The Remote Country of Women

by Hua Bai

  Don’t think I’m digressing – this tale is closely linked 1 0 9

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  with my survival in the cocoon. Without the rebirth of Jia Songli, where would I have gotten my medical reports? And without medical reports, how could I have bathed in the

  wonder of Tchaikovsky’s music with Yunqian? Without

  him, I would be basking in the sun by the filthy pond with my water buffaloes.

  What did our shared life mean? What moral standards

  should it be judged by? What consequences did it have? I was beset with these questions, or rather, these questions could have arisen at any moment of our carefree pleasure to kill my joy. But Yunqian seemed never to mind any of this.

  She followed her instincts. Because she needed me, she

  dragged me out of the terror and chaos of the large prison into her little cell. Her cell became a small jail with imagined walls and regulations, like our ancient ancestors who drew a circle on the ground to declare it an enclosure. Inside our small jail, we were free, much freer than hundreds of millions of other Chinese. Because inside the large prison, every Chinese mind becomes a more impregnable prison

  cell; we opened the doors of our minds inside our cell, at least partially.

  Water conduits, gas pipes, and electric wires were our

  only links to the outside world. Of course, the hysterical shouts from the loudspeakers on the buildings, the jarring sirens of the police cars, the sounds of wind and rain, crying, and model opera arias could still be heard faintly. Those noises warned us constantly that our flimsy cocoon was surrounded by the larger prison, as if located at the bottom of an iron barrel. Yunqian seemed to see and hear nothing. She concentrated all her knowledge and strength in hiding herself, in making herself inconspicuous, in order not to be noticed by anyone. Public attention was detrimental during those years. Even radicals of the hour, hardly self-conscious, realized that then was not the right time to show off. We never attempted to make any friends. Actually friend, a politically ambiguous term, had long been purged from the 1 1 0

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  modern Chinese vocabulary. A person who was not a com-

  rade must be an enemy. Did we feel lonely? Yes, a bit. We passed the time reading worn-out books, sometimes

  exchanging them to share our sympathy for the underdog

  and our jealousy for the victor, our curses on the evil forces that block the unity of the lovers and our worries for weak, helpless heroines.

  Once when Yunqian was out shopping, I opened the win-

  dow slightly. A fresh, biting wind immediately blew in a slogan: ‘‘Supreme command: With a population of eight

  hundred million, how can we stop fighting?”

  I shut the window at once, but my mind remained agi-

  tated for a long time and arguments crept into my empty

  head. Why does a population of eight hundred million need fighting? Can we live without it? According to this logic, today’s world, with a population of over four billion, can never enjoy a moment’s truce. If that is so, then is there any hope for a peaceful future for humanity? Then I began to understand the logic behind the Cultural Revolution: stirring up fights, masses fighting masses, fighting with the pen, fighting with fists, fighting until each side died and rotted. Endless fighting produced a philosophy of boundless pleasure in fighting heaven, in fighting the earth, in fighting men. Perhaps only the spectators experienced the

  boundless pleasure in such fighting. That pleasure surpassed that of Tang Minghuang and Yang Guifei as they watched

  the cockfights and cricket fights. They were more amused than the Roman emperors who watched the gladiator con-tests, because modern methods of fighting were too won-

  drous for even generals hardened by major wars to imagine.

  Now the theory of class struggle was inadequate, and

  new theories of fighting were churned out daily. Although the old class enemies in China had been all but annihilated by execution and imprisonment, rather than diminishing,

  the fighting grew more savage than ever. In order to prove the eternal nature of class struggle, some hack theorists 1 1 1

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  invented batch after batch of new class enemies. The bourgeois rightists of 1957 were their first invention. Then followed the newly emerged counterrevolutionaries, the class enemies, the crawling insects who dare to bomb the proletarian headquarters, the dutiful sons and grandsons of the landlord and bourgeois classes, the loyalists, the army trou-blemakers, the May sixteenth elements, the Mongolian people’s party, the escaped landlords, rich peasants, reactionaries, criminals, and rightists. Yet even these were not

  enough. Lin Biao added all other counterrevolutionaries and called for a sweep of all the ox-demons and snake-spirits.

  The moment Jiang Qing called someone a bastard, that bastard would be thrown into jail. Now it became clear that class division had become obsolete in this great era of fighting within such a large population. Any person with some historical knowledge would know that in the 1940s Hitler put into practice a similar theory on an international scale.

  Being more candid than the Chinese leftists, he declared a war in which an inferior race would be wiped out by

  a superior one. In recent years, while the foreign tele-

  scopes were all aimed at the Milky Way, our telescopes were aimed at the Chinese people. While foreign microscopes

  were examining germs, those inside China examined human

  thought. But what was I doing thinking like that? Hadn’t I already withdrawn myself from the world outside the

  window?

