Humans, Beasts, and Ghosts

by Zhongshu Qian

  Xiajun’s earlier comments had made Yigu involuntarily admire him for his keen observations of human emotions. Little expecting the question to be directed to him, he turned red and speechless, and his hatred for Xiajun was rekindled.

  Mrs. Li quickly put in, “You’re disgusting, Xiajun. Mr. Qi, don’t pay any attention to him.”

  Yuan Youchun said, “Xiajun, just now you said that our wives are not beautiful. Is Jianhou included in this ‘we’?”

  Both Cao Shichang and Zhao Yushan chimed in with him.

  Mrs. Li said with a laugh, “He’s certainly included. I used to be ugly even when I was young. Now that I’m old, I’m even more so.”

  Realizing that he had stuck his foot in his mouth, Chen Xiajun shrugged, scratched the back of his head, and grimaced. Even Lu Bolin laughed.

  Ma Yongzhong said, “You’re all being silly! My newspaper office has two women clerks who’re very conscientious workers. Yushan, aren’t there women researchers in your institute?”

  Zhao Yushan answered, “We have three, and they’re all quite good. Most young women would never come to our institute because they’d consider it boring. In my experience, women university students who major in the natural sciences, Chinese literature, history, and geography are honest and sincere. Only those who major in Western literatures are worthless. Their heads are filled with romantic ideas, but they know nothing. Nor have they mastered foreign languages. But they invariably want to figure out the meaning of life or become a woman writer or become a diplomat’s wife and entertain Westerners—they’re extremely restless. Juqing once introduced one of these precious creatures to our institute, but I finally got rid of her. Juqing is still mad at me.”

  Fu Juqing said, “The reason I’m mad at you is because you’re obstinate and narrow-minded and intolerant toward others.”

  Zheng Xuxi said, “That’s right, Yushan should have retained her. Maybe the academic atmosphere could have exerted a subtle influence on her, making her fitter for the environment and transforming her into a capable person.”

  Lu Bolin chuckled. “That reminds me of a joke. More than ten years ago, my family still lived in the south. One spring, I accompanied my wife to Mount Potuo to burn incense and stayed overnight in the guest room of the monastery. I wasn’t pleased with the look of the bed and asked the monk if there were any bedbugs. The monk assured me that there were no bedbugs: ‘Even if there are one or two, they’re under the influence of Buddha and don’t drink blood. Should they happen to bite—Amitabha!—don’t kill them, sir. To take a life in a pure Buddhist monastery is a sin.’ Good heavens! I was bitten so badly that night that I didn’t sleep a wink. Later, I found out that some people really did listen to the monk. One old lady who went to burn incense with her daughter-in-law caught one bedbug and put it in her daughter-in-law’s bed to ‘free captive animals and accumulate virtues,’74 making her daughter-in-law yelp. That joke has made the rounds. When Xuxi said that environment might change one’s character by persuasion, I was reminded of the vegetarian bedbug in the monastery.”

  Everyone had a good laugh. After laughing, Zheng Xuxi said, “Revered Bo, you shouldn’t mock the monk. There’s some truth in what he said. Bedbugs are just too far removed from Buddhism. It’s what Xiajun calls ‘the vastness of their psychological distance.’ That’s why the bedbug didn’t change its nature. Those creatures, which have higher intelligence, can be infected by their masters’ habits. Biologists and animal psychologists agree on this. For instance, if the master likes joking and his guests laugh loudly, his dog will also acquire a sense of humor from its surroundings and behave comically, sometimes even stretching its face to imitate a human smile. Darwin once observed that dogs could imitate humans’ humor. Over ten years ago, I read the German psychologist Preyer’s book on child psychology,75 which also mentions this. So it’s not empty talk when I say that an academic atmosphere might alter a woman’s character.”

  Lu Bolin remarked, “I haven’t seen a dog smile; I’ll have to keep a dog to experiment with later. But I’m all for your scientific demonstration. I love books, and the mice in my home are influenced by the master. They’ve taken a special liking to books and are always chewing on them. Perhaps the monks secretly ate meat and that’s why the bedbugs in the monastery didn’t abstain from blood. You were absolutely right.” He winked at Mrs. Li, as if to draw her attention to his clever irony.

  Zheng Xuxi shook his head, “You, old man, are incredible.”

  Yuan Youchun said, “Why use a dog as an example when we have Taoqi at hand? If you watch her figure when she moves, so supple and strong, sometimes she really does resemble Aimo, especially when she stretches. Being kept in the Lis’ house, she has gotten accustomed to the beautiful mistress’s example and changed imperceptibly.”

  Mrs. Li said, “I don’t know whether to curse you or to thank you.”

