Mr. and Mrs. Li’s fathers were both relics of the Qing dynasty.12 Whereas Mrs. Li’s father was famous, Mr. Li’s father was rich. A few months before the Revolution of 1911,13 Mrs. Li’s father had accepted an appointment as a provincial governor, hoping that he could rustle up some money to compensate for his financial losses from prior years.14 Yet the Wuchang Uprising seemed to have occurred specifically to foil his plans, and he cursed the Republic through clenched teeth.15 Luckily, one of his former students had forfeited his integrity to become an important official of the Republic and honored him with a monthly stipend. Mr. Li’s father lived in the foreign concessions in Shanghai, cherishing ideas of the past, enjoying the modern life of the present, and spending money of the future by borrowing on the security of his monthly stipend. Eventually, he hit upon the retired gentleman’s road to riches. Today, some nouveau riche would be seeking an officiant for his son’s wedding; tomorrow, a comprador banker would be looking for someone to preside over his mother’s funeral. Each had a need for these Qing relics, and the honorarium would usually be equal to his monthly stipend. The beauty of it was that compradors’ mothers would never all die out, and that sons of the nouveaux riches would all live to a marriageable age. His writing was unremarkable and his calligraphy undistinguished, but he discovered that so long as he affixed the seals from his several official titles, “Presented Scholar of Such and Such a Year” or “Governor of Such and Such a Province,” there would be people willing to pay big money for both. He realized then that the fall of the Qing offered certain compensations, and that being a relic was worthwhile after all. He became so even-tempered and amiable that he even allowed his daughter to attend a foreign school.
Mr. Li’s father, who was from the same hometown as Mrs. Li’s father, was an extremely early promoter of Westernization.16 As an expectant provincial inspector, he had written a report to the throne on how to “enrich the nation and the people” and been sent to Shanghai to procure machinery from foreigners. Yet the Qing dynasty fell too soon to reap the benefits of his report, so he ended up enriching only himself.
He once toured abroad as an attaché and upon his return to China summed up his gleanings in a four-line family motto: “Eat Chinese food, live in a Western house, marry a Japanese wife, and you’ll have no regrets!” His in-laws’ thorough knowledge of past, present, and future perfectly complemented his own thorough knowledge of China, Japan, and the West. Little could he have imagined that his muddleheaded son, Jianhou, would misremember his old man’s motto in reverse order. First, he took a Westernized wife who was even harder to deal with than a Western wife. Aimo—now Mrs. Li—had graduated from a fashionable girls’ school run by Americans. An irritable and irritating little girl to begin with, having been trained by Chinese Christian converts she not only was unsubmissive to her husband but even felt that he by himself did not suffice to wait on her. Second, as both husband and wife alike considered themselves to be civilized people, they were obliged to move to Beiping to live in an old-style Chinese house. Naturally, the facilities were far less Westernized than those in Shanghai. Third, eating Japanese food gave him stomach trouble—but that’s a long story.
Since childhood, Mrs. Li had been dissatisfied with her looks on two counts: her skin was not supremely white, and her eyelids were not double-fold. The first point mattered little to her. Who cared for that kind of pale, pinkish foreign doll face?17 Her natural looks were lovely enough. Her single-fold eyelids, however, were a serious defect indeed. The richness of her heart lacked a means by which to fully express itself, just as a landlocked country with no seaports has difficulty exporting its products. Not until she was in school did she learn that the single-fold eyelid was the national emblem of Japanese women, for which very reason that resourceful people, who had already stolen the sky and put up a sham sun,18 had established beauty clinics. Unable to alter their height, they had to endure the national nickname “dwarf slaves,” but there was no facial feature they could not improve. The ugly became beautiful and the grotesque were transformed into demonic seductresses.19
When Mr. Li proposed to her, she had set many conditions, item no. 18 being that they should spend their honeymoon in Japan. Immediately upon arrival, Mrs. Li went to a beauty clinic to have her eyelids altered and the dimple in her left cheek deepened. She knew that after the operation she would be unable to show her face for two weeks, and she was worried that Mr. Li, unable to endure the solitude of the honeymoon, would be unfaithful to her in such a romantic country. Thus, before checking herself into the clinic she had told him, “You know, I’ve undertaken this arduous, interminable eastern journey across the oceans to suffer here only for your sake. My only desire is to please you—my face is your pride. When my eyes are bandaged and I’m in pain and darkness, will your conscience permit you to live it up outside? If you love me, you’ll do as I say. Don’t go out running around with anybody. Also, you’re such a greedy eater. After I’ve entered the beauty clinic, I don’t want you going to Chinese restaurants or eating big meals. Every meal, it’s only Japanese food for you. Promise? If you love me, you should share my suffering. It’ll be a comfort to me while I’m in pain. Besides, if you don’t eat so well it’ll dampen your desire and you won’t fool around and ruin your health. What’s more, since you’re on the short side, you’d be unsightly if you stuffed yourself and put on more weight. If you betray me or lie to me I’ll find out and that’ll be the end of our relationship.”
