Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

His logic had grown muddled and incoherent.

He cried softly, reaching out into the void, his head hanging down feebly. ‘I will stay with you to the end.’

He spoke the last sentence as if from a dream, his voice so low even he could barely hear it, the rest of his words turning to wind between his teeth and lips.

‘Who will write your names in the history books martyrs? Those who write history aren’t your people…You don’t count as good citizens… Everything will be lost.’

When Mengliu rose from his quilt, he found that the room had made a miraculous recovery. The crystal chandelier was lit, the floor was carpeted, the window opened onto the sea again, and the stars in the ceiling sparkled. A pleasant fragrance had returned to the room, the toilet had been cleaned, the books restored to the shelves. For a moment he was startled, thinking he had woken in a wedding chamber. He looked down and saw he was wearing a new robe, its belt tied with a slip knot. His red underwear was new, and just the right size. He couldn’t help fumbling his hands over his face, finding it clean-shaven and his hair slightly damp, as if it had not yet dried after a recent shower. He panicked, wondering who had washed him clean. Who had undressed him without his permission? What had they done?

There were bottles on the night stand, showing that he had been on a drip. The room temperature was just right. He wasn’t hungry and his throat hurt, so he knew they had pumped food into his stomach. He angrily rang the bell. Suitang appeared in the doorway, her long hair flowing, with a cold look on her face. It extinguished his excitement. There was an invisible wall between them. A rush of emotion swirled in his heart, and inflamed his face.

‘You look good. Seems you’ve recovered well.’ She spoke casually, showing no signs that she had been under house arrest. Her eyes were like a rabbit’s, as if blood might drop from them at any moment. ‘You’re taking this too seriously. It’s a poem for the occasion, easy enough to write. Do you really think it’s worth your life…We’re down to the last three days. They will try physical torture. I suggest you eat and drink now. They will whip you, flog you. I hope you can survive the pain.’

What did she say? Whip? Flog? They wanted to use torture on a surgeon, a common citizen? His expression was full of doubt. He didn’t believe the spiritual leader of Swan Valley would be stupid enough to threaten torture. Brutal tactics should be used on important people, but he was just a powerless foreigner. He wondered whether it was really Suitang who had come. He couldn’t tell what was illusion and what was real. ‘I hope you didn’t betray yourself.’

Suitang didn’t answer, but continued with her own train of conversation. ‘You think this pettiness can make you noble and great, cleansing you of your past cowardice and indifference…It’s just wishful thinking. If you write your Swan Song poem, you can preserve yourself and leave Swan Valley. At least your poetry will save your life.’

He thought Suitang must have been put under a magic spell to make her say those words. Once her sense of justice and art and order had disappeared, she grew dim, and her beauty turned tacky. She had already returned to the vanity of material things. The people of her generation simply didn’t have ideals, and she was puzzled by his assertiveness and sense of mystery. Because she had never loved through troubled times, she would feel the deep love of an Akhmatova or a Pasternak to be ridiculous. He said goodbye to her, then calmly acknowledged that he was willing to die. He would leave no trace, nor would he need anyone to mourn for him.

26

At ten the next morning, the simian-like Sama visited. His appearance was startling. His hair was tied up with a black headband, and his face painted with Chinese opera makeup. The hook-shaped eyebrows made him look quite handsome. He wore a blood-coloured robe with a broad belt around the waist, and sleeves of the kind worn by actors in a martial role. His feet, clad in high boots, moved unsteadily. Mengliu had seen Chinese opera and thought his outfit an insult to it.

Sama pulled his expression into a smile and winked conspiratorially. Then he told Mengliu he first needed to complete a ritual, which was to recite poetry for his arms to hear, so that when they were filled with emotion they would not be too harsh. These words seemed as crazy to Mengliu as Sama’s appearance, so he interrupted the recitation, and asked Sama what was going on. Sama replied, ‘Today is the day you’ll be whipped. For a professional thug, this would be nothing special, but for a poetry-lover like myself, it is a rare honour.’ He started reading again, and it was actually a verse from ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’. He finished with a flourish, then from behind his waistband he drew out a bamboo cane and flexed it until it formed a circle. As he released it, the cane made a whooshing sound, and created a tremor in the room.

Mengliu was gripped with horror. He asked weakly, ‘Where will you strike?’

‘The whole body.’

‘How many strokes?’

Sama, casting a charming glance his way, replied, ‘It depends on your endurance.’

As he saw Mengliu’s face slowly lengthening, like one who is making a vow to die without surrendering, Sama expressed the admiration he felt deep in his heart. He thought Mengliu possessed the appropriate attitude for a poet under the threat of flogging. He believed in a poet’s moral courage, so he had decided to help the poor fellow. As if by magic, he pulled out a bottle of red pigment and whispered, ‘You’ve got to cooperate. Each time I whip you, you should scream, and you’ll need to show agony on your face too if you’re going to fool them.’ A look vaguely like love appeared on his face, and he used his shoulder to give Mengliu an intimate push as he quietly hid the paint.

‘Now we go on stage.’

‘On stage?’

‘Yes. Where I will whip you.’

Woodenly, Mengliu followed Sama out of the room. The frozen lake was smooth as a mirror, with the light of the sun reflecting off it in a surreal glare. His dazzled eyes could barely adapt to the landscape around him. He hung his head as he walked. The cracks between the stones underfoot made him dizzy. Lashing? At first he thought this was a good word, that they wanted to encourage him. When he saw the bamboo cane, he understood it to be a whipping, like they might do to animals. But that wasn’t anything very different. Once you’ve landed in the hands of people who’ll use any means to control you, it doesn’t really matter what they call it. ‘Yes, the place where you will be beaten.’ He thought the effeminate tone sounded like it was describing a place where peach blossoms were in bloom, a place full of beauty and longing. But that was true enough too, since bruises would soon blossom across his back. If the cane was equipped with metal hooks, the blossoms would mature into rotted fruit. Perhaps his innards would gush out, flowing from his body. When this came to mind, he became unusually calm. He did not intend to accept Sama’s kindness, and to emit shrill screams to fake his pain. That sort of idea insulted a dignified man greatly. He hoped he would lose consciousness in a moving and tragic way with the first stroke, leaving his body to its fate. He really wished Qizi could see the scene, a poet enduring a beating without uttering the slightest groan.

They crossed a stone bridge. A lake. A forest. During the days of confinement Mengliu had grown accustomed to talking to himself, and now he was chattering all along the way.

‘A lost decade. My fiancée. She’s alive. I know she’s been alive all this time…She couldn’t come back, couldn’t get in touch with me, couldn’t find me. She knows I’m waiting for her. You don’t think so? Why would you say that? Do you know what love is? Everyone plays around a bit, but other than that? When disaster strikes…What Jia Wan said was right. He told me not to go out that night, that something big was going down…If I’d gone to warn her instead of collapsing into a deep sleep at home…The reason I didn’t go with them to the court was not because of cowardice… it’s because I really didn’t know, and I really didn’t believe that kind of thing would happen…no one believed it. They were innocent as doves…Now they’re lost to the sky…’