  Chen Xiajun said, “His remark is totally incorrect. Taoqi has indeed spent many years with the Lis. But she also has a master. Why doesn’t she imitate Jianhou? Don’t laugh or Jianhou will think I’m making fun of him! If Jianhou were living in sixteenth-century France, many a woman would fall for the contours of his body and offer to be his secretary for free. Back then, it was fashionable for men and women to stick out their paunches, called panserons in French,76 and the higher the better—a practice diametrically opposed to the modern one of women’s binding their abdomens and exaggerating their hips. If Jianhou can be considered handsome by classical French standards, then he could certainly be Taoqi’s model. That’s why I say that Mr. Yuan has mistaken effect for cause. It isn’t that Taoqi imitates Aimo. Rather, Aimo has made a thorough study of Taoqi and developed her own distinctive style. Aimo won’t get angry when she hears this. The consummate Western beauty who brought an empire to its knees was the Egyptian empress Cleopatra. According to ancient Egyptian custom, the more a woman resembled a cat, the more beautiful she was.77 Among our wives, Aimo is certainly the most attractively dressed. Come winter, for instance, my wife looks like a sack of corn flour. Only you look perfect. Your clothes don’t seem to be made for the body; rather, your body seems to adapt itself to the clothes. You’ve imitated Taoqi and dressed up in furs. You couldn’t say that Taoqi grew fur to imitate you, could you?”

  Aimo laughed. “Watch out or Jianhou might punch you! You’re just talking nonsense.”

  Passing an éclair to Xiajun, Jianhou said, “Could you cut it out, please? Here, put this in your idle mouth so that it’ll stop spouting nonsense.” And indeed Xiajun took the dessert and bit into it, thus ending his long-winded speech spanning antiquity and modernity.

  Fu Juqing said, “I’ve been thinking about what Xiajun said. There is indeed a ‘psychological distance’ in love. That’s why in the West Cupid shoots arrows only in secret. To shoot an arrow certainly requires the proper distance. If it’s too close to the heart, the arrow can’t be shot, while if it’s too far away it won’t reach its target. People of drastically different social position find it difficult to fall in love with each other. Yet, it’s just as difficult for those who are close blood relations—this distance is not purely psychological. Have any of you had this experience? From afar a woman looks gorgeous and lovable, but when we get closer we discover it’s all a sham: she’s not beautiful in the least; nor is her makeup or her technique of applying it up to par. I can’t figure out what women like this are up to. They take great trouble and time dressing up but in the end must be viewed from a distance of ten yards away! Perhaps they want men to fall deeply in love with them from afar, so that when they get closer and discover the truth, it’s too late to repent. All they can do is leave their mistake uncorrected, make the best of it, and love them to the end. After hearing Xiajun, I realized that they are like guns and cannons in that their effective range is preset. I can’t think how many women of this sort I run into every day. I detest them! They seem to want to cheat my love away and I almost get taken in, but, lucky for me, I live in modern times. China h
as opened up, and I have the opportunity to observe them carefully and rectify the illusion at first glance. If I lived in ancient times, when things were closed up, I would only be able to gaze at a woman as she leans on the railing of a high building or catch a glimpse of her when she pulls back her curtain while being transported by donkey cart. She would be within sight but beyond reach. My only option would be to fall in love with her at first sight and then take the trouble to woo her. How unfair! I shudder to think of it!” Fu Juqing shivered as he spoke.

  Jianhou laughed so heartily that his entire short, stout body rocked, joining his mouth in the laugh.

  Chen Xiajun, who had long since finished his dessert, said with a sigh, “Juqing is too haughty. If we middle-aged men still have desire, we shouldn’t be so exacting. Not only do we have to lower our standards in the matter of looks, we also have to be less demanding when it comes to feelings. Ten years ago, I looked down on those old men who turned a blind eye to their young mistresses’ messing around behind their backs. They played the fool and let it be. Now, I’m beginning to understand and sympathize with them. Unless you tolerate a woman’s love for others, you can’t expect her to tolerate your love for her. When I was studying art in Paris, I went out with a Corsican girl. Then I found out that she was a pious Catholic and would marry me only if I joined the church. It was as if she were a receptionist who solicited customers for the church. I had to get rid of her. At the time, I wanted a woman to love me heart and soul, leaving no place for anyone else. Even God was my rival in love. I felt she should forsake him for me, that her love for me should surpass any religious considerations. But now I am more content and completely lack such high expectations. If a lovely woman were so merciful as to bestow some leftover affection upon me, I would shed grateful tears like a beggar who gets leftover soup or cold meat. One glance, one smile, or one blush from her, and I would remember and savor it for days. Fight a war? We’re too old, yet not old enough, since we still worry we’ll be drafted. Fall in love? We’re too old, but not really. We’re so worried because we’re afraid we’ll be left out.”

  Ma Yongzhong stood up to say, “What Xiajun just said was demoralizing and shameless. It’s getting late. I have to go now. Mrs. Li, Jianhou, thank you. Goodbye, good-bye! Don’t bother to see me out. Mr. Qi, see you.”

  Cao Shichang also echoed that what Xiajun had said was a threat to public morals.

