Gao Xingjian - Soul Mountain

You say it’s not the dress.

Then what is it? She says she knows what you’re going to say.

You say you haven’t said anything but it’s not the dress.

It’s because her husband doesn’t care what she wears, it’s his attitude of not caring! She says she hadn’t wanted to seduce anyone.

You hasten to deny that you’ve said anything.

She says she’s not going to say anything more.

You say didn’t she want someone to talk to? To talk about what was troubling her? You ask her to go on talking about what was worrying this woman friend of hers.

She doesn’t know what to go on talking about.

Talk about his specialty, the four delights meat balls.

She says he had it all planned, his wife was away on a job.

You remind her she wasn’t there to see his wife but to have lunch. She should have guessed his wife wouldn’t have been there and she shouldn’t have been defensive.

She concedes that was how it was, and the more defensive she was the greater the pressure.

The harder it was to control herself?

She couldn’t resist.

When he was looking at her dress?

She shut her eyes.

Not wanting to see herself acting irrationally like this?

Yes.

Not wanting to see that she was just as wild?

She says she was confused and hadn’t thought it would come to this, at the time she knew she didn’t love him, in any way at all. Her husband was better than him.

You say actually she doesn’t love anyone.

She says she only loves her son.

You say she only loves herself.

Maybe, maybe not. She says afterwards she left and wouldn’t see him on her own again.

But she still did?

Yes.

And again at his place?

She says she wanted to talk to him to clarify things–

You say it’s hard clarifying this by talking about it.

Yes, no. She says she hated him and hated herself.

And once again there was a bout of wantonness?

Stop talking! She was angry, she didn’t know why she wanted to talk about it, she just wanted it all to end quickly.

You ask how could it end?

She says she doesn’t know.

His death takes place two years before I come here. At the time he is the last surviving Master of Sacrifice among the hundred Miao stockades, but for several decades there has not been an ancestor sacrifice on such a grand scale. He knows it will not be long before he will return to Heaven and his living to this venerable age is because he has carried out the ancestor sacrifices and the demon multitudes do not dare to harm him. He is afraid he will not be able to get up one morning and that he will not make it through the winter.

On New Year’s eve, while his legs can still move, he hoists the square table from the hall onto his back, carries it down the stone steps of his pylon house, and sets it down. There is no-one else in sight on the desolate river-bank, the doors of the houses are all shut and people are eating New Year’s dinner. Nowadays, even if people do have an ancestor sacrifice it’s just like a New Year’s dinner. It’s been shortened and simplified. People simply grow weaker every generation, nothing can stop this.

On the table he puts a bowl of watery liquor, a bowl of bean curd, a bowl of steamed glutinous rice cake and the bowl of ox intestines from his neighbour, and under the table he puts a bundle of glutinous rice stalks. He then heaps wood and charcoal in front of the table. Tired by these exertions, he stops for a while to catch his breath, goes up the stone steps back inside the house to fetch a piece of burning charcoal from the stove and, going slowly down on his hands and knees, begins to blow. The smoke stings his dry old eyes and makes them water but finally sparks leap up. He has a fit of coughing which only stops after he has a sip of the sacrificial wine.

A ray of lingering light on the green mountain tops on the opposite bank vanishes and the night wind begins to blow over the river. Panting, he seats himself on the high stool at the table, steadying himself only when his feet tread onto the bundle of glutinous rice stalks. As he looks up at the mountain range, he is aware of the chill in the mucous in his runny nose and his tears.

In those days when he carried out ancestral sacrifices, he had twenty-four people at his disposal — two trainee masters, two supervisors, two men to handle the props, two overseers of the ritual, two persons in charge of the swords, two persons to pour the libation, two persons to make the food offerings, two dragon girls, two messengers, and several people to make pressed rice cakes. What a splendid event it was! Three oxen were slaughtered and at times even up to nine.

Just to show his appreciation, the head of the family making the sacrifice had to present him with glutinous rice seven times — the first time, seven pots for going into the mountains to chop trees for the drums; the second time, eight pots for carrying the drums into the cave; the third time, nine pots for inviting the drums into the stockade; the fourth time, ten pots for tying the drums; the fifth time, eleven pots for slaughtering the ox for the drums; the sixth time, twelve pots for dancing to the drums; the seventh time, thirteen pots for escorting the drums. From the time of the ancestors these were the rules.

The last time he performed an ancestral sacrifice, the head of the family sent twenty-five people to carry the rice, liquor, and food. What a magnificent time that was! The good days are over now. He recalls those times. Before the ox was slaughtered, just to smooth out the hair whorls on its hide, a decorated pillar had first to be erected on the grounds. All members of the family changed into new clothing and there was a fanfare of pipes and the beating of gongs and drums. He wore a long purple robe and a red felt hat and the head feathers of the great roc stood up from his collar. He waved a bronze bell in his right hand and held an arrowhead fan of plantain leaves in his left hand, ahh–

Ox oh ox,

Born in still waters,

Growing up on sandy banks,

You cross rivers with your mother,

You climb mountains with your father,

Fight the locusts for the sacrificial drum,

Fight the praying mantis for the sacrificial pipes,

Go to battle at Three Slopes,

Charge to attack at Seven Flats Bay,

Defeat the locusts,

Slay the praying mantis,

Snatch the long pipe,

Steal the big drum,

The long pipe is a sacrifice to your mother,

The big drum is a sacrifice to your father,

Ox oh ox,

Bearing on your back four platters of silver,

Bearing on your back four platters of gold,

You follow your mother,

You follow your father,

To enter the black cave,

To tread the drum door,

You guard mountain passes with your mother,

You guard village gates with your father,

To stop fierce demons harming people,

To stop evil spirits entering ancestral tombs,

So your mother will have peace for a thousand years,

So your father will have warmth for a hundred generations.

People tied a rope to the ox’s nose, wrapped its horns in bamboo wreaths and brought it out. Members of the family, all in new clothes, performed the three bows and nine prostrations to the ox. As he loudly sang this eulogy the male head of the family took up a spear and stabbed the ox. Thereafter, all the able-bodied male relatives, midst the pounding of the drum, in turn took up the spear and stabbed the ox. Spurting blood, the beast wildly charged in circles around the decorated pillar until it collapsed and died. They then cut off its head and divided up the meat: as Master of Sacrifice the chest was his. The good days are over!

Now his teeth have fallen out and he can only eat a little thin gruel. He has indeed gone through good days but no-one comes to attend to him anymore. The young people all have money. They’ve learnt to smoke filter-tip cigarettes, carry a screaming electric box and also to wear those evil black glasses. How can they still think about their ancestors? The more he sings the more wretched he feels.