  All this thinking must have made my mouth gape like a

  fool’s. Yunqian opened the door quietly, and before I knew it she was by my side, laughing. She pushed me to the floor, embracing me tightly and pressing her lips to mine. I was brought back to the reality of our cocoon. Every time she came back from a necessary outside trip she would embrace me passionately and give me all her love. Perhaps each time she escaped from the large prison back into our small cell she felt she was returning to a utopia known only to us. She 1 1 2

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  particularly cherished this cocoon because it was a small but noble land inside which another citizen – me – loved rather than fought.

  I gaze at her window. In the past it was pasted over with black paper; now a cloth curtain with tiny blue flowers hangs there.

  What a cocoon, solitary but cozy, dim yet bright,

  cramped but free. Inside it, we tried to shut out spring, summer, autumn, and winter, shut out the clouds, sun, rain, and snow, shut out worries, troubles, and noises. On each revolution, the needle jumped on the cracked record, producing extra quarter notes and sixths. They were the consequence of a minor mistake among numerous grave errors

  committed in my life. I could tolerate it in Tchaikovsky’s music by pretending it was a deliberate masterstroke done by a mad conductor. Why shouldn’t I tolerate it because

  some people were still distorting the musical composition called history? The 331⁄3 needle jumps per minute gave me an insight: discordant noises outside the window were filling up all space and time and penetrating people’s con-

  scious, and even subconscious, minds.

  Sometimes I entered a meditative state of mind, like an

  ancient sage. This was different from the self-criticism prev-alent in China, of course, which was nothing but self-flagel-lation, self-justification, and self-deception. Self-criticism was a gesture of surrender to those in power, and it was largely brought about by torture, shackles, and isolation.

  There were some who offered self-criticism out of loyalty or flattery. A sage’s meditation occurs under no pressure. He examines himself according to the morals he is willing or obliged to accept. The most serious
question I put to myself was, Am I now a deserter?

  “Yes, I admit I am. I am a deserter who has escaped from the largest civil war in Chinese history.”

  1 1 3

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  “Why do you want to be a deserter? What a shame.”

  “I’ve become deaf to those jarring terms. I do not wish to wear those conceptual shackles. Because I am already in jail, why do I need to wear so many shackles? I no longer know whose soldier I am, nor whom I should attack. Because I

  have been deprived of my freedom, it is impossible for me to make even a blind attack. Moreover, I am utterly exhausted.

  “There’s an important point – why? Do you really want

  to watch idly while the fields of socialist China grow wild with weeds? What’s to be done about China’s future? Is it possible that the Chinese people will grow cows’ stomachs so they can ruminate, with half-shut eyes, after each fill of fodder? What are our glorious victories?”

  “What does our mean, anyway? What are the enemy’s defeats? Who are the enemies? What is honor? What is

  shame? I no longer recognize their meanings, and my spiritual burden has been released. All the colorful political concepts could no longer shine like gold necklaces and jade bracelets. They were nothing but chains and shackles.”

  “But look what dirty tricks you have used.”

  “So what?”

  “You deceive people.”

  “Deception is pretty normal, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty normal?”

  “Not only normal, but fashionable.”

  “Fashionable?”

  “Yes, it suits the current fashion. The magnificent background is nothing more than a paper curtain. I merely play my inescapable part of a clown in the melodrama, adding a few improvised funny lines. What I’ve done is in perfect harmony with the gist of the drama. Furthermore, I’ve never blocked any genius actor or actress’ free performance or the development of the plot. The actions of my minor role, natural and concordant, fit perfectly into the libretto. Why should I feel out of place?”

  “Then why do you think the background is merely a

  1 1 4

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  paper curtain? It is the great mountains and rivers of our ancient country.”

  “No, I think it is even more illusory than the paper curtain. In the sunlight I often see the most fashionable,

  brightest color as black and the shadow as a dazzling light.”

  “That’s your own illusion.”

  “No. I believe many people feel the same as me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. But they are flexible enough to adjust their intuitive vision to accord with established concepts.”

  “Then why don’t you adjust yours according to the estab-

  lished rules?”

  “I jumped off the treadmill designed for the white rat.”

  “What?”

  “A treadmill designed especially for a little white rat. As soon as the rat gets into the wheel, he has to pedal like mad.

  The rat believes it’s making great progress, but in fact it remains right where it started, only its eyes are so dazzled by the spinning wheel that it can’t get off. Some white rats keep pedaling until they are too tired and fall off from exhaustion. Some pedal until they vomit blood and die, but their wheels keep spinning.”

  “What a cruel game.”

  “Yes, very cruel. Nobody can escape this wheel, including its designers, who crawl into it in order to show others how to do it. The moment the wheel starts spinning, they know they have made a deceptive device that, in spite of its speed, stays forever in the same place. However, in order to prove they are making progress, they must keep going. It is

  impossible for them to stop anyway. They are eventually

  deceived by the speed they make and become more fanatical in their pedaling. The image of the wheel becomes blurred.

