Humans, Beasts, and Ghosts

by Zhongshu Qian

  “Do you know what that means?” Jianhou smiled and asked mockingly, “Go ask your girlfriend, and she’ll tell you that it stands for a kiss. This is a common convention overseas, where people socialize freely.”

  They settled on two possible titles: Journey to the West and Roaming in Europe and America.25 The former was simple and straightforward, whereas the latter was modern.

  Coming back to work after lunch, Yigu learned that in order to write the travelogue, in addition to taking down Jianhou’s impressions, he would have to consult America’s National Geographic and Travel, as well as Baedeker and Murray’s26 city guides, for supplemental material. The next morning, Jianhou decided that the travelogue should be written in reverse chronological order, beginning with his return from America via Europe and Italy by ship. His reasoning was that travelogues typically begin with departure—one boards a ship and peers around commenting excitedly on commonplace things like your run-of-the-mill lower-class provincial. Having spent three years in America, he qualified as an expert on Western civilization, so he traveled to other countries for fun. Even new sights and spectacles would not cause him to make astonished exclamations and lose his dignity, like a country bumpkin visiting the big city. He said, “This return tour was at least akin to Lin Daiyu entering Rongguo Mansion, whereas going abroad at first was more or less like Granny Liu stepping into Grandview Garden.”27

  Yigu had been dragged along by some friends to listen to a magnificent rendition of “Daiyu Burying Flowers,” sung by a famous Beijing opera female impersonator, so this wasn’t the first time he had seen a plump and sturdy Lin Daiyu (as if, in Sequel to Dream of the Red Chamber, Daiyu had taken the invigorating pill given to her by the fairy Disenchantment before she went to bury the flowers),28 but Yigu couldn’t help laughing when Jianhou gesticulated and compared himself to Daiyu. This made Jianhou even more pleased.

  Yigu hurriedly said, “If that’s the case, Mr. Li, we’ll need to change the title again.”

  Thinking for a moment, Jianhou remarked, “I happened to read in the newspaper the day before yesterday that someone is translating Hardy’s The Return of the Native. The name’s already there for the taking, so I’ll title my book The Return of the Sea Voyager.29 Good, don’t you think?”

  After lunch, Jianhou suddenly decided to write the preface first. As a rule, although the preface appears at the front of a book, it is written after the book is finished.30 Yigu thought to himself that writing the preface first was, like the main text, a case of writing in reverse order. As Jianhou recounted, Yigu transcribed, rearranged, developed, and revised. Up till lunchtime of the day Taoqi made the mess, Yigu had been working on a draft for Jianhou’s perusal. Two and a half days of labor had extinguished his reverence for Jianhou. Youthful extremism caused him to despise his master, seeing only Jianhou’s dullness, vanity, and lack of intellect and overlooking his amiable nature. He should have been grateful that Jianhou was willing to pay him so handsomely for such a nonpressing job, but all he felt was resentment that Jianhou’s wealth enabled him to waste a young man’s time and energy by having him write meaningless stuff on his behalf. Seeing the draft torn to shreds by the cat, he had no choice but to suppress his temper and recopy it. Maybe the damn cat was a bold and sensible critic. Who’s to say that its decimation of this cultural relic did not in fact constitute the most straightforward and effective criticism of this draft? Yigu smiled wryly at this thought.

  When Jianhou learned of the matter, he not only expressed his sympathy but also apologized to Yigu for his own negligence, such that Yigu had no reason to be cross anymore. The next morning, as soon as Jianhou saw Yigu, he said, “My wife has invited you to tea at four thirty this afternoon.”

  Yigu, overwhelmed by this unexpected favor, managed a polite, sheepish smile.

  Jianhou continued, “She has been looking forward to meeting you. Last night, I told her that Taoqi had made trouble for you. She was very apologetic and gave Taoqi a scolding. Since there happens to be a tea party today, she wants to invite you in for a chat.”

  This made Yigu feel unworthy of Mrs. Li’s company. He was too ignorant of etiquette and lacked the proper attire to meet a fashionable lady, so he was bound to make a fool of himself. He declined, saying, “I’d feel embarrassed meeting all those strangers.”

