Gao Xingjian - One Man

"Get into bed, then," Xiao Xiao said, heaving a sigh.

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the woman bolt the door. The switch was by the door, but the light hanging from the ceiling pasted with yellowing old newspaper did not go out. Xiao Xiao ignored him, and, straight away, stripped. He gave a start; for a moment, he did not see the scar in the shadow at the base of her breast. While he was untying his shoelaces, Xiao Xiao got on the bed, spread the bedding, then lay on her back and covered herself.

"Aren't you married?" the woman said, staring with her eyes wide open.

He made no response. He felt humiliated and wanted revenge, but he couldn't understand why. He roughly pulled away the bedding and threw himself on the woman's body. What came into his mind was the body of that other girl in the production-brigade storehouse by the road, all his repressed violence poured into this woman's body…

Her eyes closed, Xiao Xiao said, "You can relax, even if I were to become pregnant you wouldn't need to worry about it. I'm used to abortions."

He examined the skin and flesh of this woman who was a stranger to him. The pink nipples and the protrusions dotting the dark-brown aureoles were hard, but the breasts were white and soft. It was then that he saw the inch-long, pale-brown scar below the breast. He didn't touch it, and stopped himself from asking how she had got it.

Xiao Xiao said nothing frightened her anymore, and it didn't matter to her if the neighbors wanted to talk. However, he said he was married, and if the neighborhood committee reported him to his work unit, his application for divorce would fall through. When he put on his clothes, Xiao Xiao was still lying in bed, she seemed to be smiling, but the corners of her mouth were turned down.

"Will you come again?" Xiao Xiao asked. "I never see any of my former school friends and I'm very lonely."

He didn't ever go back to Xiao Xiao's home and even avoided going past Drum Tower. He was afraid of bumping into her and not knowing what to say to her.

It was with difficulty that he pulled off the mask he had put on his face. This false skin was a sheath of molded plastic, mass-produced to standard specifications, elastic, and able to stretch and contract as required. Wearing it gave the appearance of an upright, correct, positive character, which could be deployed in various roles-whether for the masses, such as workers, peasants, shop personnel, university and office personnel, or intellectuals, such as teachers, editors, and reporters. By putting on a stethoscope, one became a doctor, by replacing the stethoscope with a pair of glasses, one became a professor or a writer. The glasses were optional, but the mask was obligatory. Only bad elements in society, such as thieves, hooligans, and public enemies of the people, were entitled to rip off this mask. This was the most commonly used mask, probably made of high-density polyethylene and indestructible even if hammered.

He toyed with the mask, scrunched up his eyes, uncertain if he was still capable of normal human expressions. However, he refused to put on some new mask, such as political dissident, cultural broker, prophet, or member of the new rich.

Having removed the mask, he could not help feeling somewhat awkward. He was tense and didn't know what to do, but, for better or worse, he had discarded hypocrisy, anxiety, and unnecessary restraint. He had no leader, because he was not controlled by the Party or some organization. He had no hometown, because his parents were dead. And he had no family. He had no responsibilities, he was alone, but he was free and easy, he could go wherever he wanted, he could drift on the wind. As long as others did not create problems for him, he would resolve his own problems, and if he could resolve his own problems, then everything else would be insignificant, everything else would be inconsequential.

He no longer shouldered any burdens, and had cancelled emotional debts by purging his past. If he again loved or embraced a woman, it would only be if this was what she wanted, and she accepted him. Otherwise, at most, it would be going for coffee or beer in a cafe, having a chat, a bit of a flirt, then each going their separate ways.

He wrote because he needed to. It was the only way he could enjoy total freedom; he didn't write for a livelihood. He also did not use his pen as a weapon to fight for some cause, and he didn't have a sense of mission. He wrote for his own pleasure, talking to himself so that he could listen to and observe himself. It was a means of experiencing those feelings of the little life that remained for him.

The only thing in his past he didn't break with was the language. He could, of course, write in another language, but he didn't abandon his language, because it was convenient and he didn't need to look up words in a dictionary. However, conventional language did not suit him, and he had to look for his own voice. He wanted to listen intently to what he was saying, as if he were listening to music, but he found language always lacking in refinement. He was certain that one day he would abandon language and rely on other media to convey his feelings.

He admired the agile bodies of some performers, especially dancers. He would love to be able to use his body to freely express himself: to casually stumble, fall over, get up, and go on dancing. However, age was unrelenting, and he could very well end up injuring himself. He was no longer capable of dancing, and could only somersault about in language. Language was light and portable, and it had him under its spell. He was a carnival performer in language, an incurable addict, he had to talk, and even alone he was always talking to himself. This inner voice had become the affirmation of his existence. He had already formed the habit of transforming his feelings into language, and not to do so left him feeling unfulfilled, but the joy it brought him was like groaning or calling out when making love.

He is sitting in front of you, looking right at you, and laughing loudly in the mirror.

The place is New York. On the first day, it is ten degrees below zero, and snowing, and the very next, it suddenly turns warm. Dirty lumps of ice are everywhere, your shoes become soggy, and you have to buy a pair of heavy boots because of the lousy weather… You prefer the mild Paris winter. There are large numbers of Chinese here, and, from time to time, on the streets, you hear the speech of Beijing, Shanghai, Shandong, and even the He'nan village dialect spoken near the reform-through-labor farm where you were once sent. Also, there is every kind of Chinese food you can think of, even crab-roe dumplings and hand-shaved noodles. Chinatowns are everywhere, whether downtown in Manhattan, or in Flushing, Queens.

This is China, more Chinese than China, as Chinese New Yorkers construct their own virtual hometowns.

You don't have a hometown, and, in America, you do not have to put on a play with Chinese actors. You wanted local Western actors, and had hoped they would find a uniquely American woman to play the lead role. But it was after the premiere that you again saw the beautiful Linda. She was one-quarter Turkish, and you first met her at a drama festival in Italy, at the dinner following the performance of your play. She came over to your table, embraced you, kissed you passionately on both cheeks, and said, "I loved your play. If you ever come to New York to put on a play, don't forget to look me up!"

You were delighted to see her so visibly moved, and had not forgotten to give the theater group her telephone number and address.

However, nobody called her, and she also missed the advertisement for auditions. There are just so many beautiful women in New York, and plenty of good actors. She came to the performance, and wept after it had ended, but you were not sure whether it was because she had seen you, or the play, or because she was sorry she had missed the chance to perform in the play. In any case, you, too, were deeply moved.