The Day the Sun Died

by Yan Lianke

  “You remember that Ma Huzi died three years ago? Everyone in the village, and everyone in town, knows that he died from a terminal illness. But during this past half night, as soon as people began to doze off and dreamwalk, guess what happened! Ma Huzi’s wife dreamwalked over to the town police station. She went to the police station to turn herself in. She said that her husband had not, in fact, died from a terminal illness, but rather she, after caring for her paralyzed husband for twelve years, couldn’t bear it anymore, and put poison in his bowl.

  “She claimed that for three years after her husband died, she had not had a good night’s sleep. Her remorse over having poisoned him was so strong that it was as if she had injured her own parents. Tonight, after finally managing to enjoy a good night’s sleep, she decided to turn herself in. She said, ‘I know I’m dreamwalking, but it is only while asleep that I could have dared turn myself in. Because if I turned myself in, what would happen to my three children? My youngest is not yet three years old, and was born half a year after his father died. Now that I’ve come to turn myself in, however, none of you should wake me up. If you do, I’ll deny that I poisoned my husband. Furthermore, you don’t know what my husband said before he died. While foaming at the mouth, he said to me, “Thank you for sending me to the other side. This way I don’t need to continue enduring this punishment. It is you who have completed me. But you mustn’t tell anyone, because if you mention this to anyone, then our family will suffer a disaster and our children will end up not only without a father but also without a mother.”’

  “This is what happened.

  “This is also what happened.

  “If it hadn’t been for the somnambulism, who would have ever known that Ma Huzi was killed by his own wife, or that she was even capable of something like this? Normally, she appeared to be so good and weak, so docile and obedient, so diligent and tolerant. The second year after they got married, Ma Huzi became paralyzed, so she began caring for him, and did so for the next twelve years. But, in the end, he died at her hands. Fortunately, there had been this night of somnambulism—a once-in-a-century occurrence. While dreamwalking, she had turned herself in and confessed the truth. Had it not been for this somnambulism, who would have ever learned the truth of what happened? She herself said that it is actually better when people are dreaming, because that way they are able to do everything they wanted to do during the day, when they are awake. ‘If it had not been for this night of somnambulism, even if you killed me a hundred or a thousand times, I would never have admitted that I murdered my own husband.’

  “It was very odd that she said this while dreamwalking. She added, ‘I have turned myself in, but you mustn’t wake me—because if you do, I’ll simply deny everything. Instead, you must consider who will look after my children now that I have confessed.’

  “She did indeed say this. It was all very odd.

  “It was exceedingly odd that even while asleep she was nevertheless aware that she was asleep and that she was dreamwalking. So, was it indeed possible for people who are asleep to know that they are sleeping? And to instruct people, while they are sleeping, not to wake them up?”

  Upon relating this bizarre story, the neighbor began to laugh, then he bent over and noisily washed his face. “I’m also feeling sleepy. You must make sure that I don’t become infected with this somnambulism disease. Because if I am, there’s no telling what I might say.” He laughed as he said this, but no one else did. The others were all still absorbing the information that Ma Huzi had been murdered by his own wife. They were digesting the fact that a murderer could turn herself in while dreamwalking. Yan’s eyes were as large as dates, or as a couple of rotten grapes, as he stared at the neighbor as though seeing someone he had never met. He stared at the neighbor as though staring at a key plot twist in a story.

  “It’s true.

  “It’s all true.

  “Why can I not write a story about someone who knows she is sleeping while sleeping? About how she is able to interact with and speak to the waking world while still in her dreams?” Yan stood up and walked around the courtyard. As he passed the crowd of people, he spoke and continued walking. His face was flushed with excitement—so red that it looked as though there were a wet piece of silk stuck to his face. “I have another story—I have another story to write. I don’t want people to claim that my inspiration has dried up, or that I’m in my sunset years.” He laughed, producing a stupid cackling sound.

  “Now inspiration is raining down onto my head like raindrops. It is blowing against my breast like a breeze . . . Mother . . . Sister . . . Apparently, you’ve both left. I want to return to my studio on the embankment. If I don’t write this down, then after I wake up all of these stories will blow away like the wind.

  “All of you should leave. I want to go to my studio on the embankment.

  “You should leave. I want to go and write.

  “All of you should walk and talk more slowly. I don’t want you to wake me up, because if you do, my stories will disappear. My inspiration will also disappear, and even if I were to bang my head against the wall, I still wouldn’t be able to produce another novel. It is good to be asleep. While sleeping, people are indeed really good. Sleep is like the sun and rain—in that when sleep comes the crops start to grow, and when sleep is deep the crops become ripe, and are ready to be harvested and stored in the warehouse. I should take advantage of being asleep in order to write. All of you should leave. No one should bump into me, and no one should say a single word to me. Don’t wake me from my dreams.”

