Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

‘Those who strike in hatred will be sadder in the nether world.’ Shanlai stopped reading and asked the person grinding, ‘Why is it called the nether world?’

‘Legend says there are nine levels of heaven above, and nine levels of hell below. Amongst the odd numbers the greatest is nine, and the nether world is the deepest of the nine levels below. All who die must go there.’

‘Wherever you go, I will go too,’ Shanlai said. Then he continued asking about the book he had been reading, ‘The poet Yu Xin was a great deserter, and forgot his loyalty to the aspiring politician Wang Shao. Should he be considered a pathetic coward?’

‘This…you can ask Mr Yuan.’ He continued grinding as he replied, turning the millstone in circles.

When he once again passed through the pillar of light, Mengliu saw that the person with the white hair and beard was Esteban. Noticing that Mengliu was too surprised to speak, Esteban stopped, and used a cowhide brush to sweep the flour off him, from head to foot. Like the cold and snow disappearing from a person who comes home on a stormy night, the young Esteban stood there, black hair poking out from the thorn-like golden barbs of the crown around his head.

Mengliu secretly wondered why Esteban was doing a mule’s work. Why was he wearing a golden crown, with his hands bound in golden chains, dressed like a prisoner? Had he committed some crime?

‘Mr Yuan, was Yu Xin a coward?’ Shanlai asked.

A shadow of embarrassment crossed Mengliu’s face. He wanted to brush Shanlai off, but Esteban seemed to take the question seriously. He was watching them, and looked calm as he waited for the answer.

‘Well…in a sense it could be said that he was a coward, abandoning his armour…though even if he stayed, he might not have been able to keep them from destroying his home city…he was miserable and his family ruined and three of his children were executed,’ Mengliu said.

‘He was miserable? He lost his country? Wasn’t he eventually roped in to be an important government official?’ Shanlai responded quickly. His comment gripped Mengliu.

‘Yes. He was in great conflict and suffered all his life. He developed a split personality. One side of him hated the rebels who invaded his homeland, the other gratefully sang the praises of its new rulers, then he hated himself for it late at night when he was alone. Of course, if he had been killed in battle you would not now be able to read such compelling poetry,’ Esteban said, renewing his work of grinding the grain, still with a calm demeanour.

For a while no one spoke, they just listened to the sound of the millstone. The white flour fell slowly from it, covering the whole room.

‘Shanlai, many things are not as simple as they seem. We might have been less decent than he was. Yu Xin’s mental suffering is hard for outsiders to understand. A single poem could not alleviate his pain.’ Yuyue had walked into the room, breaking the silence. ‘But if he had not written about it, nor found some other release, he would have gone crazy.’

‘I cannot like anything written by a deserter,’ Shanlai said. ‘Some people stop writing, and seem to manage to live happily enough without suffocating.’

‘Oh…because the lies of a contrary spirit can never become good poetry. Some people need a long time to think things over…’ Yuyue was like a fire extinguisher.

‘A real poet would not use poetry to spread lies…It’s all about attitude.’ Esteban came back from the shadows into the light.

Mengliu had not expected the arrow to be pointed at him the whole time, but now he understood that he was in a trap. They had not come to this place by chance. Perhaps the rare creatures Yuyue had spoken of were these two people, Esteban and Shanlai. Together they had captured and trained a fly to recite poetry, and whenever they got the opportunity, they let it out to buzz in his ears. They were crazy. Regardless of the time or place, they would talk about poetry or the spirit, and make him feel awkward. He would rather talk to them about the basic needs and freedoms of the body, or why Esteban was wearing golden chains and pushing a millstone. What crime had he committed, he wanted to ask, but he suddenly found it was too private an issue for the level of friendship he shared with Esteban, not to mention the fact that the atmosphere didn’t suit the change of subjects.

He stood there stiffly. Now his mind was pounding with the sound of sloshing water. Which of you is worthy to talk to me about poetry? You sprouts in the greenhouse, you people of talk and no action, have you seen its blaze, or heard its roar? None of you have touched the soul of poetry and its wounds. None of you have tasted it. There isn’t anyone who is above the material attractions of the world. Our last great poet died nobly. He stood in the night as a testament. You’re just a bunch of busybodies full of useless knowledge.

17

It seemed Juli had gone missing. The stove in her house was cold and lifeless.

From time to time Mengliu took out the letter he had found under the tree in the forest. The initial shock it had caused now turned to suspicion. Increasingly he came to feel that the allegations it contained regarding the real business of the nursing home were quite impossible. How could it be like that? The letter was full of deranged comments. He recalled the strange scene in the forest, but whenever he tried to expand his memory of it in an attempt to verify the experience and put it into perspective, it was like fishing for the moon in water. When he lowered a finger to its surface, the moon dispersed. He could not even confirm where the letter had come from. Perhaps it was a novelist’s discarded draft, or a drunkard’s ramblings, or the product of a random graffitist’s whim. He put a pot of tea on to steep. He thought about the contents of the letter as he drank his tea. He was still troubled. He did not feel grounded. But he stopped feeling that way after drinking half a cup.

The sky was very overcast. The cold pierced him like a knife. Mengliu stoked the fire in the fireplace with dry wood, and noticed that it was now snowing outside. The snowflakes hit the ground like beans, making the leaves crackle. After half an hour, it turned downy and continued to fall. Soon, other than the great white snowflakes, there was nothing else to see outside.

It was the morning of the third day before the snow really stopped. The sun shot out through a layer of ice, the cloudless sky was a thin transparent blue. There was a sharp tranquility to the cold wind. The earth was swollen with the snow cover, making the black strip of the river seem thinner. The silver hair of the willows floated on the wind, and the hills looked like a sleeping woman, her curves rising and falling.

When Juli came back at last, Mengliu was warming himself by the fire as he read. Perhaps because she was wearing so many layers, she looked plump, thick around the waist, and a little clumsy. He stood up quickly. The tip of her nose was so cold it was red. She looked at him dully, her eyes like solidified chocolate, as if a layer of autumn ice had formed over a pond. There were no withered lotus leaves in this landscape. There was only a clean vastness.

‘Where did you go?’ He wanted to ask her why she had vanished without a word, but he suddenly remembered that he was the one who had been drawn away to the hospital, so he couldn’t blame her. He changed tack, saying he had almost registered her with missing persons. Looking like someone who had just returned from a long journey and was extremely tired, she sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace and closed her eyes. He didn’t say anything else, but took a blanket and covered her. He noticed that her face was also slightly swollen, and felt that she must have been in a great deal of trouble.