Two weeks later, Jianhou went to the clinic to pay the bill and pick up his wife. He hadn’t lost weight, but his face had grown sallow and saggy, and he looked listless. In contrast, Mrs. Li’s eyes, newly bought for five hundred Japanese yen, further enhanced her original beauty, like the lights used in art photography. Her eyes and eyelashes worked in concert for every sort of expressive display—opening, closing, brightening, darkening, sharpening, and misting up—holding Jianhou spellbound. He wondered if two technicians were hiding in her eyes managing it all scientifically. How else could they move so confidently, convey feelings so exactly, or attain such precisely calculated effects? Jianhou had been his father’s son; henceforth, he threw himself wholeheartedly into being his wife’s husband.
Their friends discussed this privately. How could a woman as beautiful as Mrs. Li have married Jianhou? Surely there were more capable men out there with wealth and family backgrounds similar to Jianhou’s. In fact, Heaven had not mismatched this pair. To be the husband of a woman like Mrs. Li was a lifetime occupation, a Trade No. 361 added to China’s so-called three hundred and sixty trades.20 This full-time job was busier than being a doctor and more exhausting than being a porter,21 not allowing for other interests or goals in life. Although people mocked Jianhou behind his back for being “a husband whose prestige comes from his wife,” or a minor celebrity who basked in her aura, Mrs. Li had never thought of it that way. Jianhou’s vanity about his wife was not that of the ordinary man who possesses a beautiful wife—that is, it was not the satisfaction of the master. Rather, it was the satisfaction of the possessed, of being a servant. It was like the posturing of servants of rich families, entourages of famous people, or native employees in colonial administrations. This sort of vanity at being possessed was a rare virtue among husbands, one that enabled Jianhou to be tolerant and open-minded. Mrs. Li knew that such a husband was as indispensable as the zero in Arabic numerals. Though zero itself has no value, without it one could not make ten, one hundred, one thousand, or even ten thousand. Any figure multiplies tenfold when a zero is added, so the zero, accordingly, gains significance by following it.
Ten years into their marriage, Mr. Li was happy and plump. His wife said he was a good husband, and his wife’s friends considered him a decent pal. Yet last month, quite by accident, he had been badly upset. At a large banquet, a brash, young playwright had shared a table with the couple. This upstart playwright, having learned of Mrs. Li’s presence, could not contain his enthusiasm. So busy had he been with praising Mrs
. Li and showing off that his mouth had hardly had time to eat. By the time the third course had been served, he had persuaded Mrs. Li to grant him a visit and, having achieved his objective, could finally turn part of his attention to the food. It’s difficult to keep one’s mind on two things at once, and he was busy enough as it was. Paying Jianhou any attention was really beyond his capacity, so he never addressed even a casual remark to him. Jianhou was thoroughly displeased, and once they returned home he complained about the young man’s ignorance of the ways of the world.