  He continued walking as he said all this, his voice growing increasingly softer as he progressed from light into deep sleep. He walked around the courtyard, then began looking around his room for his books. He took his pen, pencil, and paper, together with the glue, paste, and tiny scissors that he couldn’t do without when he was revising and editing. Finally, his crystal-clear voice degenerated into an indistinct mumble. His words and sentences became murky. His nostrils, which would always flare when he spoke, became still. His wide eyes were half-closed, as though he were so exhausted that he couldn’t keep his eyelids open. The determination to write that had been visible on his face was now visible only in his eyes. It accumulated there. It was as if he had already sat down and was staring at the composition paper’s individual boxes for writing Chinese characters.

  Everyone quieted down. Everyone stared at Yan, who was standing there waiting for everyone else to leave, although in reality he had been planning to leave first. “Let him wash his face.” Yan’s mother pulled aside the person who said this; she also pulled aside Yan’s sister and her husband. Then Yan’s mother went over and stood in front of her son for a while. She stared at him, as though she had suddenly learned how to read and could finally understand the text written on her son’s face.

  “Do you really want to write?”

  He nodded.

  “When you aren’t able to write, do you feel as though you were physically sick?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you really feel that living is no different from dying, and that if you are unable to write you would prefer to die?” His mother’s voice suddenly became louder.

  He was silent, looking as though he were pondering the question. Then he nodded very slowly and solemnly—like someone in court nodding to indicate whether he wishes to be executed by decapitation or by hanging. He didn’t say a word, and instead sat in the light as though he had just drowned in a deep lake. The sky was very murky. The night was very murky. Yan’s face had the murky look of a middle-aged man. A book he was holding fell to the ground, and he bent down to pick it up. The ice-crystal coffee I had brought had already cooled off. The coffee odor had disappeared, to the point that it seemed as though what I was holding was a bowl of ordinary flour-paste soup. Initially, I had been standing in the entrance to the courtyard, watching. Initially, I had been in the Yan family courtyard watching and listening, but I don’t know when I put down the bowl I had
been holding and instead squatted there watching and listening. In just the same way, I don’t know who later told me about town matters from before I was born. And about world matters. And about matters relating to the Yan family. Because I was stupid, I forgot many things, and I even forgot myself. In particular, I forgot I had brought some drowsiness-dispelling ice-crystal coffee. Upon hearing someone discussing Ma Huzi’s family situation, I felt as though I had fallen into one of Yan’s novels. As I watched Yan walk back into his dream, back into his somnambulism, I felt as though someone had locked me in a dark room. Yan’s mother stared at her son for a while, as though she had been staring at him for millennia. She said to the others, “Don’t wake him up. Let him sleep.” They stood there staring, like wooden puppets watching a puppet show. “He says that if he can’t write, he’ll go crazy and die, so just let him write. Even if he writes himself to death, he’ll still feel as though he’s alive.” As Yan’s mother said this, tears streamed down her face, like rain in the wilderness. “Given the fact that he has already become like this, let him stay that way. Let him live as though he were already dead, because being dead is just like being alive.” When she finished, she looked at her son, and then gazed out into the night. She looked into the courtyard, and at the people standing there. Then she said something very simple but very solemn.

  “No one wake him up. Let him sleep.”

  After this, she shifted her gaze from her son’s face to his body, and then back to his face again. “You should go. Let your sister and her husband escort you back to your home on the embankment.”

  While asleep, Yan was calmly pondering, as though he had woken up. “There is no need for them to escort me. If they do, they may wake me up, and if I wake up, my story will dissipate. It will fly away, and I will be left without any inspiration. If I’m unable to write, then life will be even worse than death.” He was sleeping as though still awake, and he faced the night as though it were daytime. He looked at his mother. He looked at his elder sister, her husband, and their neighbors. Then he picked up his things and left. “All of you go back.” Saying this, he, like a shadow, climbed the stairs, went down the hallway, then out into the night streets and alleys. His footsteps sounded like wooden mallets striking a soft and hollow surface. He swayed back and forth, then gradually fell into a rhythm. It was a rhythm, but was also like a breeze. In this way, swaying back and forth while still asleep, he walked away. His mother and sister both came out of the courtyard to watch him, as though watching a dream, and in the dream they were watching a willow tree on the shore swaying back and forth in the wind.

  He walked away.

  The night fell even further.

  The people prayed that the sun would come soon, and that everything would return to normal.

  3. (3:32–4:05)

  It was I who escorted Yan back to his house up on the embankment. It was I who wanted to escort him.

  His family said, “You are small and your footsteps are light. You won’t wake him, so you should escort him to his house on the embankment.” They also urged me not to speak to him on the way there, so as not to wake him. However, I spoke to him anyway. I couldn’t help speaking to him. He walked in front of me with one heavy step followed by a light one. Unable to see the road clearly, he would occasionally step into a hole. Each time he did so, he would suddenly lunge to one side, and I would think that this would surely wake him up. But instead, he would merely mutter, “There’s a hole here,” and continue forward. As he proceeded, he would periodically kick a brick or a stone, and would then lift his aching foot and cry, “Aiya, Aiya,” and walk away. I followed him, like a lamb following its mother. Whenever he stepped into a hole or kicked a stone, I would step forward and support him, and as soon as he walked away, I would follow him. We passed through the town’s alleys as though through a tunnel beneath a dam. When we finally reached a broad, flat road, it was as though we had reached a large square. By this point there was no one in the square—only bricks and stones, for the stove used to brew tea and coffee, and the lingering scent of tea and coffee.

