Gao Xingjian - Soul Mountain

“But where is the criteria?” he says with incomprehension showing in his eyes just like the bookworm Pierre. “Didn’t the newspapers announce some days ago that creative freedom has to be considered and that literature has to portray the truth?”

“It’s because of this damn portraying the truth that misfortune has befallen me and I have fled here,” I say.

He laughs heartily and says, “Then forget the story about this Woman Warrior of the Desolate Plains.”

He throws the photo into the drawer, then says, “I stayed for a few days in that broken-down temple while I was doing exploratory work and got to know her. While chatting I hit on something that was troubling her and she ended up talking to me for a whole day. I filled half a notebook with her personal experiences.”

He takes out a notebook from the drawer and, waving it in front of me, says, “There’s enough here to write a book. I’ve even thought of a title: Jottings from the Broken-down Temple .”

“This doesn’t sound like the title for a woman warrior novel.”

“Of course not. If you’re interested, take it with you to use as material for a novel.” Saying this he tosses the notebook back into the drawer and says to his wife, “Bring out the liquor after all.”

“It’s not just fiction,” I say, “I can’t even publish those prose pieces I used to write. As soon as they see my name on a manuscript they reject it.”

“You’d best stick to doing your geology and not fool around with writing,” his wife says when she brings the liquor.

“Now tell me the situation with you now!” He’s very concerned.

“I’m wandering everywhere to avoid being investigated. I’ve been gone for several months. I’ll go back when it’s safe, after the trouble blows over. If things get worse, I’ll look over a few places and if necessary slip away. In any case I’m not going to be the way I was during those years I was labelled a rightist, obediently allowing myself to be led like a sheep to be reformed through labour.”

The two of us laugh heartily.

“How about I tell you a happy story? When I was part of a small team sent to look for gold, we captured a Wild Man in the mountains,” he says.

“Stop joking, did you see it with your own eyes?” I ask.

“So what if I saw it, we captured it! We were going along a mountain ridge to cut down on the distance so that we could get to the campsite before dark. A patch of the forest under the ridge had been burnt off and planted with corn. Something was moving in the yellow cornfield and looking down we could clearly see it was some sort of wild animal. At that time we all carried rifles for safety into mountains like these. The team said it’s either a black bear or a wild pig, if we can’t find gold but can get hold of some meat, at least it’ll be lucky for our mouths. We split up and started closing in. This thing heard us moving and charged away towards the forest. It was past three in the afternoon and the sun had moved to the west but it was still quite light. When the thing started running its head popped out from amongst the ears of corn. It was a long-haired Wild Man. We all saw it and, wild with excitement, started yelling Wild Man! Wild Man! Don’t let it get away! Then there were gunshots. We had been going through the mountains and gullies all day and hadn’t had a chance to fire a shot, so we were letting off steam. We had all livened up and were running, yelling and shooting. When we closed in we managed to force it out. It was stark naked and its balls were shining. It raised its hands to surrender then crashed to its knees onto the ground. It had a pair of glasses tied to its head with a piece of string, the lens were so worn they were like frosted glass.”

“You’re making this up, aren’t you?” I say.

“Did all this really happen?” his wife isn’t asleep and calls out from the bedroom.

“If I were making it up I wouldn’t be able to make it up better than you, you’re a novelist.”

“He’s the real storyteller,” I call out to his wife, looking in the direction of the bedroom. “He’s a brilliant storyteller, in the old days no-one could outdo him at storytelling. Whenever he started telling a story he had everyone listening. Unfortunately, the only story he has written was executed before it was published.” I can’t help feeling somewhat sorry for him.

“He’s only talking like this because you’re here. Usually he never says a sentence more than he has to,” his wife says.

“Stick to listening,” he says to his wife.

“Go on with the story!” He’s really got me interested.

He takes a drink and is refreshed.

“They went up to him, took off his glasses, prodded him with their rifles and questioned him harshly. If you’re human, why are you running? He was shaking all over and making incomprehensible noises. One of the fellows pressed a rifle at him and threatened, if you keep putting on this act I’ll shoot you! At this he started crying and said he had escaped from a labour camp and was too afraid to go back. We asked, what crime did you commit? He said he was a rightist element. Our man asked, what year was the rightist element campaign? The decision changing all that was long ago, why didn’t you go back? He said his family was too afraid to take him back so he hid on this mountain. We asked where his home was and he said Shanghai. The men said, your family are all fucking fools, why didn’t they take you in? He said they were afraid of getting implicated. The men said, like hell they’d get implicated, rightist elements have all received compensations plus big salary back payments. Everyone is just wishing for a rightist element in the family. They also asked, are you suffering from some sort of mental illness? He said he didn’t have any illness, except for severe shortsightedness. The men in the team thought it was all too hilarious.”

We can hear his wife laughing in the bedroom.

“It’s you who’s a devil, only you could tell this sort of a story.” I also can’t help laughing. It has been a long time since I’ve been so happy.

“He was labelled a rightist in 1957 and in 1958 was sent to a labour reform farm in Qinghai. During the famine of 1960 there was nothing to eat and he became bloated with beri-beri and almost died. He escaped to Shanghai and hid at home for two months to recuperate. His family insisted that he return because at the time grain rations weren’t enough to feed the family and what was more, how could they possibly hide him at home for such a long time. It was then that he was forced to flee into the mountains, some twenty years ago. We asked him how he had survived all these years. He said in the first year a family in the mountains took him in and he helped them by chopping wood and doing some farm work. Afterwards the commune below heard rumours about him and wanted to investigate his background. He then escaped to this big mountain and relied on the family to secretly bring him some food, matches and a bit of oil and salt. We asked how he came to be branded a rightist. He said he was doing research on the oracle scripts on tortoise shells and animal bones, at the time he was young and hot-blooded and said a few crazy things about the authorities at a meeting. Everyone said come with us and go back to doing research on your oracle scripts. He stubbornly refused and said he had to harvest the corn because it was his grain supply for the year. He was afraid if he went, it would be trampled by wild pigs. We uproariously said, let them shit on it! He said he had to fetch his clothes. We asked him where they were. He said in a cave under the cliff. If it wasn’t too cold he usually begrudged wearing them. Someone gave him a shirt and got him to tie it around his waist, then we took him back with us to camp.”