Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

As Suitang walked, she repeatedly asked what military grounds had to do with the nursing home. The spiritual leader was full of hot air, just a pretentious fool. Suddenly remembering she said, ‘Isn’t he that robot person you mentioned?’

Mengliu nodded. He couldn’t retell the whole of his conversation with the robot. Perhaps he wasn’t a robot. The voice had been manipulated. Maybe he was a woman, but he had the cold processes of a machine. He remembered it had said it wanted to save him, to allow him a renaissance as a poet. That had developed into an argument about enslavement and freedom. A lot of information rushed into his head at the same time. To avoid watching eyes and listening ears, there were some things he could only discuss with Suitang in private. For now, he knew nothing about their situation, why they had been brought here, and what the military grounds had to do with the nursing home. Suitang’s thoughts were even more bizarre. She said she feared that they had been put here for genetic testing, perhaps even to be disembowelled, their flesh flayed, tortured until they were neither humans nor ghosts, and then tossed into the incinerators like medical waste. When she said this, it made her own hair stand on end.

They crossed through a stand of low trees on a path with snow piled up on either side. Their sweat had not yet dried, making their icy clothes cling to their bodies, freezing them both through and through. After five minutes, they were separated, and another robot led Suitang away. In a building that looked like an ancient castle, the robot opened the door to a room, then stood at the door without moving, as if standing guard. Mengliu went into the room and, to his surprise, was greeted by dazzling luxury. There were rugs, crystal lamps, murals, large divans, bookcases and a desk set before an expansive window, skirted by a tasselled curtain, through which he could see an azure sea. There was a card on the table, prompting him to ring the bell to call for assistance. He tried pressing the button, and someone answered him from outside the room. He knew what all this was about, but he was certainly not going to be taking this approach. He had no interest in pleasure. His spirit had died long ago. He could not be bought. He only wanted to go on living. He had to pretend he didn’t know anything. The less you know the safer, was always an irrefutable truth.

‘What is it they want?’ It was hot in the room. He began to sweat again, so he removed his coat and spread himself out on the bed. The crystal lights in the ceiling were like ice, and looking at them gave him a chill. The ceiling panels were dark blue, filled with twinkling stars. He lay there thinking for a while, at a loss and feeling irritable. His stomach rumbled, so he rang the bell and asked for food, then went to the window and looked at the sea. Maybe he could find some inspiration there, but he found that the sea was actually air-brushed on the glass, and even the window was fake. Behind it was a blocked-up wall. He turned to the bookshelf and found Paul Celan and Walt Whitman amongst the books arranged there. He felt a surge of joy, which soon turned to horror. They even knew his favourite poets. He refused to touch them, but quickly suppressed the disgust inside him, then reached out and fingered the spines of other books. He pulled out The Golden Lotus . There was no doubt in his mind the room had surveillance equipment and that spies somewhere were observing his every move. If they were really doing genetic experiments, then it would be necessary to observe him too. He stopped at the thought of genetic experiments, shuddering a little. He had done experiments on animals, and many of humanity’s medical advancements had first been made on animals such as dogs, rabbits, rats…He personally had done experimental surgery on a dog, opening it up four times, the last of which was to remove the pancreas, draining the animal of life. The dog was continuously sick after surgery, lying down, or swaying as it walked. Up until it died it still wagged its tail each time it saw him. At the time he felt he had been cruel, and that sooner or later retribution would come. Perhaps this was his day of reckoning.

He put the book back, then pressed the bell again. He asked to talk to someone. While he was waiting for a response, he worried about Suitang, and at the same time thought of Qizi, of the time they had sat together in the interrogation room chatting, fearless. He remembered how she looked when she spoke, expressive and full of banter, her temper not as loud as her voice, stomping her feet in her tantrum, delicate and charming. How did a weak little girl suddenly become so big and independent? Her voice gathered strength. She used hand gestures to awaken her sleepy eyes, letting everyone know that the faeces question was a human rights issue. At the time he thought it was funny, but he wasn’t laughing now.

The door opened, and the person who entered carried a whole roasted rabbit, the flesh cut off and accompanied by the complete frame of its skeleton, brown and shiny with oil, with a special sauce and a plate of the local dough sticks. From the artful way it had been carved, he could tell this was Darae’s work, and was even more certain of that fact after tasting it. From that moment he knew he was still a valued guest in Swan Valley. He ate and drank, leaving his utensils in a mess, and thinking all the while. This time he was determined to get to the bottom of things.

He heard a familiar voice coming from the corner.

‘Mr Yuan, now do you understand a little better? Our motive is simple. We just want you to write an ode for the increasingly large number of people in Swan Valley — you could call it ‘Google’s Swan Song’ — to be sung at the five-hundredth anniversary of our valley-building, which we will celebrate next month. You can use the opportunity to restore your identity and your glory as a poet. I can say for certain that your reappearance in the poetry world will be a fabulous event.’ The spiritual leader was uncharacteristically gentle, full of patience and amicability. ‘Your memory has been recorded. I have seen your whole history. Many years ago you wrote the poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls”, then when you left Round Square you also left poetry. But there is one minor issue — why were your actions and your poetry in such contradiction?’

He couldn’t answer. He felt that his privacy had been invaded, and he had been stripped naked in public. Looking around for an excuse he glanced at the ceiling and saw that a certain star up there was emitting a weak red light. He knew there were eyes on him.

‘Never mind if you don’t answer Mr Yuan, there are pen and paper on the desk. You can start composing your Swan Song any time you like.’

‘Surely it’s not just machines? Is anyone here?’ he asked aloud. ‘I want to talk to someone. Where is Suitang? I need to see her.’

‘She is fine. After you have finished writing, you will meet.’

‘Goodness is the highest virtue in Swan Valley, but you illegally place a citizen under house arrest. It won’t be good for you if this is made public.’

‘You don’t need to worry about that. We’re being very hospitable to you. We’ve given you the finest food Swan Valley has to offer, and the most comfortable lodgings,’ the spiritual leader said in a tepid tone. ‘Look how quiet it is here, much more conducive to writing than your West Wing. As long as you don’t ring the bell no one will disturb you.’

A sudden apprehension rose in Mengliu. Testing just how much the spiritual leader actually knew, he said, ‘What West Wing?’

‘You wouldn’t have forgotten that. There was an acacia tree in the courtyard, and you kept a pot with a rose that refused to bloom.’

‘No! You’re wrong. It did bloom! It bloomed!’ Unable to bear the slanderous remarks against the rose, he interrupted without thinking. ‘It bloomed, and it was…’