by Gao Xingjian
The crowd shouts, “Good for you! Good for you!”
The old man suddenly bursts into loud song.
Young girl on the mountain picking tea,
Your young man is down cutting brushwood,
In both places startled mandarin ducks fly up,
Young girl quickly marry your young man.
The crowd shouts bravo, then someone insists, “Give us a bawdy song!”
“Come on, give us one, old man!”
The old man shrugs his shoulders and shakes his hands to the crowd. “No, no. It’s against the regulations.”
“It’s all right, old man, come on, sing us one.” The crowd clamours and the little street becomes jammed with people and bicycles can’t get through and are ringing their bells.
“But it’s you who have put me up to it!” Egged on by the crowd the old man stands up.
“Sing ‘Horse-Monkey Wearing a Skullcap Steals Into the Maiden’s Bedroom!’” Someone has picked a title. The crowd yells bravo and starts clapping.
The old man wipes his mouth and is about to sing when suddenly he says in a low voice, “The police are here!”
People turn to look – a big hat with a white brim edged with red is moving about not far behind the heads of the crowd.
“What does it matter?” the crowd says.
“What’s wrong with having a bit of fun?”
“As if the police can look after so many things?”
“It’s all very well for you to talk, you’ll be able to go off but will I be able to stay in business?” The old man sits down, refusing to give in to the crowd.
The policeman comes up and the grumbling crowd scatters. After the policeman leaves, I say, “Venerable elder, could I invite you to my lodgings to sing some songs? When you’ve closed up the stall, how about I treat you to some food and liquor?”
The old man is still excited and hasn’t calmed down, he immediately agrees, “Good! I’m closing right now, I’ll pack up my things, just wait while I return the planks.”
“I’m stopping you from making money.” I want to let him know I feel bad about it.
“It’s all right, I’m making a friend. I don’t depend on this to eat. If I come into town I sell a few pieces while I’m here to get a bit of extra cash. If I relied on selling calligraphy to eat wouldn’t I starve to death?”
I go into a restaurant diagonally opposite and order some liquor and food. Before long the old man turns up with a set of baskets on a carrying pole.
Hot food is brought and we talk and eat. He says when he was ten his father sent him to a Daoist monastery to help attend to the stove and the cooking, as promised by his father when he was ill. He can still recite the textbook Daily Lessons for Daoists which the old Daoist priest had used to enlighten him. When the old priest died he managed the monastery so he knows the procedures for all the Daoist rituals. Later on during the land reforms when the land was divided up and he could no longer practise as a Daoist priest, the government ordered him to return to his village and he worked in the fields again. I ask him about Yin-Yang and geomancy, the Five Thunder Finger Techniques, the Constellation Dances, physiognomy and massage. He explains each of these with such eloquence that I am positively elated. However the restaurant is full of peasants who are making a lot of noise. They have finished trading for the day, made a bit of money, and are drinking, playing drinking games and shouting loudly. I tell him I have a tape recorder in my bag. What he is telling me is valuable material, after eating I would like him to come to my lodgings to make some recordings, it will be quieter when he sings.
“Bring some liquor,” he says, “we can drink at my house, I have a Daoist robe and all the regalia there.”
“Do you have the sword of office to drive away demons?”
“That’s essential.”
“And do you also have the command tablet for deploying spirits and despatching generals?”
“There are also gongs, drums and other things, these are all vital for Daoist rituals. I’ll put on a performance for you.”
“Excellent!” I strike the table, get up and go out the door with him. “Is your house in town?” I ask.
“It’s not far, it’s not far, I’ll just leave my pole with someone, you go on ahead and wait for me at the bus stop.”
In less than ten minutes he comes hurrying along, pointing to a bus that is about to leave and telling me to quickly get on. I hadn’t expected the bus to keep going without any stops along the way and watch through the bus window as the lingering rays of the sun pale and vanish behind the mountains. The bus arrives at the small town destination twenty kilometres from the county town, immediately turns around, and departs. It is the last bus.
This town has only the one little street, at most it is fifty metres long, and I have no idea whether or not there is an inn. He tells me to wait for a while and goes into one of the houses. I think to myself, since I am here I might as well just relax, and that bumping into such a character who turns out to be so enthusiastic is a stroke of good luck. He comes out of the house holding in both hands a washbasin half filled with bean curd and tells me to follow him.
Outside the small town, the road is a dirt road. It is already dark.
“Is your home in a village near this small town?” I ask.
“It’s not far, it’s not far,” he says.
Gradually the farm houses by the road can no longer be seen, the darkness of night has descended and in the paddy fields all around is the croaking of frogs. I am anxious, but feel awkward asking so many questions. Suddenly from behind comes the chugging of a motor, a bulldozer is upon us. He immediately calls out to it and chases it, half-running and half-jumping, and I clamber after him onto the shovel. On the dirt road, we are tossed about in this shovel like dried beans in a sieve for a distance of almost ten li. It is completely dark with just the bulldozer’s single beam of yellow light, like a one-eyed dragon, illuminating ten or twenty paces of bumpy dirt road, there is no-one else around. He talks non-stop in a loud voice with the driver in the local dialect. I can’t make out a single sentence and can only hear the deafening noise of the motor. If they are talking about butchering me, I can only let fate take its course.
