do we have to consider her an older woman (even though some, like the widow, calculate she was about fifty, which didn’t necessarily mean that she was an ‘‘older’’ woman-a subtle difference. The widow is precise and knows the nuances of language). As for her husband, he’s free to think she’s twenty-two if he likes. No one has the right to interfere. We can only wait for him to ‘‘wake up’’ on his own (the widow’s words). The stream of drivel from the young coal worker and the guys who deliberately muddied the waters is worth even less. They were merely satisfying their own needs without offering an ounce of sincerity.