The Noodle Maker

by Ma Jian

  ‘You sound as though you’ve caught a cold,’ the dog whined, paying no attention to what I had said.

  When I returned from the conference and discovered the survivor had died, my spirits crumbled. Every day I stared at my paintbrush, but was unable to lift it to my canvas. I longed to contract a fatal disease, or to perish in some natural disaster. If I’d been a drinker, I would have drunk myself to oblivion. How nice that would have been. To stop myself from dreaming about him at night, I turned my bed round so that my head pointed south. I’d read in a magazine that this keeps nightmares at bay, and also improves your complexion and delays the onset of grey hairs. Although I did indeed suffer fewer nightmares after that, my dreams became more erotic. One night, I dreamed I was flying through the air, chasing after a fat girl’s bottom. After I grabbed hold of it, I discovered it belonged to the woman who plucks dead ducks in the museum’s cafeteria.

  Since he passed away, I haven’t cried once, or encountered one setback that might have allowed me to release a strong emotion. The world has carried on as usual. Although my parents are over eighty, they are in fine health. My classmates are still living dull, uneventful lives. My girlfriend’s suicide has almost vanished from my mind. Apart from me, everyone seems at peace with themselves.

  In memory of his perceptive gaze, I bought myself a telescope. Now I can see the world of men as he saw it. Sometimes, I even pass comments on events taking place below.

  The town is quiet and orderly now. Bright red boxes have been attached to every street corner to collect citizens’ reports of uncivilised behaviour. The municipal Party committee has banned pedestrians from shouting, laughing or running in the streets, and insists that they only walk outside in groups of less than four. If a group exceeds four members, it has to split in two. The committee has also arranged for cultural troupes to visit local work units to educate employees on the virtues of polite behaviour and assess their understanding of modern citizenship. Our work unit failed to make the grade because two old comrades from the finance department walked down the street taking strides that were judged to be either too large or too small.

  When I look down from the terrace, the pedestrians seem to squirm through the streets as slowly as maggots. The only time I ever see a crowd is in the morning, when the pensioners are doing their exercises in Red Scarf Park.

  I often sit on the terrace gazing at the clouds in the blue sky. They seem to have been hanging in the same position for months. I’m painting again now, but my inspiration has gone. I’ve messed around with the canvas on my easel for so long that from a distance it looks like a dirty apron.

  The other day, I borrowed a guitar from an old classmate, and played a mournful tune on the spot beside the kennel where I used to sit and chat with the dog. I thrummed the strings and the tinkling melody drifted into the air. I thrummed again, but this time the strings produced no sound. In the evening, the head of the museum’s security department came up and told me not to play my guitar on the terrace again. He said the State Security Department had confiscated the noise from my instrument, and from now on I’d have to content myself with listening to the radio. He took the guitar from me, but to my great relief, didn’t ask me to write a self-criticism letter.

  If only the survivor could see how clean the streets are now. He wouldn’t recognise the place. I often think back on those warm summer evenings when we lay on the terrace, the sea breeze stroking my skin and his fur. He would give me his canine view of the world, and criticise humans for not being more like dogs. This angered me. Since dogs don’t drive cars or wear clothes, he argued that cars were unnecessary and launderettes a waste of time. ‘And your cinemas are so noisy,’ he said one night, ‘they give me a headache.’

  ‘Thank goodness God never let dogs rule the world,’ I replied.

  ‘Man’s habit of standing upright is disgusting. Your leaders address the crowds with their chests and genitals on full display. When we want to speak, we just lift our heads up. It’s much more polite that way.’ He then outlined the policies a future dog government would introduce to reform human behaviour.

  ‘It’s true our leaders address the people standing upright,’ I consented, ‘but at least they are polite enough to wear clothes. You may bend over when you speak, but everyone can still see the genitals dangling between your legs. If ever the day came when you dogs were to gain power, I’d prefer to climb onto my roof and turn into a mouse rather than submit myself to your rule.’

  ‘At least the dogs would do a better job of ruling this country than your government has done.’ When the stars came out at night, his eyes were piercingly bright.

  ‘We have transcended the animal world through our invention of speech. Look at our wonderful libraries!’ I said, pointing at the floodlit public library below.

  ‘We dogs learn through a slow accumulation of experience. We are more sensitive and astute than you. For example, I know what tomorrow’s weather will be, when the next earthquake will strike, which mushrooms are poisonous, and which person is going where. We glide effortlessly through this world, learning as we go. But it takes you twenty years before you know enough to allow you to leave home. Most dogs are already dead by then. A three-month-old puppy knows more than any of your university professors. Dogs don’t need colleges or libraries – we’re happy to leave those places to you to while away your time in.’

  ‘Will dogs be allowed to get married when you take control?’ I asked.

  ‘The sex life of dogs is seasonal: we only have intercourse during the spring. And when we rise to power, we will preserve this custom. Your excessive sex drive is the root cause of today’s social instability. Look at that building opposite us! At this moment, from the ground floor to the eighth, nearly every couple is having intercourse. Those two on the third floor have done it twice tonight. They did the same last night, and the night before, with just a few changes of position, that’s all.’

