Gao Xingjian - Soul Mountain

Tonight, everyone is wildly excited, it’s as if they’ve been injected with the blood of chickens. It is deep into the night but most houses far and near are still lit up and there is talking and the clattering of things for a long time. I also find it impossible to sleep and wander back to the empty square. The kerosene lamps on the bamboo poles have been taken down and only the limpid moonlight remains. I find it hard to believe that just now, below this majestic, austere, deep mountain, people have just enacted these scenes of grossly unnatural human distortion and I wonder if it has all been a dream.

“Don’t think about anything else while you’re dancing.” You have just met her, and are dancing together for the first time when she says this to you.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“When you’re dancing just dance, don’t put on an act of being lost in thought.”

You laugh.

“Be a bit more earnest, put your arms around me.”

“All right,” you say.

She giggles.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Can’t you hold me tighter?”

“Of course.”

You hold her tight and become aware of the springiness of her breasts and the fragrant warmth of her neck from her open-neck top. The room is dark, the table lamp in the corner has been covered with an open black umbrella and the faces of the couples dancing are indistinct. The tape recorder is playing soft music.

“This is good,” she says quietly.

Your breathing blows the soft strands of hair brushing against your cheek.

“You’re lovely,” you say.

“What are you saying?”

“I like you but this is not love.”

“It’s better that way, love is stressful and wearisome.”

You say you feel the same way.

“We’re two of a kind,” she says with feeling and with a smile.

“A perfect match.”

“But I wouldn’t marry you.”

“Why would you want to?”

“But I really want to get married.”

“When?”

“Maybe next year.”

“That’s a long way off.”

“It wouldn’t be with you next year either.”

“That goes without saying, but who will you marry?”

“Sooner or later I’ll have to marry someone.”

“Just anyone?”

“Not necessarily. Anyway, sooner or later I’ll have to get married.”

“And then get divorced?”

“Maybe.”

“Then we’ll dance together again.”

“But I still wouldn’t marry you.”

“Why would you want to?”

“There’s something nice about you.” She really seems to mean it.

You thank her.

Through the glass window the lights from countless homes can be seen. These lights, some on and some off, go up in a regular manner and belong to building after building of the same rectangular box-style high-rise residences. A couple suddenly starts to whirl around in the small room and crashes into your back. You quickly come to a stop and hug her.

“Don’t think I’m praising how you dance,” she seizes the chance to start up again.

“I’m not a professional dancer.”

“Then why do you dance? To get close to women?”

“There are ways of getting even closer.”

“You’ve got a sharp tongue.”

“That’s because your tongue never stops.”

“All right, I’ll keep quiet.”

She snuggles against you and you close your eyes. Dancing with her is sheer bliss.

You meet again one night in the middle of autumn, when a chilly north-west wind is blowing. You are riding your bicycle into the wind and from time to time, chased by the wind, leaves and scraps of paper on the road fly up into the air. You decide to drop in on an artist friend to wait for the weather to calm down a bit before going on and turn off into a small lane lit by a dim yellow street light. Only one solitary person can be seen walking ahead with his head huddled down into his coat. You feel wretched.

In this dark little courtyard, there is a faint, flickering light coming from his window. You knock on the door and a deep voice answers. He opens the door and warns you to watch out for the step because it is dark. The room is lit by a small candle which flickers from a sawn coconut shell.

“This is great,” you say, really appreciating the warmth. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing in particular,” he replies.

It is very warm in the room. He is only wearing a bulky woollen pullover and his hair is a mess. The chimney has already been fitted on the heater-stove for the winter.

“Are you sick?” you ask.

“No.”

Something moves by the candle, you hear the springs creak on his dilapidated old sofa and realize that a woman is sitting at one end of it.

“You’ve got a guest?” you say apologetically.

“It’s all right.” Pointing to the sofa he says, “Sit down.”

It is then that you see it is her, she lethargically puts out a limp and soft hand to shake. She is wearing her hair long and she blows away a loose strand hanging over the corner of her eye. You joke with her.

“If I remember rightly, your hair wasn’t as long before.”

“Sometimes I wear it up, sometimes I have it down, you simply didn’t notice.” She smiles petulantly.

“Do you know one another?” your artist friend asks.

“We danced together at a friend’s place.”

“You still remember.” There is a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

“Is it possible to forget having danced with someone?” you say, sniping back.

As he pokes the stove, the dark red fire lights up the paper canopy on the ceiling.

“Do you want a drink?”

You say you’re just passing by and can only stay for a short time.

“I’m not doing anything in particular either,” he says.

“It’s all right…” she adds, quietly.

Afterwards, they both fall silent.

“You two go on with what you were talking about,” I say. “I came in to warm up, there’s been a cold snap. When the wind dies down a bit, I’ll be on my way.”

“No, you’ve come just at the right time,” she says. Again there is a silence.

“It would be more accurate to say I’ve come at the wrong time.” You think you really should make a move to go but your friend doesn’t wait for you to start getting to your feet. He presses you down by the shoulders and says, “As you’re here, it will be possible to talk about something else. We’ve already finished saying what we were saying.”

“You two go ahead, I’ll just listen.” She curls up on the sofa and only the outline of her pale face is visible, her lovely nose and mouth.

After quite some time, she turns up on your doorstep at noon one day.

“How did you know where I live?”

“Aren’t I welcome?”

“Quite the opposite. Come in, come in.” Your get her to come inside and ask if your artist friend had given her your address. In the past you had only seen her in dim lighting and didn’t dare say it was her for sure.

“Maybe, maybe it was someone else, is your address a secret?” she answers with a question.

You say you hadn’t thought she would honour you with a visit and that you are indeed greatly honoured.

“You’ve forgotten it was you who invited me.”

“That’s also quite possible.”

“And it was you who gave me the address, had you forgotten that too?”

“I must have,” you say. “Anyway, I’m really pleased you’ve come.”

“How can you not be pleased with a model coming?”

“You’re a model?” You’re even more surprised.

“I’ve done modelling, moreover nude modelling.”

You say, unfortunately, you’re not an artist but that you do do some amateur photography.

“Do people who come always have to stand?” she asks.