Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

Mengliu envisioned her naked body, her skin the colour of golden wheat, the nectar rippling in her full round breasts. He thought of all the women he had sampled as water, flowing wild and wanton during sex. At the moment of climax the buns in their hair would uncoil in a sudden burst, their bodies blossom, and their greedy throats utter a baby-like sound that hummed in his ears. They gripped his hair, raising their bodies and biting his shoulder, and he did not hold back. Sometimes after they had recovered they expressed sweet feelings of love, or politely exchanged stories about their background, laughing together over interesting people or experiences. But he had never again fallen in love with a woman.

When Mengliu pulled himself back to the present, there was nothing in front of him but a fleeting trail of scent. He looked to the door through which Juli had walked, up the gravel path that cut through the grass, and out onto the empty road. He saw that it was an overcast day, as if rain was in the offing. His feelings grew dull, and the pain in his leg became more noticeable. He brewed a pot of fermented tea, then hung around the house sipping from his cup. The green plants that crowded the living room seemed to make the air more stifling. He went to the window to get some fresh air, and in the distance saw flashes in the clouds. He knew it was raining there, and that the bright flashes were moving in his direction.

The art museum was four kilometres away at the foot of the mountain, about a twenty-minute journey in an environmentally-friendly electric vehicle. Mengliu set out to walk there, giving himself time to think. In this way, he could stop if he changed his mind, take a piss, then return home. The bushes gave way to pine forest, and the pine forest to wheat fields. He sat down on the edge of the grass near a field of wheat. Observing closely how the wheat resembled the colour of Juli’s skin, he plucked a spear, and tested its sharp, hard edge with his fingertip. Suddenly the sun came out, and it was as if a brush had swept over the fields, turning them a bright, glaring yellow. They were like a desert, and his gaze was drawn to a straight row of trees in the distance. Perhaps it was an illusion. When he set off again, he could not remember if he had stopped at all. On the left were rolling hills, covered with tall old trees, oak, elm, chestnut, and beech, all clustered together under the rolling wind and extending far into the distance. As he travelled the road between the wheat fields and the hills, he felt he was passing through emptiness. Suddenly, everything was gone. At the same time, two sentences escaped from his mouth:

‘My corpse is here.’

‘My spirit is there.’

He took out his xun and, after polishing it with his fingers, started playing ‘The Pain of Separation’. The tune howled like the wind.

A small road veered to the right, passing through the middle of a forest, sheltered by trees on both sides, the sky visible in the interstices between the branches. The sun shone on the leaves as they were blown by the wind, reminding him of the rustling of the crowd that had filled Round Square. For all this time Mengliu had not been able to picture the moving armored vehicles in detail. His imagination collapsed completely at some point. But the cold wind at this moment seeping into his oxygen-filled brain from across the vast wheat fields made him realise that it was harvest time. To the beat of a cheerful, pleasing rhythm, the rows of wheat were falling in succession, the farmers’ faces full of a festive spirit. The earth would be left empty as the sun turned red, leaving only the low-flying egret to watch over it. Where were the sheaves of harvested wheat? At the celebration, the wine would be thicker than blood, sweet and sticky. A spilled glass of wine would flow like a river, and a word would transform into a corpse. Right or wrong, man or woman, old or young, innocent eyes would open, large and round, silently swept into the rolling, invading waves and returning with them to the sea when the tide turned. Every summer, all of the world’s wheat lowered its head, the flowers withered, fruit remained underdeveloped, insects were more rampant year after year. Summer was meant to be like a woman in the throes of love, wet and thunderous. At this moment, his imagination and the wheat fields were alike bathed in golden radiance, and poetry soared like the birds of the forest.

He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.

‘Hi! Wake up, Mr Yuan. What are you doing snoozing here?’ a girl’s voice asked. As if in a trance, Mengliu found himself still sitting by the road, facing a seemingly boundless wheat field, leaning back against a birch tree that had been stripped of its bark. An ant was walking in circles on his sleeve.

‘Oh, it’s you…’ He stood up, a little embarrassed because he could not recall the girl’s name.

‘I’m going to the art museum. Would you like a ride?’ Her hair was golden and her skin pink, and her dress a little unconventional. She straddled her bike, balancing her toes on the ground. She had a wicker basket full of scrolls. Her elongated features wore an expression of sneaky arrogance.

‘No, it’s all right. Thanks,’ Mengliu said. A plump girl , he thought.

‘You seemed to be brooding…’ The girl cocked her head to one side in a way that made her look like a fat bird. A cloud of curls was flying around her. ‘Are you cooking up a poem or something?’

‘No, no.’ Mengliu did not want to discuss anything related to writing poetry.

‘God, you mean sitting across from such fine scenery, you’re really just sleeping by the roadside?’ The girl straightened her head and peered at Mengliu.

‘Being able to sleep any time, anywhere, means you were good in a past life and have no regrets.’

‘Sounds like you’re talking about a pig,’ she said bluntly.

Mengliu looked at her carefully. ‘More or less.’ He didn’t want her to go on.

‘That’s right. I see that you aren’t like a poet anyway.’ The girl snorted, threw him a contemptuous look and, with a whoosh, the bike was gone.

As if someone had slapped him, Mengliu sat stunned for a while. Using the force of his back against the tree, he pushed himself up and the friction rubbed off some debris. He wanted to scold the girl, but the view of her riding off on the path between the mountain and the wheat field stopped him from doing so. The girl was nothing like Qizi. He had only to see a girl on a bike to think of her though. Sometimes when he saw a bike, or any turning wheels, he would think of her. All young girls would make him think of her.

He lowered his head as he walked, as if he were looking for something on the ground. After a while he came upon an electric vehicle, which was enveloped in youthful laughter. He remembered then that the girl who looked like a fat bird was Juli’s student Rania. She had a sharp tongue, and enjoyed bandying about all sorts of political rhetoric. Mengliu had a very bad impression of such women. It could even be said that he hated them.

Seen from a distance, the Swan Valley Art Museum looked like an egg sitting horizontally, a grey stone shell wrapped around it, free of all attachments, making it seem aloof. The square outside was full of nude sculptures of strange shapes and sizes, and both sides of the path leading to the museum were lined with national flags. It was noiseless, so silent that even the sound of footsteps was swallowed up. Mengliu sat on a wood-coloured bench. The wound on his leg was hurting, and he began to worry that it would continue to rot, right through the flesh, leaving only a skeleton’s leg. Bai Qiu had long ago turned to a skeleton in the earth. His poems had been authorised and published. People read his poetry, but no one questioned why he had died. Mengliu smelled the mixture of sunshine and fresh grass and felt confused by his own presence at this place. Groups of gorgeous men and women walked into the art museum. Some of them waved, seeming to recognise Mengliu, but he ignored them, immersed in his own emotions. When a colourful bird descended with a screech and perched on a statue’s head, he remembered that he had followed Juli here. He stretched his legs and stood up. All of Swan Valley’s exhibition halls were free of charge and open to the public, so he went straight down the promenade covered with a red carpet that led to the museum. There was applause, as the opening ceremony was just ending, and the crowd began to disperse in an orderly way.