Eventually we get to the end of the road and a house without a light appears – it is the house of the driver of the bulldozer. The old man opens the door of the house and gives the man a few big pieces of bean curd. Following him I feel my way in the dark along a small winding track between the paddy fields.
“Is it still a long way off?” I ask.
“It’s not far, it’s not far.” He still says the same old thing.
Luckily, he is walking in front and has to put down the washbasin of bean curd to do breathing exercises. I know that all the old Daoists know martial arts and if I were to turn and run I’d probably fall into the paddy fields and get covered in mud. The croaking of frogs becomes less frequent and the reflected light on the terraced fields behind shows that we are on a mountain. I try to think of things to say to engage him in conversation, and I ask him about the harvest and about the hard life of working in the paddy fields. He says truly, if one relies on working in the fields one needn’t think of becoming rich. This year he spent three thousand yuan converting two mu of paddy fields into fish ponds. I ask if he raises soft-shell turtles and say it’s trendy to eat them in the cities at present: some say they prevent cancer and others say they’re a tonic for men. They fetch a high price. He says he’s only put in small fingerlings, if he puts in soft-shell turtles won’t they eat all the fish? He says he’s got the cash but it’s hard to get timber – he has seven sons and only the eldest is married, the other six are all waiting to build houses so that they can have separate households. Then he’ll be able to relax, lie down, look at the stars in the sky, and enjoy the night scenery.
In the grey gloomy shadows of the mountain is a cluster of flickering lights. He says that’s where we are headed.
“I told you it wasn’t fa
r, didn’t I?”
I think village people have their own concepts of distance.
At ten o’clock at night we finally reach a little mountain village. Incense is burning in the hall of his house, offerings to the large number of wooden and stone carvings. They are all broken and damaged, he probably rescued them from the Daoist temple some years ago when the “four olds” were destroyed and temples and monasteries were smashed. He now has them on display and there are Daoist talismans hanging on the rafters. Six sons come out, the eldest of these is eighteen and the youngest just eleven, and only the eldest married son isn’t present. His wife is a small woman, and his mother, who is eighty, is still quite agile. His wife and sons busy themselves for a while and suddenly I am an honoured guest. They fetch hot water for me to wash my face, get me to wash my feet and put on a pair of the old man’s cloth shoes, then bring me a cup of strong tea.
Before long the six sons bring out gongs, drums, small cymbals and also two gong-chimes, a large one and a small one, hanging on wooden frames. Suddenly all the drums sound and the old man comes down the stairs. He is wearing a tattered old purple Daoist robe adorned with the insignia of the Yin-Yang fish and the Eight Trigrams, and is carrying the command tablet, the sword of office and an ox horn. He looks totally different, majestic, and walks with slow measured steps. He lights a stick of incense and bows with it to the altar in the hall. Men, women and children from the village, startled by the drums and gongs, crowd at the doorway. Immediately, a bustling Daoist ritual commences. He hasn’t been leading me on.
First he takes a bowl of clear liquid and, chanting, flicks the watery liquor into the four corners of the house. When he flicks it onto the feet of the crowd at the door, everyone roars with laughter. He is expressionless – his eyes partly close, his mouth slackens and his face takes on a serious look, as if he is communicating with the spirits. At this the crowd laughs even more. Suddenly he shakes the sleeve of his Daoist robe and slams the command tablet on the table. The laughter instantly stops. He turns and says to me, “These texts are all sung: ‘Year of the Big Journey Song’, ‘Nine Stars of Good Fortune and Bad Fortune Song’, ‘Sons and Grandsons Song’, ‘Transformations Song’, ‘Arithmetic Chants for Negating the Four Inauspicious Stars’, ‘Deity Names of the Door Gods’, ‘Salutary Texts for the Sacrifices to the God of the Earth’, ‘Invoking the Spirit of the Northern Dipper’. Which would you like to hear?”
“Please sing ‘Invoking the Spirit of the Northern Dipper’ first,” I say.
“This is to protect small children and to expel illness and calamity. Which of you children will give your name and the time of your birth?”
“Get Little Doggie to come out,” someone interjects.
“No.”
A small boy sitting on the doorstep gets to his feet and quickly worms his way through to the back. Everyone breaks out laughing again.
“What are you frightened of? After old grandpa does it you won’t get sick anymore,” a middle-aged woman outside the door says.
The boy hides behind the crowd and adamantly refuses to come out.