The young brat was as good as his word and arrived on their doorstep the next day with a batch of his writings in hand, asking specifically to see Mrs. Li. In a fit of childishness, Jianhou immediately hid himself just outside the living room to eavesdrop. After greeting Mrs. Li, the fellow spotted Taoqi sleeping on the sofa and exclaimed, “How cute! How content!” After asking for “advice” on his manuscript, he then inquired about a few of the guests who frequented the Lis’ house, saying that he would like to meet them all if possible. Mrs. Li replied noncommittally that she would invite him to tea sometime and they could get acquainted. He still didn’t leave and turned the conversation to Taoqi, saying that he loved cats too. Cats were creatures that possessed all of the three virtues: reason, emotion, and courage. When hunting for mice, they were like knights vanquishing bandits and making the world safe for good people. When sitting quietly and praying to Buddha, they were like philosophers contemplating the meaning of life. When mewing for mates, they were like poets singing to express their emotions. He added that although Thai cats and Persian cats were the best cat breeds, neither were the peers of Taoqi. In short, he flattered Mrs. Li and praised Taoqi without once inquiring after Mr. Li.
This incident caused Jianhou to self-reflect. He was silent and sullen for two days and then resolved to make a change in his personal life. From now on, he no longer wanted simply to bask in the reflected glory of his wife. He wanted his own career. He would either get a government position or become a writer. After some thought, he decided to try writing first. On the one hand, it would demonstrate that he was not just pretending to be educated, and on the other, writing itself might lead to a government position. Having settled on this plan, he kept it from his wife at first, fearing that she would rain on his parade. Then one day, when he could not hold back any longer, he told her his decision.
To his surprise, Mrs. Li agreed. “It’s time you asserted yourself. I’ve been too selfish, not realizing that I’ve been hindering your career! From now on, you can focus on your writing; there’s no need for you to accompany me at social events.”
What to write about? Jianhou was not very bright. As a student, he had always borrowed notes from classmates, and while studying abroad, he had even paid a Jew to write his thesis. After their marriage, his circle of acquaintance broadened and he learned a slew of trendy terms and stock phrases that he could pass off as his own views at appropriate points in conversation. In fact, the contents of most famous works were nothing special. Having never written any books or articles in his youth, Jianhou took his book too seriously, becoming as apprehensive as a middle-aged woman about to give birth for the first time.
He carefully pondered which genre might suit him best. True, he had few brains, no ideas, and no ideals. But sometimes great works do not require good brains, just a good butt. According to Zheng Xuxi, Germans believed that having “sitting flesh” (Sitzfleisch) was a prerequisite for an intellectual.22 If he could but sit down well, he would have no trouble, say, assembling a proper name index to The Water Margin or Dream of the Red Chamber. Such work represented Western scientific methodology as well as an academic tool for the twentieth century. But, regrettably, indexing was a job for college students or minor editors and was thus beneath him.
Alternatively, there was cookbook writing. When it came to cuisine, he was an indisputable authority. His wife could not give a party without his supervision, and his culinary prowess, needless to say, earned the praise of his friends. Suffering from stomach trouble and abstaining from drinking and smoking had made his sense of taste sharper and his palate more discriminating. Every fine meal he ate at least thrice. He first imagined its taste and ate it once in his imagination. Next, when actually eating he heeded the doctor’s warning not to indulge himself and would linger at the table, reluctant to leave. Then he would recollect its taste afterward, savoring it in his mind all over again. Having chewed it over repeatedly, each meal’s hidden defects and virtues were all exposed. It was true: if he deigned to write a cookbook, he could outdo Brillat-Savarin.23 Yet the thought of Savarin was accompanied by unhappy thoughts. The name of Savarin had been mentioned by Chen Xiajun, the disgusting chap who had frequented their home the year before last. Knowing that Jianhou was fond of fine food, he one day brought over the first edition of Savarin’s famous Physiologie du goût. Having forgotten all his French, Jianhou spoke up rashly, “You are mistaken: I suffer from stomach trouble, not gout. There is no point in giving me a book about the physiology of gout.”
