Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

Three of the walls in the office were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the books there stood in neat rows.

‘Have a seat. You’re a poet. Have a look at this. How do you explain it?’ The old man handed him a bunch of records. His accent was from the west of England.

Letting a poet look at medical records is to treat him like God! was what Mengliu thought, but he simply said, his manner not lacking sincerity, ‘I was just a surgeon at a small hospital. I’ve not studied infectious diseases. I don’t dare to offer a professional opinion.’

‘Don’t be so humble. Michael has never been wrong in his judgement of people.’ Yuyue leaned her rump against the desk, propping her feet on the floor, making herself seem extraordinarily slender.

Mengliu guessed her relationship with Michael wasn’t strictly professional.

‘Dr Yuan, modesty is not a virtue. It will only affect your ability to judge.’

The medical records all displayed similar symptoms — cough, fever, chills, black blood, and some had blisters on their bodies.

‘It looks like a new infectious disease. If we can locate its point of origin, it will be easier to deal with.’ Mengliu wished to be done with the matter. He felt it was a smokescreen, and that the really important information was to be found in the nursing home. ‘You have to find the source and learn how to control it, and then at the appropriate time inform the people about the epidemic, then you can begin to limit the spread of the disease by disseminating information on prevention, and following up with frequent reminders.’

‘Several of the newly admitted patients have identical symptoms. Besides the fever and cough, they experience vomiting and diarrhoea and other symptoms similar to food poisoning.’ Yuyue now sat on a wicker chair, with her arms draped over the armrests. With her knees pressed together, she angled her legs in a glamorous pose. ‘The patients are unconscious or confused, unable to say anything coherent.’ She finished and smiled. She was a queen.

‘Hundreds of years ago, a village tailor in England received a piece of foreign cloth. Four days later he died. By the end of the month, six were dead. A swathe of fabric brought the plague into the village, and eventually led to the death of all the people there. So we should consider whether this situation might play out in a similar fashion.’ The old man picked up his magnifying glass and slowly swept it over his book again. His manner was unhurried. ‘The seriousness of the situation should not be underestimated. Dr Yuan, I’m putting you in charge of this matter. Your room has been prepared. Yuyue will send you the relevant information shortly. You probably don’t know, but the status of a poet in Swan Valley is on par with that of the Dalai Lama in Tibet.’ He raised his head and, with an effort, looked at Mengliu. ‘If you tell the patients you are a great poet, they will conceal nothing from you. That is the main reason I wanted you to be involved.’

Mengliu felt his hands and feet grow cold, as if he was in the grip of a nightmare.

‘I feel it is necessary that we perform a test, so that we can eliminate inferior individuals. This would be consistent with how the natural world works.’ Yuyue straightened her legs and stood up from the wicker chair, as if she were going to see a guest off on Michael’s behalf.

The director’s flattery and Yuyue’s sudden fierce opinion left Mengliu dumbstruck. He stood there in embarrassment and, with great difficulty, spoke his mind. He asked to see the patient who had been admitted that day, the one dressed in black. ‘While the patient is awake and can speak, perhaps we can get important information from him.’

But the answer he received was that the patient had died suddenly and had already been cremated.

16

The smell of pinewood and pale green smoke was scattered throughout the city. In the depth of winter, all of the fireplaces were astir. Regardless of whether it was freezing rain or snow falling outside, the ward was warm and dry. The soft mattresses imparted a saffron and orange scent to the air. It was as if the patients were living in their own homes. The books on the shelves were changed at regular intervals, the patients could also go to the hospital’s library to read or to borrow a book themselves. There were different patterns on the curtains for the patients to choose from, each room had its own private bathroom, fitted with a white porcelain toilet and basin, a half-length wall mirror, and anti-slip floor tiles colour-coordinated to match the wall tiles. A small closet held earthenware art, and sandalwood or lavender incense was lit on a stone shelf, eliminating all unwanted odours. Here a patient’s stay was undoubtedly a pleasure. Wealthy Swan Valley might have some aspects of life which were not quite satisfying, but no one would mind too much. They all had it rather easy. There was no pressure, and no worries about money. Everyone tried to outdo the other in artistic, spiritual, or moral excellence.

The windows of the ward offered a variety of views. The yellow rays of the sun shone obliquely from the sky and entered the forest, where a thin fog shimmered like the heat produced by the sun. In fact the sun had cooled long ago, and was left there without warmth. An unfamilar bird hopped amongst the dead wood and dry leaves, uttering a shrill sad horrible cry, caw caw caw , as if it wanted to rip the human heart to shreds. When the bird call ceased, the world outside the window seemed to fall into a decayed submarine state, with the living creatures swimming about in it in a slow and orderly fashion. The wildflowers that opened there held a trace of loneliness. Mengliu thought of the girl Yuyue. She and the wildflower alike could blossom or wither and it wouldn’t matter. It only mattered that they were lovely now. Every morning and evening she washed her face with fruit juice. She was a vegetarian and did not touch fried or spicy foods. She read the Bible, and was like a lotus springing up out of clear water, exuding a fruity fragrance.

She was waiting to record the patients’ histories, but she had discovered nothing. Some of the patients talked nonsense, and looked at the doctor with disdain. She repeatedly hinted that he should reveal to them that he was a poet, and he brooded over this for a long time, but he never had the courage to say ‘I am a poet,’ or anything like it. Asking an accomplished doctor to proclaim himself a poet in front of his patients seemed to Mengliu humiliating and awkward. When he was young he had already become aware of the fact that people no longer respected poets. They suffered a worse fate than the common people. They were even regarded as rogue elements, who were fanning the anti-revolutionary flames. They were good-for-nothings, and that’s why many remade themselves as businessmen. Now they were bosses, entrepreneurs and merchants, burying their poetry beneath their pillows, not bringing it even a half-step out of the bedroom. They were duplicitous all day long, expressing scorn for poetry when they were out drinking with friends, except perhaps for a line of coarse doggerel. All art was just a sick pretence. They gradually fell in love with this life, business was the main disguise they wore. They maintained an ambiguous attitude — and a discreet distance from the affairs of the nation, holding on tight to their women and children, while they watched the stock market as if their lives depended on it and engaged in a little antique collecting, or calligraphy, or landscape painting. They never bothered to open a book, unless it was the passbook to their bank accounts.

Mengliu took off his stethoscope and mask and walked out of the ward, feeling that his cooperation could come to an end now. Infectious disease was like poetic inspiration — he had no wish to catch either. He would have to tell those superstitious people that poetry was rubbish, not even as useful as a rag. He was angry, and as he took off his white lab coat, his tight black sweater looked like it was about to burst. Yuyue chased him outside, her feet were moving quickly. She was like a hovering fairy, with a calm expression and not a strand of hair out of place in her bob. He thought she was going to stop him, but she smiled sweetly, showing her teeth, as if she appreciated his actions. He was surprised she was on his side, and a little flattered. If he had met a girl like this earlier he would be thinking happily now about how to get into her pants, but he just said sternly, ‘You confuse me, Yuyue. You’re on the wrong side.’