Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

He stopped Sama for a moment, wanting him to talk about the time he had found the notebook, who the dead person was, why he had died, and where he had lived, but Sama didn’t know. Curious why a small book could be of such interest to his idol, Sama said, ‘We often find dead foreigners in the forest.’

They soon reached their destination. The theatre was completely empty.

The curtain opened. The backdrop on the stage was of a dark cell, its wall painted with angry script. A spotlight fell on it, illuminating a ladder, over which was draped a rope, the props for a flogging. The spotlight swept to stage left. There was an old narrow table, on which was a pen and paper, and a vase of unopened rosebuds.

Backstage, Mengliu was changed into a white frog suit, then moved toward the ladder, under the dim sleepy dust swirling in the lighted air around him. He turned his back to the empty seats in the theatre. There was a hole in his clothing, exposing his bare back, buttocks, and hips. He was like a wooden puppet going through an out-of-body experience. Under Sama’s guidance he faced the ladder, arms straight and legs splayed, and allowed himself to be tied to the rungs. Sama patted his buttocks several times, then pinched, testing their elasticity and firmness to determine how much force to use as he swung his cane. Undoubtedly flogging was an art. The whip in hand and the interior of the mind had to work in unison to generate the right amount of pain without causing death. Sama understood what it took to create just such a masterpiece.

As he checked the bonds on his idol’s hands, Sama asked softly, ‘Does it hurt? Is it too tight?’

Mengliu moved slightly, and Sama was almost in tears, thrilled at being in such close contact with his idol. Finally, he leaned into Mengliu’s ear and said, ‘You look even more attractive than the crucified Christ. Remember to cooperate. You have to scream, okay?’

Everything was ready. Sama elegantly lashed the ground with his cane, and a resounding thwack stirred up the dust.

A band sounded from the back of the stage, an ensemble of erhu, yueqin and a three-stringed lute.

After a moment the plaintive music stopped. Sama directed all his strength to his belly and squeezed out some lines from a play in a strange tone:

‘My most loved and respected poet, before you endure the scourge of my rod would you like to change your mind?’ The last word was uttered in a heavy tone, shrill and trembling. At this moment, the erhu grew articulate in its accusing tones. Sama ran his hand along the cane, applying red pigment to it. ‘Now I ask you in the name of the spiritual leader of Swan Valley, regarding your Swan Song — will you or will you not write it?’ He pointed his finger with an actress’s hand gesture, a classic pose made on stage to show delicacy and grace.

Mengliu’s chin rested on the rung of the ladder. He was unable to move, and his eyes stared straight ahead. ‘I swear by my fiancée, you can give up…you’re all crazy!’ He matched Sama’s tone.

Turning to face the audience, Sama laughed. Not without irony, he announced, ‘He says that for the sake of a woman he will…’ He turned back again. ‘Oh? So this woman, what sort of extraordinary person is she?’

‘She…she stared at the bleeding world without flinching, a thousand times greater than your spiritual leader!’

The ladder started to rotate, turning the front of Mengliu’s body toward the audience. The light fell on him. His face was pale and sweating.

Slightly startled, Sama turned around and pulled out a thin booklet, flipping to his next lines. ‘You…you can’t elevate your fiancée so as purposely to devalue our spiritual leader. This does not suit the spirit of debate, don’t you understand?’

‘Well, let your spiritual leader face me. Count it as my dying wish. I want to look on his ugly face so I can remember it and find him in hell.’

‘What do you want to find him for?’ Suddenly, a small gong sounded twice. Sama turned to another page. ‘He selflessly serves the people, owing no one anything…’

‘He deprived me of my freedom. He’s deprived many people of their freedom, their rights, even their lives.’

Sama put the booklet away and murmured, ‘My idol, pay attention to your lines. You’re engaging in slander.’

‘What? I…I was tied to this ladder by you. What I am saying is true. I am the truth. You…don’t even distinguish between right and wrong. You’ve reversed black and white, distorted the facts, smitten the innocent, made a lie of justice!’ His words were as fierce as firecrackers. He paused, and the gong clattered three more times. ‘As a poet, I hate to use clichés. I hate it when language fails to express meaning, I fucking…’

‘Wait a minute! You said…you are a poet?’ Sama turned and faced the theatre, breaking into a laugh. ‘Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!..did you hear that? He claims he is a poet!’

The idol’s pale face had turned crimson. Now he was tongue-tied.

All six pieces of the ensemble sounded at once, hissing in disapproval.

Suddenly they broke off.

The idol seemed to awaken from a dream. ‘Yes…I am a poet… But now, as a poet, I solemnly tell you that I will never write poetry for Swan Valley!’

After he said this the three-piece percussion group, the single drum, the large gong and the small gong, struck up a manic military tone, a reckless, merciless racket.

Sama’s whip cracked, and the first signs of redness appeared on Mengliu’s white haunches. The accompanying music immediately turned joyous, and Sama began to appreciate his own value. Obviously a strict man, he completed each stroke with the same graceful posture. But his damned idol would not cooperate, and remained mute. So Sama accompanied each stroke with a howl of his own. The whole scene had a tragic feel, which soon left him and his idol both covered in blood.

After ten minutes, Sama fell to the ground with a plop, and declared the end of the flogging.

The soothing strains of the erhu were raised like a supplicant’s hands toward the sky.

‘When a poet no longer writes poetry, he acquires dignity, perhaps a far greater dignity than he ever had when he wrote.’ Sama slowly raised his head and stood up. Tossing the cane from his hand, he spread out his arms toward the auditorium. ‘Lying down or standing up — who can say which is more humble, and which more noble? Perhaps it requires more courage to stop writing, than to write.’

The crimson curtain slowly closed on the stage.

The lights were extinguished.

27

In the past, during the dark nights of his soul, every day felt like three in the morning for Mengliu. Now there were no dark nights, the light in his cell blazed all the time, making red roses dance before his eyes. Who was smoking and drinking in the room while I was asleep? What unpleasant smells, the whole place littered with cigarette butts, and could I still have slept like the dead? Mengliu’s throat was dry. On the night stand were three cups, one with water, one with green tea, and one with rice wine. He drank them all and was still thirsty. The stars on the ceiling no longer sparkled. At the window the sea seemed to be moving, and there was a vague sound of waves. The door to the cell was unlatched, and the hint of a chill wind slipped in through the crack there. It wasn’t cold, but it cleared his head. The unlatched door seemed to imply an opportunity for escape. He smiled contemptuously. How could he escape his own mind? He waited quietly for someone to come and take him to his suffering. He took this as a battle, a standoff; he would never flee.

A ray of sunshine squeezed in through the crack at the door, creating a bar on the ground that fell all the way to his feet. Extremely weak, he felt an unusual sense of fulfillment. His heart was like a radiator, throwing out heat. He opened the autograph book and stroked Qizi’s signature, wondering whether she was dead. But he was numb inside and the concept of life and death no longer had meaning for him. He hid the book, then went to clean himself up. He washed his face and shaved. He could not see the person in the mirror clearly, and had no notion of his appearance. He did everything in very low spirits, stroking his face with his long fingers. When he came out, Suitang was in the room. There was a platter of sleek, sliced rabbit on the table, accompanied by a variety of spices.