To this day he could not forget the laugh of that bastard, who then remarked maliciously to Aimo, “It’s a great pity that your husband isn’t a translator. Someday you should ask Fu Juqing to appoint Jianhou to be the special editor of an Anthology of World Famous Literary Works and then throw a party with the money he earns.” Worse still, Aimo had laughed along with him. His interest in writing a cookbook had thus been swept cleanly away. Besides, preaching the art of eating was hardly a serious career for a modern man.24
Xiajun had once teased him, “Foreign tea and coffee companies pay handsomely for dégustateurs. They are asked to taste all kinds of teas and coffees, after which the goods are graded and priced. These people usually drink about a hundred cups of tea or coffee a day. Fortunately, they only taste it quickly with their tongues and then spit it out without swallowing; otherwise, they’d get diarrhea or insomnia. What with your stomach trouble, this would allow you to taste the food without having to eat it. It’s a pity that big restaurants don’t have dégustateurs and that nobody is appointing you to be the examiner of the kitchen. That tongue of yours is going to waste!”
Jianhou was afraid that Xiajun would ridicule him if he got wind of his plan to write a cookbook. Having turned this over and over in his mind, he settled on a travelogue about Europe or America—something interesting as well as meaningful and neither too easy nor too hard. He could hire somebody to help without actually having to call it a collaboration. So long as one has indeed toured Europe and America oneself, there’s nothing wrong with getting a scribe to set down the impressions. The assistant would be no different from a stenographer who records a speaker’s words for a collection of lectures and has no claim whatsoever to its authorship. This approach perfectly suited Jianhou, who by nature couldn’t motivate himself to pick up a pen. The first step was to hire a private secretary, preferably a college student looking to make some money.
At that time, patriots in Qi Yigu’s school were causing an uproar. A large group of them had been arrested, charged, and thrown in jail. Yigu was timid by nature and his widowed mother, afraid that he might be implicated by his schoolmates, asked him to stay home for a while. Having been introduced in a roundabout way, he had called on Jianhou for the first time four days earlier. This big kid of nineteen wore a blue Chinese jacket, baggy Western trousers, and black, square-toed leather shoes, and had the habit of putting his left hand in his trouser pocket. His hair was pressed yet still unkempt, and his attractive face flushed as soon as he entered the house. His eyes were deceptively black and bright; neither his heart nor his intellect matched the profundity, intensity, and liveliness of his eyes. Jianhou was very pleased with this lad. After a few questions, he asked him to start work the following day, with a month’s probationary period. Once Yigu had left, Jianhou went in and excitedly told Aimo that he had settled on a satisfactory secretary. Aimo was amused and compared him to a child who had just gotten a new toy. She also remarked, �
�I have Taoqi. Who cares about your secretary!”
Rubbing her face against Taoqi’s body, she addressed the cat, “We don’t care about his secretary, do we?—oh, no! How terrible!” Taoqi had licked some powder off Mrs. Li’s face. Throwing the cat off her, she got up from the sofa and went to look in the mirror.
In the two and half days since he had arrived at the Lis’, Yigu had gotten along swimmingly with Jianhou. Though shy, he was not intimidated by his employer. Jianhou, on the other hand, since the day he had first learned to speak, had never met anybody who would let him rattle on and on and still lend him an ear as earnestly, patiently, and enthusiastically as did Yigu. Never before had he realized he possessed such eloquence. In these two days, his self-esteem—like the mercury in a thermometer in the mouth of a typhoid patient—shot straight up.
Now he realized the function of a private secretary. Those who had them felt themselves magnified many times and elevated many levels. Jianhou first discussed with Yigu the title of the travelogue and how it would be written, and spoke in passing of many foreign customs. Thus it was that by lunchtime on the first day, Yigu already knew how popular Jianhou had been while studying in America; how much his annual expenses had been; how tough his college courses had been and how difficult it had been to graduate; how astonishing technological civilization was and how the cars in New York City alone, put end to end, would make a line long enough to circle the globe. He heard, too, how Jianhou had introduced China to the Americans; what the colors and designs were of the Chinese robes he had worn to fancy dress parties; how his landlady had cooked chicken for him every day when he was sick; and how an American girl had sent him flowers every day with a get-well note marked with an “X.”
Humans, Beasts, and Ghosts Page 15