The old man waves his sleeve and says, “It doesn’t matter.” He turns to say to me, “Generally one has to prepare a bowl of rice and stand a cooked egg upright in it and then burn incense to invoke the spirits. The child kneels, prostrates himself, then prays to invite the spirits to accept the offerings: the True Ruler of the Four Directions, the Great Emperor Ziwei, the Star Ruler of the North Who in Nine Shakes Dispels Evil, the Star Ruler of Longevity of the Southern Dipper Temple, the two Guardian Deities of the Village, the deceased generations of clan ancestors, the sons and grandsons of the Kitchen God–”
Saying this he takes up his sword of office, flourishes it, and begins to sing loudly, “Spirit-soul, spirit-soul, you’ve had your play now quickly go home! In the east is a boy in blue, in the south is a boy in red, in the west is a boy in white, all on guard, and in the north a boy in black will bring you home. Lost and wandering spirit-soul cease your play, the road is long and it’s hard to get home. I will measure the road for you with a jade ruler, should you come to dark places. If you fall into the net of Heaven and the mesh of Earth my scissors will cut them. If you are hungry, thirsty, and weary, I have grain for you. Don’t stay in the forest listening to the birds singing, don’t stay by deep ponds looking at the fish swimming. If someone calls you a thousand times don’t reply, spirit-soul, spirit-soul, hurry back home! May the gods and deities protect you, may past virtues not be forgotten! From now on the spirit will protect the body and the soul will protect the house, wind and chill will not enter, water and the earth will find it hard to transgress. Sturdiness in childhood brings greater strength in old age, so that you will enjoy a long life to a hundred years and be of healthy spirit!”
He flourishes his sword of office and draws a big circle in the air, then puffing out his cheeks starts blowing on the ox horn. Afterwards he turns and says to me, “I then draw a talisman which carried on the person brings good fortune!”
I can’t decide whether or not he believes his own techniques but he dances and waves his arms and legs about, walks with a swagger, and looks very pleased with himself. Arranging a Daoist ritual in the hall of his own house with the help of his six sons wins him the respect of the villagers and, in addition, with such an appreciative outsider as his guest, he can’t contain his delight.
Next he makes a string of incantations to invoke the spirits of Heaven and Earth. His words become incomprehensible and his movements wilder as he circles the table and demonstrates a whole range of martial arts sword techniques. Following the pitch of his singing and the movements of his dance the six sons beat the gongs and drums with increasing gusto and produce endless variations. This is especially so with the young man on the drums. He throws off his jacket, exposing his dark skin and the rippling muscles on his shoulders and ribs. The crowd of onlookers outside the door grows so that the people at the front are pushed over the threshold and then along the walls, some even sit down on the floor. As each piece finishes everyone claps and cheers with me which pleases the old man even more and he doesn’t hesitate in performing every movement he knows to summon forth, one after the other, every spirit and demon in his heart. He starts to go into an intoxicated, crazed state. It is only when my tape gets to the end and I stop the recorder to change the tape that, panting, that he too comes to a stop. The men and women inside and outside the house are all excited and are chatting, laughing and joking. The village meetings are definitely never this much fun.
As he wipes the sweat off himself with a towel, the old man points to a group of girls close by and says, “Now how about all of you sing a song for this teacher.”
The girls start to giggle and after pushing and shoving one another for a while they shove Maomei forward. This wisp of a girl is only fourteen or fifteen but she doesn’t lack confidence, and flashing her big round eyes asks, “What shall I sing?”
“Sing a mountain love song.”
“Sing ‘Two Sisters Marry’.”
“Sing ‘Flowers of the Four Seasons’.”
“Sing about the two sisters weeping as they go off to marry.”
“This song is really good,” a middle-aged woman by the door says, recommending it to me.
The girl glances at me, turns away, and a very high pitched soprano voice cuts through the noise of the crowd and spirals upwards, instantly transporting me from the shadows into the mountain wilds. The sadness of a murmuring stream and the mountain wind are remote but clear. I recall the pine torch of night travellers flickering in the dark mountain shadows and that picture floats before my eyes again: an old man holding a pine torch and a girl, about the singer’s age, who is emaciated and wearing trousers and a floral jacket. They are going past the front of the house of the primary school teacher in a mountain village. At the time I was sitting idly in the main hall of the house and didn’t know where they’d come from nor where they were going, but I did know that up ahead w
as a big black mountain. They looked inside the main hall at me but didn’t stop and headed straight toward the black mountain shadows, leaving behind bright sparks in front of the house which glowed for quite a while. My gaze returned to follow the torch. When it re-emerged from behind the shadows of the trees and cliffs it had become a small unsteady flickering flame moving in the black mountain shadows, leaving intermittent sparks to mark their trail. Afterwards there was nothing, the sparks and dark red embers vanished, like a song, a song of loud and pure grief flickering in a flame the size of a bean seed on a candle in the shadows of a room. In those years I was just like them and worked barefoot in the paddy fields. As soon as it was dark there was nowhere to go, and the house of the primary school teacher was the only place I could go for a chat, to drink tea, and just sit, to idle away the loneliness.
The grief moves everyone inside and outside the house and no-one is talking. Some time after she stops singing, a girl a little older than her, probably a girl waiting to be married, heaves a sigh as she leans on the doorway, “It’s so sad!”