Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

Their house was full of poetry books. Rania would readily pick one up and start reading. It was if she read the poems full of sexual content especially for Mengliu’s hearing, to stir his tired body. To begin with, as soon as he heard her reading poetry he would leave the house for long enough to become exhausted. There was no way to coexist peacefully with her. He had submitted a request for separation, but it was rejected by the Genetics Governing Body, so he ended up writing a confession letter instead, and here his attitude toward poetry became even more ambiguous. He knew Rania was trying to stimulate him, to stoke his desire and inspiration for poetry, but her efforts were futile. She was overly concerned with whether or not he would write poetry, and this lead him to feel it was all a conspiracy, including the marriage. The doubts snowballed in him. As he thought of the mysterious unknown spiritual leader, of the landfill in the forest, the strange pension system, he often touched the edges of a memory that remained a huge blank patch, like a hole where a tooth was missing. It was chilling.

In the midst of this boring, tedious stalemate, he thought of organising a meeting or holding a spiritual forum. This would also be the best way to keep out of Rania’s way. First he would call together the leaders or heads of the various households, then choose a suitable theme for the forum. They would settle on a place with attractive scenery to stay for a few days, and send the conclusion of their discussion to be published in the news so that everyone could learn from it. The first meeting went well, the baptism of spirit reflected in their gloomy but energetic faces. Since no specific problems had arisen for them to solve, they had to come up with plans for possible rainy-day scenarios. The meetings began on a monthly schedule, and soon moved to once a week, running for two or three days at a time. They were held in various parts of the country, with large or small groups as suited the situation. The groups might include a director of social studies, a chief body-guard, a medical foreman, the Head of a Thousand Households, and multiple subordinate leaders under the Heads of a Hundred Households. It was mandatory for those invited to attend, each submitting their thoughts over the past week, giving spiritual reports on the public, asking questions and making suggestions. They put special emphasis on investigating and researching those whose spiritual condition and interests were of a low level. Individual counselling and exchange would be carried out based on gender and place, with the development of a spiritual model and benchmarks for future members to learn from.

Mengliu’s work was impeccable. From a life of leisure he had suddenly become very busy. He ran an efficient operation. In just a short time he solved all the spiritual crises that might arise over the next fifty years. They were stockpiling, their minds steaming forward. They were bending over backwards to advance the spiritual work of Swan Valley. The influence of this attitude was widespread, and a lot of people from different places came to learn from them. Darae was the hospitality and logistics manager. He preferred cooking to sculpting, and he often greeted guests with a display of ‘Darae’s settling of a rabbit’, while privately practising his next feat, ‘the settling of a sparrow’. He was preparing to show off his skill at the annual work report. Mengliu and Darae worked well together. But then a rift occurred, because a group of important officials were coming to do an inspection. Mengliu panicked, and ordered a vigorous city-wide urban sanitation, whitewashing, road repairs, planting of trees and flowers, and the preparation of Darae’s specialities for a hospitality banquet.

‘What is a specialty? What’s a banquet?’ Darae was already against lavishness, and he could not quite adapt to Mengliu’s changes.

‘A specialty is something different from the norm,’ Mengliu said solemnly, stroking the embroidery on his robes with his fingertips. ‘In my opinion, we should kill a lion, and prepare bear claws, tigers’ testes and penises, sharks, whale meat…’

Darae exclaimed loudly that the Swanese never ate such things. Mengliu said they should serve everything fresh. He wanted someone to be sent to the woods immediately to find hunters, and then to the wharves to look for fishermen, to tell them what to deliver. Darae said that no one in Swan Valley hunted or fished. Mengliu broke into laughter. ‘Can any place be without hunters and fishermen? Darae, in order to be an excellent chef, in addition to your rabbit you must know how to cook a variety of rare and valuable animals. A chef must possess the skills to cook anything in the world. He should even be able to make timber taste like pork fat. Of course that’s just an illustration, but you do know what I mean?’

‘Mr Yuan, this is your wish, but people cannot eat just anything,’ Darae replied. ‘I know you’re trying to manipulate the laws put in place to prohibit the killing of animals in order to satisfy the extravagant tastes of the rich and powerful. That is a performance that has no boundaries or beliefs.’ Darae would not pander to the dignitaries. He believed that as long as a person was sincere what they ate was secondary. He had recently gone to painstaking efforts to learn a few new dishes, different from those he had cooked in the past, and he would put these on display. Darae’s suggestion allowed Mengliu to back down gracefully, so he relented. He asked him to list the names of the dishes. Darae explained in detail how each was cooked, the nutritional value, the colour and taste. He went at full throttle for a long time, and didn’t seem to be talking about recipes, but about the gospel of good health. He put his ideas into the preparation of his dishes, hoping that the diners would feel that they were not just eating food, but culture.

‘Of course, if dinner included poetry slams and readings, then the characteristics of the feast and the flavour of the food would really emerge.’ Darae was adamant in his ideas. ‘Mr Yuan, you are a poet, a cultural official. If you don’t object…’

Mengliu didn’t say anything. Afterwards Darae really did as he said he would, so Mengliu claimed he was unwell and went home. He could hear the rhythm of the recitations, like the solemn rich beat of a watchman’s drum, filling the space around him.

The following week this outstanding model of ‘the meeting’ was promoted all over Swan Valley. Mengliu was elevated from Head of a Hundred Households to Head of a Thousand Households. He was given a new robe. Its collar and cuffs were still covered with a bird motif, but this time it was a phoenix with gorgeous feathers in a noble pose. Mengliu couldn’t differentiate between dream and reality anymore, as if he were starring in a drama. After frolicking about in his robe, he went to Su Juli’s house and found her inside drinking tea with Esteban. Although they congratulated him, they seemed somewhat indifferent to his success. He sat for a while, but felt bored and could not find anything to say.

When he returned home, Rania’s expression pleased him. She was obedient and thoughtful, and meticulous in her attentions. They even began to chat calmly about life. When Rania suddenly put her hand to her mouth and rushed into the bathroom, her face flushed, he knew immediately that she was pregnant.

‘The government’s aim is accurate.’ He followed her and, standing outside the bathroom door, took a nonchalant stance.

She stopped retching. ‘What aim?’

‘Hey, it’s highly efficient. There’s no excitement, no frustration, no prelude, and no climax. Everything is cultivated successfully according to the will of Swan Valley.’ Mengliu leant against the door frame, smiled cheekily, and said, ‘But having a child without putting effort into the creative process is really shameful. You see, Swan Valley has played me for a fool.’