  The power of inertia pushes and stimulates the flying feet and overexcited nerves, pedaling, pedaling until the wheels burst or their hearts break.… Fortunately I was still alive when I fell off that wheel.”

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  I often stole to the window and poked a small hole in the black window paper, as if piercing the walls of a stronghold.

  Then I behaved like a clown who had not washed the colorful paint from his face, hiding behind the scenery to watch the silly games he had just played, parodying a made-up

  monkey. The clown takes obscenity for pleasure, cruelty for bravery, hypocrisy for respect, urine for tears, excrement for the elixir of life. Such a performance provided not only superb entertainment but also precious experience of life from a philosophical angle. The play was heightened by

  enthusiastic support, inexhaustible flattery, and endless confessions.

  Every morning at six o’clock, when Yunqian, lying on

  her stomach, was still sound asleep, I tiptoed barefoot over to the window to see the most fantastic episode of that lifelong drama.

  Precisely at six o’clock, an old hag appeared, carrying a vegetable basket and dragging a pair of liberation shoes while she went barefoot ( liberation – what a glorious term).

  She had her army cap on crooked (the VIPs who reviewed

  the parades of the Red Guards at Tiananmen Square all wore this type of army cap, although some of them were civilians; this type of cap, like the halo surrounding a god’s head, emitted rays of sacredness and purity). With numerous

  Chairman Mao badges pinned to her chest, she looked like a Soviet general. I was worried that the weight of those med-als would break the old woman’s crooked back. Her over-

  sized blue blouse was so worn out that the crowded badges could bump each other freely, producing a bell-like music.

  She laughed to herself constantly. God knows why she was so happy. She was picking up green leaves dropped by vegetable carts (thank heaven, nearly all the carts spilled a few leaves or a handful of turnips along the way). Whenever

  she picked up a leaf, she burst into excited laughter. Laying her basket on the ground, she would flip up the back of her long skirt and slap her backside, shouting, “The situation 1 1 6

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  is not merely good. It is excellent! It’s getting better and better.”

  If she found a whole cabbage or something, she would

  jump even higher and shout even louder: “The enemies

  grow more rotten day by day, whereas we become stronger

  and stronger.”

  The people on the street paid no attention to her, except for those in long queues, who stared at her silently. In fact, they were staring at the greens in her basket, admiring her for having gleaned so much. Although the lines she shouted were obviously improvised, they created a unique and powerful artistic effect at the right moment, like a film editor joining two shots into a montage. The watchdogs, no matter how sensitive they were to class struggle, did not interfere with her, because her lines demonstrated no political problems, had no ulterior motives, and were all quoted from the political classics. Who dared to say our situation was not excellent? Who dared to say the enemies were not growing more rotten daily? And who dared to say we were not getting stronger and stronger with each passing day? If you blamed her for her inapt quotes, then how would you

  explain the statement that “Chairman Mao’s works are a

  universal truth that can be applied to the four seas”? So the old hag won her freedom to perform. Every day she went

  onstage like a sophisticated actress at exactly the same time and place. Her precision was like clockwork. By and by her image was printed on my memory. I drew a sketch of her

  without even having to cast a glance at her. I was quite proud of myself. The sketch captured not only her image

  but als
o her inner spirit. But when I showed my sketch to Yunqian, she unexpectedly rose in a rage, for it showed her I was peeping at the outside world. The large world seemed still attractive to me, or I was still too easily captured by it.

  It was definitely a dangerous tendency.

  She said to me sadly, “Why are your hands so restless? The window cannot shut you in, and even I fail to attract you.”

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  “I want to draw.”

  “Why don’t you draw me, then? I’ll be your model.”

  With tears streaming down her face, she slowly un-

  dressed. An entirely different Yunqian appeared before me.

  Instantly I asked myself why I had never seen she was such a beauty. I had seen authentic works as well as replicas of nude sculpture and painting, and I must admit they all showed well-proportioned, beautiful bodies as well as the value, strength, and confidence of a human being – yet the one in front of me was not an artistic representation but a living body with a soul. Moreover, she loved me with all her body and soul (although she had never expressed her love in

  words). To me, this was most important, surpassing the

  beauty of Venus created by any master hand. How I had neglected her in the past. After one hysterical impulse, I had simply slept by this snowy, perfect masterpiece created by nature, never caressing her with a loving glance. During a sketching class at school, I had the chance to draw two

  female models, both married women with children. Hon-

  estly speaking, they had aroused a powerful sexual desire in my youthful, restless body. When I stepped into the sketch room, my face grew ghastly pale. Shaking all over, I was unable to pick up a pen or hear the professor’s words. Of course, my reaction to the naked females revealed the awakening of puberty. When I started looking for their shapes and lines, I gradually calmed down. Recalling the loose

  muscles of the two models as I stood before the body of

  Yunqian, I felt extremely ashamed of my adolescent

  impulses.

  I embraced her gently and whispered,

  “Yes, I will draw you, but not now.”