Ma Jian - The Noodle Maker

Unfortunately, as soon as she gained possession of him, her joyous mood caused a dramatic improvement in her appetite. The fat she acquired attached itself first to her waist and calves, then spread to her face, puffing her upper eyelids and inflating her cheeks. After two years together, the editor could no longer bring himself to look at her. She had lost all her girlish charm, and now had the body of a middle-aged woman. The other mistresses he had taken subsequently put her in the shade. He was ashamed of her, and longed to free himself from her ties. One Wednesday afternoon, he agreed to meet her behind Red Scarf Park, hoping to use this opportunity to break up with her once and for all.

(Relations between people are very curious, the writer reflects. We behave kindly, even sycophantically towards people we are afraid of, but trample like tyrants over the shy and retiring. Our roles are determined by our opponents. We all possess a dual nature. The editor was a servant to his wife, a master to the textile worker — roles he couldn’t play with any of his other women. We all jump from one role to the next. If I continue to write this story, who knows, the textile worker might become more savage even than the female novelist.)

By the time she finally turned up in the woods behind Red Scarf Park, Old Hep was seething with rage. He had never felt like this before. On the way to this rendezvous he sensed that a physical change was about to take place in him. She ran towards him, her plump body wobbling about as though she were being tossed up and down inside a rattling old car. She apologised for being late, but he continued to glare at her. Her cheeks turned red with remorse. In fact, at this point, she should have thrown herself onto his chest, as she used to in the past, and quashed the fire in his body with the weight of her womanly flesh. But the cold, heartless expression on his face sapped her confidence, and she dared not reach out to him.

Old Hep was pleased by the turn of events, however. Her lateness allowed him to keep his anger on the boil, and when he saw her cowering below him with a pathetic look on her face, he knew he was ready to explode. (Unattractive women should never stand still in front of a man if they want to win him over. They should first arch their eyebrows gracefully, amuse him with a funny anecdote, or smother him with kisses — anything to divert his attention away from their piggy eyes or pointed chin. This is admittedly very tiring, but it must be done. Everybody must learn to do the best with what they’ve got.) The rage must have been simmering inside him for years, because without a second’s hesitation, he was able to lift his hand in the air and bring it down hard on her face.

‘Stupid bitch!’ he shouted after the first blow. ‘Why are you late?’

He had learned these gestures and tone of voice from his wife. During their childless married life, she had shouted at him once in this way, when the jumper he had washed for her and hung out to dry on the balcony was blown away by the wind. She accused him of having done it on purpose, and when he replied that the jumper was so wet that he’d had no choice but to hang it up outside, she slapped him on the face. At the time, he sensed some organ in his body shift place a little. He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a ladle of cold water and emptied it into his mouth. He drank until he was dizzy. Today he returned that slap. Although he had trouble speaking at first, and his voice sounded like a shovel grating against an iron bucket, he soon loosened up. His hand had struck her right on the face. He had succeeded. His confidence rising, he punched her in the chest, and she fell to the ground at the very spot on which she had lost her virginity. The actions she took next decided her fate. Instead of hitting back, she struggled to her knees and pleaded for forgiveness.

In Old Hep’s mind, her supplicant pose affirmed the correctness of his behaviour. He abandoned all sense of restraint. At last he was making up for all those lost years.

As dusk gave way to night, Old Hep felt an uncontrollable urge to possess her. He climbed on top of her and took command of her weak and feeble body. She clenched her teeth and croaked as he bit her nipples and tugged her hair. Although she was taller than him, each time she struggled to her feet he managed to kick her down again.

‘Will you leave me alone now?’ he shouted.

‘I’ll do anything to make you happy,’ she answered, gazing up at him adoringly before collapsing again onto the grass.

‘Haven’t I made myself clear?’ he said, pulling up his trousers. ‘I never want to see you again!’ Then he spat on the ground and walked away.

(Suddenly the lights come back on in the eighth-floor flat. What is love exactly? the writer asks himself. He glimpses a cloth doll slumped in the corner of his room, and wonders what it’s doing there. He often catches sight of it, although he usually suspects his eyes are playing tricks on him, because he only ever sees it at night, or when he’s drunk or lost in thought. Perhaps there really is a cloth doll under the chair. Maybe it was given to him by some woman, or left behind by a friend. Or perhaps the previous occupant of the flat flung it in the corner in a fit of anger. No one has ever bothered to lean down and pick it up. The dirtier the doll gets, the less willing he is to touch it.)

The editor’s drawers were filled with love letters. Because this town is built beside a deep-water port, it was one of the first places to benefit from the relaxed trade regulations of the Open Door Policy. As its economy flourished, the town grew and a new urban district was constructed on the farmland that lined the coast. Hordes of peasants from inland villages poured into this district to sell their produce and search for new jobs. Soon everyone in China had heard of this town, and the name of Old Hep’s literary magazine grew in prestige. He was happy with his job. His colleagues in the editorial department regarded him affectionately. In the political study sessions, his fellow Party members admired his open-minded opinions and his courage in giving voice to minor grievances. The new recruits looked up to him; when chatting with them, he would always drop words like ‘sexy’, ‘contemporary’ and ‘tasteful’ into his conversation to make them feel at ease. He knew that as long as the textile worker didn’t decide to cause any more trouble, he could remain safely in his post until retirement. He racked his brains, thinking of ways to get rid of her. Since she had lost all her self-respect, he knew he could torture her as he wished. As the weeks passed, he discovered that he enjoyed tormenting her, and since she was a willing victim, they ended up seeing more of each other than ever.

He was aware that it was he who had fallen for her first. On her first day in his office, he told her about how hard he was working on his novel, and about the chess competitions he’d won at school. He presented himself as a man who had suffered much in life, and who was in desperate need of consolation. When the textile worker glanced up at him, there was no love in her eyes. But she needed a father figure, and was flattered that the editor was paying her so much attention — no man had shared such intimate thoughts with her before. So when he wrapped his arms around her in the woods behind the park, she didn’t push him away. For a while everything was fine, they satisfied one another’s needs. The textile worker wasn’t wrong to fall in love with Old Hep, her mistake was to cling to him after he had moved on to his next prey. Her love for him destroyed her.

Each time Old Hep tried to break up with her, she said she would only agree on condition he gave her a baby before they separated. This demand crushed his spirit, and he soon resumed his habit of escaping into daydreams.