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Jianhou responded kindly. “You’ve heard of all the people who’ll be coming today, and only in my home can you see them all together. Don’t miss your chance. I have to go out to run some errands. In the meantime, would you please collect materials about New York for chapter one? At four-thirty I’ll come to bring you in to tea. If I don’t show up, please ask Old Whitey to take you in.”

  Yigu didn’t feel like doing anything all morning. Fortunately, Jianhou was not there, so he could take breaks as he pleased. He wanted very much to meet all those people whose names exerted such a magnetic force, but at the same time he was afraid that they would make fun of him and look down on him.

  “I wouldn’t feel so shy if Jianhou escorted me in, but if Old Whitey did I’d be embarrassed to walk all the way into the living room without any protection. What if Jianhou does fail to return and I have to ask Old Whitey to lead the way? That’d be a problem! If I go in on time, none of the other guests will have arrived and the mistress will surely tease me for coming early and staying late for the food, like a brave soldier in battle who is the first to charge and the last to retreat. I can’t risk it. But if I go in after the guests have arrived, all eyes will be on me, which would be even more unbearable.”

  After thinking it through, he saw that there was only one way out. “I must listen carefully for the doorbell around four thirty. Old Whitey will pass the study when he escorts guests to the living room. As soon as the first guest goes in, I’ll follow right after. The hostess and the guests will be busy greeting one another, so no one will notice me and I won’t get nervous.”

  In the end, Jianhou accompanied him in. They had no sooner entered the living room than Yigu’s face flushed and his eyes clouded over. He was vaguely aware that a fashionable woman was greeting him with a smile. After sitting down, Yigu fixed his eyes on the carpet. He didn’t have the strength to raise his head to have a look at Mrs. Li. He could only uneasily sense her presence before him.

  Suddenly he found that his feet were stretched too far out, and he hurriedly retracted them, his blush deepening a shade. He had also failed to catch what Mrs. Li was saying about Taoqi.

  Seeing how shy Yigu was, Mrs. Li took a liking to him out of pity. Thinking that the child must have never come into contact with women, she asked, “Mr. Qi, is your school coed?”

  Mrs. Li knew very well that by that day and age a school that did not take in girls was as disreputable as a monastery that did.

  “No.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Li was very much surprised.

  “Yes, yes!” Yigu desperately corrected himself. Mrs. Li gave Jianhou a meaningful look and said nothing, only smiling at Yigu. This smile of Aimo’s was exclusively for Yigu. Like the dog-skin plasters sold by boxers at Tianqiao31 or the misty poetry of the European and American Pleiades,32 the smile contained so much richness that one would never believe it if he heard that it encompassed such elements as consolation, protection, fondness, and encouragement.33 Yigu still dared not look straight at Aimo, so Aimo’s smile, like a prayer for victory, a charitable donation, or other well-meant offerings, did not confer any benefits upon its intended recipient. Just then, Old Whitey showed in more guests. Aimo went to receive them, but her mind was still on that intelligent-looking lad. She thought it was high time he received a lesson in the emotions.

  Jianhou patted Yigu on the shoulder. “Relax!”

  The Lis understood that Yigu was shy, so they introduced him to the guests only in passing as they arrived, pointing at him and nodding to him from afar. They let him sit on an inconspicuous sofa by the wall. Gradually, Yigu became more relaxed as he gazed upo
n these famous guests.