  Everyone had dispersed.

  Everyone drank realgar tea and ice-crystal coffee. This dispelled drowsiness, and therefore everyone stopped dreamwalking. Out in the streets, meanwhile, there were still the shadows and footsteps of the last people taking home their pots for brewing tea. It was like the nighttime movement that one would originally have expected. Apart from Yan, who was walking in front, I very much wanted to find one or two more dreamwalkers. But in the town streets there was only lamplight and stillness, and there were no more dreamwalkers to be found. Occasionally I could hear screams—but these were not the sort that one would hear from someone being chopped down and killed, but rather the kind one might hear from someone who glimpses a shadow but then realizes that it is just a cat or a dog.

  Surely, the night of the great somnambulism couldn’t possibly have concluded so easily? How could it have ended so simply? But the town streets were, in fact, now as still as a grave. I was rather startled, and also a bit afraid. I instinctively stepped forward and grabbed Yan’s hand, like a frightened child grabbing his father’s hand. Yan’s hand was warm and soft. His palm was soft and supple, and completely lacking in strength. This hand was completely different from my father’s. Because of this hand, I began speaking to him, asking him a series of questions.

  “How many years has it been since you left Gaotian?

  “Was this return trip worth it? You arrived just in time to find the entire village, and the entire town, in the middle of a great somnambulism.

  “What did you see while asleep? How can someone know he’s sleeping while he’s sleeping?”

  He turned to me, then patted me on the head and laughed.

  “In my next novel, I’ll write about dreamwalking. This is a gift heaven has sent me in my moment of despair.”

  It turned out that dreamwalking was a gift—a gift from the spirits in heaven. I myself suddenly wanted to dreamwalk. Moreover, like Yan, I wanted to be able to know I was dreamwalking while dreamwalking. It would be like being able to observe the events of this world while in another world, or knowing that you are still alive even after you’ve died. I held Yan’s hand, and carried his books for him. We walked past the square, and past East Street and West Street. I saw that the door of my family’s funerary shop was open and there was a light on inside. I wanted to go in and tell my parents that I was escorting the dreamwalking Uncle Yan back to the house he had rented on top of the embankment. In the end, I only thought about doing this, and didn’t actually return home or to our family’s shop. I saw that there were people in a clothing shop stealing things and carrying them away, and I wanted to exclaim, “Stop! People are no longer sleepy, and the store owner will return and grab you!” But in the end, I only thought about doing this, and didn’t actually walk over there. I saw that in the fields outside the town people had hung a lantern from a tree branch and were harvesting wheat. After every few swipes of the scythe, they would pull the tree branch out of the ground and move it forward. I wanted to go up and say, “You should return home and drink some tea, and also brew a bowl of realgar ice crystals and drink it as well. When others drink this, they immediately stop feeling sleepy and stop dreamwalking.” At the same time, it also occurred to me that dreamwalking might well be a good and beautiful thing for some people, so why was I trying to wake them up?

  I didn’t end up doing any of the things I had thought of doing, so I was the complete opposite of people who are dreamwalking, who generally end up doing everything that comes to their minds. If people are able to do whatever they are thinking, isn’t that a dream come true? I wanted to ask Uncle Yan about his novels. I wanted to know how much money he earned from writing a book. I wanted to ask him to bring me some more books when he returned. Therefore, I asked again—as though beginning to sharpen my scythe.

  “Uncle Yan, do you think it is better for people to spend their lives listening to stories, or to focus on
telling stories to others?

  “Uncle Yan, can you tell your stories more warmly? Whenever I read your books, I always feel chilled to the core. The yin in your books is simply too strong. When I read a book in winter, I want for that book to contain a warm stove, and when I read a book in summer, I want for that book to have an electric fan.

  “Uncle Yan . . . Uncle Yan, ah, Uncle Yan!”

  We proceeded to the end of the town’s South Street, and stopped under the square’s pagoda tree. This was an old tree—like the one under which people from Shanxi’s Hongdong County gathered to begin their migration. The trunk was so wide that two grown men couldn’t reach around it. The tree was over two hundred years old, but its branches were still as strong and dense as an umbrella’s spokes, and its canopy blocked the wind and rain as effectively as an umbrella’s canvas surface. The base of the tree was protected by a wall of bricks and stones, like a younger generation looking after its elders. I stood beside that pile of dirt and said, “Uncle Yan, you know, all of your books are about occurrences in our village and our town. But other than myself, no one in the village or the town actually likes your books. Apart from myself, no one is even able to read one of your books from beginning to end. People all ask what your books are about. Actually, you could take any classic novel—whether it be The Romance of the Three Kingdoms or The Water Margin or The Investiture of the Gods or The Three Heroes and Five Gallants—and literally open it to any random page, and what you would find would definitely be better than any of your books. What this means is that your books aren’t worth a cent. They are like the spirit money we sell in our shop, which, although it nominally is money, you could throw to the ground and no one would give it a second glance.”