  The building opposite was an apartment block for the staff of the Municipal Cultural Department. As the lights were turned off in each room, the dog would smell the sour scent of body fluids wafting from the open windows.

  ‘I’m quite fond of that man who lives on the eighth floor, though,’ the dog confessed. ‘When he opens his window, I can smell the jar of ink next to the musty books on his desk. He hasn’t slept with a woman for months, but on Sunday nights, delicious smells of meat and fish always flow from his room.’

  ‘He’s a friend of mine – a professional writer. On his salary, he could never afford to support a wife.’

  ‘Well you manage to support me on your meagre pay,’ he said guiltily. ‘There’s a woman down there who is in love with him, although she still goes out with other men. I can see her thought waves racing towards his room right now.’

  I looked to where he was pointing. ‘Do you mean that old fashioned building over there?’ I asked.

  ‘She has spent the last few nights drinking with a chain-smoker. When tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes mix together, it smells like old mutton.’

  At night the town looks cold and desolate. The survivor discovered that when people are lying down in the dark, they become more active than they are when the lights are on. The noises of copulation and the sour smells of body fluids often made his stomach turn.

  ‘I can’t bear it when there’s no breeze at night,’ he said.

  ‘Men could never agree to relinquishing the joys of marriage.’

  ‘All you want to do is eat, have sex and go shopping. These activities all require the participation of others – not just one person, but a crowd of them. You need to huddle in towns and cities to escape the emptiness in your hearts.’

  ‘I work myself to the bone for you, to care for all your needs.’

  ‘All you do is bring me a little water every morning. And you always end up drinking some of it yourself.’

  ‘Think how many times I’ve had to clear up your messes! When you pissed in the doorway last week, you plonked my
wash bowl over the puddle to try and hide it from me, but I still cleaned it up for you.’

  ‘You smashed my chamber pot that day – I had no choice but to piss on the ground.’

  ‘Sweep those scraps of bones back onto your plate, will you,’ I grunted.

  ‘Can you pass me my bowl of water, please?’

  He put his mouth to the bowl and took a large gulp. Then he looked up and said, ‘It’s hot today. If only you knew how uncomfortable I get in this thick coat of fur.’

  ‘There’s a fan in my office. It makes a nice breeze.’

  ‘I’d love a chance to sit in front of it.’ When he drifted into his fantasies, his tail would start wagging of its own accord.

  ‘You know I could never let you leave this terrace.’

  He licked the water from his lips, then edged forward and started licking my feet.

  ‘It wouldn’t be safe to take you down,’ I said, pulling my foot away from him. ‘The streets are full of policemen, even at night.’

  He cocked his head flirtatiously and whined, ‘Go and find me a little companion then.’

  I roared with laughter. ‘You want a bitch, don’t you? You rascal!’

  Hearing this, he pounced up excitedly onto my lap, almost knocking me to the ground.

  (‘Unfortunately, I never managed to satisfy this desire of his,’ the painter admitted to the writer. ‘In his entire life, he never so much as talked with a member of his own species, let alone did anything else with them.’ The writer looked up at him and said, ‘You must miss him very much.’)

  When I think back to the days we spent together, my mood lifts a little. Last Saturday I attended the weekly political meeting at work, and as usual I spent the time having conversations with the dog in my mind. The chairman was using a brand-new microphone, but his speech was as monotonous as ever.

  ‘ … Our Party has a glorious future. Yes. Comrade Deng Xiaoping’s latest report stressed this unequivocally. Our Party is undergoing change, enormous change. The Party centre has stated that the three sectors of society hold equal importance, and this is the view both of the wider Party, and of the people. Yes. Our determination must not falter. Five years may seem long, but I can assure you, they will pass very quickly. The war against Japan lasted only eight years …’ Half the audience in the hall was staring at the chairman standing on the podium, the other half had closed their eyes and escaped into their own thoughts. Three women at the back had got their knitting out and were having a quiet chat. ‘Our nation at present is united. Comrades, we must endeavour to – ’ The microphone suddenly let out a deafening squeak. The chairman was so startled he dropped his tea cup on the floor and it shattered into pieces. All the eyes in the hall focused on the broken fragments. There was still an hour and a half to go. ‘Time is short, comrades, so I’ll press on and skip to the fifth point. Our Party overcame many difficulties during the three years of economic slowdown. This proves that there is no crisis our Party cannot surmount. Think about it comrades – were it not for the leadership of the Party, our nation would be moving backwards, yes, backwards. Our Party is the best party in the world. It’s deeply embedded in the hearts and minds of the people …’

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t concentrate on his words. I’m afraid that my political resolve has been weakening. In the past, I used to pore over each document my leaders sent down to me. I complied with every decision they made concerning my personal relationships and political studies. I was one of the lucky ones. Because my parents joined the Party before Liberation, and had lived in a Soviet controlled area, I was absolved from attending the re-education camps that my classmates were sent to. At school, I was as skinny as a dried pickle and the shortest boy in the year, but because of my family background I was appointed chairman of the student union in the first week of term. I took the position very seriously, and participated in every school activity. In the morning, I ran two circuits of the playing field to give my complexion a healthy glow, and at night I practised my political speeches. After I left school, I became even more conscientious. When Premier Zhou Enlai announced that smoking was patriotic, I smoked ten cigarettes in one day, although in the afternoon I felt so ill I had to be carried to the sickbay. That show of patriotism was almost sufficient to secure my Party membership. But unfortunately, I never succeeded in acquiring an addiction to tobacco.