  The tall man speaking in a loud voice was Ma Yongzhong, a noted political analyst who published editorials daily in the newspaper Correct Argument. No matter what political change may have occurred, abroad or at home, he always managed to demonstrate post-factum that it was precisely as he had expected or hinted. Now that his reputation was big, he began to talk big. Especially in private conversation, you would feel that he was a politician rather than a political analyst. He not only was able to hold forth about the domestic and international political situations, but did so as though he were a crucial mediator. He sounded like a meteorologist in his observation tower—come wind or rain, it was all under his control. Once, in one of his essays, he publicly told his readers about one of his personal habits: before turning in every night, he always tore off the calendar page of that day, unlike most people who would wake up to find it was still “yesterday’s day.” From this minor detail, one can infer the type of man he thought himself to be. Since Sino-Japanese relations were very tense lately, he felt no “dismay” for lack of topics for his editorials.34

  The man leaning back on the sofa with his legs crossed, smoking, was Yuan Youchun. As a child he had been taken abroad by foreign missionaries, and following those pedantic Westerners had infected him with the most vulgar airs of Westernization: that of churches and the YMCA. After returning to China he condescended to take an interest in the culture of his homeland and began making efforts in that direction. He believed that China’s old civilization was best represented by playthings, petty cleverness, and hack entertainment writers. In this sense, his enterprise was much like the Boxers’ cause of “Supporting the Qing and Eliminating the Western”:35 he shelved high-minded Western religious theory and began to promote the style of intellectual hangers-on such as Chen Meigong and Wang Baigu. Reading his writing always felt like eating a substitute—margarine on bread or MSG in soup. It was even closer to the “chop suey” served in overseas Chinese restaurants: only those who had never sampled authentic Chinese cuisine could be tricked into thinking it was a real taste of China. He hoodwinked Chinese know-nothings and hoodwinked foreigners—those who were merely know-nothings in Western suits. He had recently published several articles discussing the Chinese national psyche, in which he proposed that traits common to mankind were unique to the Chinese people.36 His pipe was famous. He mentioned it frequently in his articles, saying that his inspiration derived entirely from smoking, the same way Li Bai’s poems were all the product of his drinking. Some suggested that he must be smoking not pipe tobacco but opium, since reading his articles made one yawn, as with the onset of a habitual craving, or want to sleep, as if one had taken an anesthetic. It was suggested that his works be sold not in bookstores but in drugstores as sleeping pills, since they were more effective than Luminal and Ortal but had no side effects. All this, of course, was said by people who envied him, so naturally none of it could be taken seriously.

  Among those who spoke unkindly about him behind his back was his friend Lu Bolin, who sported a small Japanese mustache and whom he flattered and was flattered by in return. He never claimed to smoke pipe tobacco, but that was the only possible explanation for the color of his face. Not only did the black circles under his eyes seem to be the effect of smoke, but even their shape was like smoke, curling about and calling for deep thought. As for the dark redness of the tip of his nose, it could only be likened to that of steamed shrimps or crabs.37

  Sunflowers excepted, nothing and nobody was more partial to the rising sun than was Lu Bolin.38 The Chinese attitude toward Japanese culture had been that Japan had consistently been forced to content itself with being second-best. Since the West was too far away, the Chinese had to make do with Japan’s jerry-built culture. Knowing very well that this kind of mind-set was detrimental to his aspirations, Lu Bolin conceived a brilliant idea. The Chinese, in their hearts, disdained the Japanese goods they bought in lieu of Western goods, while Westerners often bought old Japanese things, having mistaken them for rare Chinese treasures. The secondhand stores of London or Paris even displayed Japanese silk nightgowns embroidered with curved dragons, their tags all marked “for the use of the Royal Empress Cixi.”39 He believed that in order to convince Western students in China to treat him with greater respect, he had to propagate this kind of Western viewpoint. The Chinese were biased and looked down on modern Japan, which imitated the West, while he advocated ancient Japan, which imitated China. Because Japan was so adept at imitating the West, it was accused by people of being devoid of creativity. But though Japan did a poor job at imitating China, Lu nevertheless praised it as having its own distinctive style that deserved emulation by the Chinese. It was akin to saying that sour wine has the fine quality of thick vinegar, but he took this one step further and regarded vinegar as standard wine. Any Chinese cultural relic that was devoid of the spirit of bonsai, haiku, or the tea ceremony, he derided as mere trash.40 He held that one’s character, conduct, and writings should display a subtle and distinctive style. Unfortunately, however, his own writings seemed like “Greater East Asian Writing”41—half Chinese and half Japanese—conveying no “subtle style” at all. His writing was consequently famous for “giving food for thought.” Yuan Youchun had this to say behind his back: to read his stuff, one could only feel that he was trying very hard to be subtle but somehow failed. He was like a dog whose tail has been cut: no matter how crazily it wags its tail bone, it fails to ingratiate itself. It was none other than he who had given Taoqi the name “Daji.”