  After the rape incident, the dog often asked me when the pedestrian flyover would be officially opened. Sometimes I would read out articles for him from the local paper. One night, as the traffic wardens’ voices were booming above the roar of the streets below, I read out an article entitled ‘Good Prospects for the Flyover’. It said: ‘Having received 170 complaints from the public concerning the construction of the flyover, the provincial authorities sent a team to the site yesterday to investigate the problem. The thirteen members of the team promised to assess the situation objectively and reject any bribes or special treatment. They were true to their word. After they arrived at the train station, they declined the use of the limousines sent by the municipal Party committee and chose instead to travel to the site by public bus. The crowds they met along the way approved of their frugal and upright attitude. When they reached the site, the team enquired about the number of traffic incidents that have occurred under the flyover this month. They visited the newly established rescue centre and arranged for a doctor who neglected to deal with the dislocated shoulder of a crash victim to be sent away for interrogation. In their final report, the team pointed out that the political study meetings held in the rescue centre on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons create severe disruptions to medical care, and they suggested that this matter should be looked into …’

  ‘It seems that the investigation team has solved many problems,’ I said, looking up from the page.

  ‘If they hadn’t built that flyover in the first place, there would never have been so many accidents,’ the dog complained.

  ‘At least the municipal authorities are working hard to put matters right.’

  ‘Surely they realise that the only way to solve this problem now is to hurry up and open the flyover to the public.’

  Did he really imagine that the municipal Party committee had the power to decide when the flyover was to be opened? He was so naive. Only the Central Committee can make such decisions. And they’re responsible for running the entire country – they have far more pressing issues to think about than solving our pedestrian flyover problem.

  ‘Don’t you understand the difference between the higher echelons and the people?’ I said. ‘Would dogs ever dare question their superiors? Your arrogance is monstrous. Our leaders built the flyover to relieve congestion. How dare you turn things around and claim they are to blame for today’s traffic problems?’

  ‘You lead a miserable life. It’s not much better than a dog’s.’

  ‘Don’t you know that the more miserable you are, the longer you live?’ I said, exasperated by his ignorance.

  The survivor always enjoyed feasting his eyes on the accidents that took place on the streets below. He once predicted that over three hundred people a year would die in traffic incidents caused by the construction of the pedestrian flyover. Never in my life will I forgive him this mistake. Admittedly, in the early days, the construction of the flyover did indeed lead to a dramatic increase in road casualties. Pedestrians would flock to it, hoping to make a safe crossing, but on finding it wasn’t yet open to the public, they would end up charging across the intersection at its busiest point. The survivor told me he could see the ghosts of the dead flitting between the flyover’s concrete legs.

  But after the rape incident, the town leaders took steps to ease the problem. They erected metal huts on the flyover to house a medical rescue centre. Anyone injured in an accident below is promptly carried to the rescue hut and given free emergency care. The scheme has been a great success. The municipal Party committee has praised the nurses’ contribution to revolutionary humani
tarianism, and awarded them prizes and certificates of merit. Although citizens are still denied the pleasure of using the flyover to cross the street, and people continue to be crushed to death by the busy traffic, the flyover still has its merits. When my classmate broke his leg at work, he managed to get it bandaged free of charge in the flyover’s rescue centre. I often visit the survivor in the museum to tell him of the great progress that has been made, but I have to make sure my colleagues aren’t watching – they are always making jokes about me. One time they saw me tuck into a meat pie at lunch, and they said, ‘Be careful, that’s dog meat.’ I felt queasy for days after that.

  When he was alive, the survivor prophesied that the flyover wouldn’t open to the public until 1992, but there’s still a year and a half to go, and there are already signs that the official opening will take place soon: the flyover curfew officers have been replaced by a flyover management team, and the local traffic wardens have been issued with brand-new uniforms.

  The flyover was originally scheduled to be opened last year, on the first anniversary of the dog’s death. The Central Committee wanted to make the flyover a symbol of the Open Door Policy. They decided its opening should be tied in with Ceauescu’s visit to China, and that it should be named the Sino-Romanian Friendship Flyover. They instructed the town leaders to take great pains to ensure the opening was a success. The authorities decked the railings with little red flags, in preparation for the arrival of Ceauescu, who had been invited to open the flyover during a visit organised to celebrate the twinning of this town with an industrial city in his country. The government sent engineers to the site to search for any hidden bombs, and plain-clothed security officers patrolled the surrounding streets to check that no one was pasting counterrevolutionary flyers to the walls. But unfortunately, Ceauescu was assassinated a few days before he was due to leave, so the ceremony had to be called off.