  Zheng Xuxi, the scientist, though skinny and short, had a big heart and was not boring in the least. He had once studied astronomy in Germany. Perhaps influenced by German culture, he had decided to become a “whole man” (Gesamtmensch)42 and an intellectual imperialist, embracing every field of knowledge as his own territory. He considered himself extremely poetic, full of romantic imagination and sentiments, and also possessing the skill to fuse the richness of life with scientific precision. As a consequence, he talked about the stars in Heaven as if he were talking about stars in Hollywood.43 One middle-aged woman scientist who had vowed to remain single went to his lecture on electromagnetism. Amid the cheers and laughter of the audience packing the hall, she alone turned red with embarrassment when he explained the attraction between positive and negative electrons as being like love between the sexes. He often aired his views on political and social problems and was doted on by young people. Lately, however, he hadn’t been feeling well. In an article in support of a strike by the students’ patriotic movement, he wrote that his purpose in going to Germany to study astronomy had been to wipe away national shame. After the Boxer Rebellion, the Germans had taken away Chinese astronomical equipment; therefore, he wanted to introduce German astronomical theory into China, as he considered it to be a fine example of the “victory of the spiritual over the material.” In other circumstances, his story might have been on everyone’s lips and increased his fame accordingly. Unfortunately, since the League of Nations had decided to offer China only “moral support,” young people had become disgusted with terms like “spiritual victory,”44 and Zheng Xuxi was severely attacked.

  The man dressed in a Western suit and with his head shaved, Zhao Yushan, was the director of a certain academic organization. This organization employed many college graduates to edit esoteric and profound research reports, the most famous of which was Zhao Yushan’s “A Statistical Study of Misprints in Chinese Publications Since the Invention of Printing.” It was said that this subject could not be exhausted in a single lifetime and thus could best foster the spirit of endurance required for academic research. He often claimed, “The import of finding one misprint is no less than that of Columbus’s discovery of the New World.” Since listeners had no way to interview Columbus himself about this theory, they could only nod their heads in agreement with Zhao Yushan. He was dry and uninteresting, a man of few words. But since he had sacrificed all his hair for Mrs. Li, he was entitled to frequent in
vitations to the Lis’. He and his young wife did not get along well. The lady loved excitement and was in such good health that she seemed totally impervious to noise. Whatever she did, she had to have noise in the background. All day long, if the phonograph wasn’t on, the radio was. This, in itself, was enough to give Yushan headaches, but she was an avid moviegoer as well. On the silver screen, whenever the hero and heroine begin to kiss during a climactic love scene—be it on land, sea, or in the air—music always floats in from afar to enhance the mood. Therefore, at certain times in the bedroom she insisted on playing music, from hymns on Christmas Eve to the Qingyun Song on the night of National Day, driving her husband to the brink of neurasthenia.45

  When they had first come to Beiping, the Lis once invited the Zhaos over for lunch. As soon as Mrs. Zhao saw Mrs. Li, she despised her eagerness for the limelight and her ability to have all the men at her beck and call. After the meal, everyone praised the meal, complimenting the cook’s skill and Jianhou’s supervision. Jianhou said, “Hold your praise! We have Mrs. Zhao with us today. She has a university degree in home economics and is an authority on culinary matters. We should ask for her opinion.”

  Mrs. Zhao didn’t let this opportunity to belittle Mrs. Li slip by. Recalling a rule from her home economics lecture notes and feeling secure in the knowledge that she had strong backing, she said, “The dishes were delicious, but the colors were a bit monotonous. Too many of the dishes were steamed in clear soup and not enough were braised or stewed, so the colors were not well distributed and made no symphonic effect on the senses.”46