  After listening to Xiajun, Jianhou looked dumbfounded, as if Xiajun’s words had started him thinking. He stood up hurriedly when he heard his name spoken and joined Aimo in saying, “Won’t you stay a little bit longer? Good-bye, good-bye.”

  Yigu took out his watch. Seeing that it was getting late, he too wanted to leave. He wished that all the guests would take their leave at the same time so that he could just say a polite word or two while the group was milling about and then sneak out. But the other guests were all snugly seated and didn’t look as though they were about to leave. Fearing that his mother might be worried, he couldn’t sit still any longer and began to plot out how to get through the awkwardness of repetitively bidding farewell to each of the guests.

  Seeing him look at his watch, Mrs. Li said, “It’s still early, but I dare not keep you any longer. See you tomorrow.” Yigu mumbled a few words of thanks to Mrs. Li. Since it was the first time he had come as a guest, Jianhou saw him out to the gate. After leaving the living room, Jianhou closed the door behind him, but Yigu heard chattering and laughter, which the door could not contain. He groundlessly assumed that they were going on about him and felt his face grow hotter.78 He jumped onto the tram and suddenly remembered Mrs. Li’s “See you tomorrow.” He carefully recalled what Mrs. Li had said to him at parting and sorted out the three words “See you tomorrow.” Those three words had not yet turned stiff and cold, and Mrs. Li’s voice still lingered. “Tomorrow” was spoken smoothly and therefore set off the “see you,” which was clear and emphatic. Yet the emphasis was so light that the words seemed to have been touched only slightly. His memory preserved the phrase to the word, and his heart palpitated with joy. To Yigu, the next day was worth waiting for and worth desiring. A smile spread over his face. He was so overjoyed that he wanted to share his happiness with the other passengers on the tram. A middle-aged woman sitting across from him, seeing Yigu smile at her, misinterpreted his intentions and shot him an angry glance before frowning and turning her head away. Encountering this puzzling rebuff, Yigu calmed down.

  After he returned home, his mother naturally inquired whether Mrs. Li was beautiful. Yigu insisted that Mrs. Li wasn’t very beautiful, saying that her skin wasn’t white, that her cheekbones were too high, and that she had other defects besides. If Yigu had not been so infatuated with Aimo, he might have said that she was very attractive, but he now seemed to have a new secret. Still a new arrival, this secret hid itself in his heart, too shy to meet strangers, so, without realizing it, he conformed to the protective diplomatic and military strategy of feinting east and attacking west. Back when his mother had gotten married as a young woman, the Chinese had yet to invent courtship, and if a go-between came and a girl’s parents happened to ask their daughter if she were pleased with the man, she would blush, bow her head, and not utter a word. At most she would say, “Let mom and dad decide,” and then rush off to her room. This would be the most discrete statement a girl could make to express her feelings. Who would have expected that some twenty or thirty years later the world would have changed so greatly and that her son’s heart, a big boy’s heart, would be so complex? Therefore, she only teased her son for being such a keen observer, and said nothing else.

  That night, Yigu had several bizarre dreams, including one in which he dreamed that he had carelessly spilled tea on Mrs. Li’s clothes. This so mortified him that he felt like crawling under a rock and had to escape that dream. He then dreamed that Taoqi had scratched his nose and that Chen Xiajun had called him a cat louse. He was furious and was about to retort when the dream shifted. He was stroking Taoqi’s fur, and all of a sudden, he found that it was Mrs. Li’s hair. He woke up feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself, too ashamed to face the Lis the next day. On the other hand, he was secretly delighted and revisited the dream over and over, against his conscience.

  Mrs. Li hadn’t taken Yigu seriously. As Jianhou was seeing Yigu out, Chen Xiajun said, “That kid looks quite bright. Aimo, he should be your private secretary. He would be at your beck and call for sure. He is just at the age to be infatuated with you.”

  Aimo answered, “I’m not sure whether Jianhou would agree.”

  Cao Shichang said, “Xiajun, you are impossible. You’ve bullied that kid enough today. He hasn’t seen enough of the world. Poor lad!”

  Xiajun said, “Who’s bullied him? I saw him with his eyes wide open in astonishment. He’s naive to the point of being pitiable. That’s why I teased him—to loosen him up.”

  Lu Bolin said, “You think you were just teasing. You have no clue what’s appropriate. No wonder Jianhou was angry with you.” Everyone agreed with him. At that point, Jianhou came back. The guests stayed for a while and then departed, one by one. In the latter half of the night, in the middle of a dream and without any reason, Aimo thought of how Yigu looked at her and what Chen Xiajun had said that day. She suddenly woke up, elated by the feeling that she was not yet a middle-aged woman, and then turned onto her side and fell back asleep.

  The next day, Yigu was describing for Jianhou how he, Jianhou, had gazed down from the top of a big hotel in New York—how the electrical wires, pedestrians, and cars had made him so dizzy that he almost tumbled out of the window. Aimo knocked on the door and came in. She glanced at them and then turned as if to leave, saying, “You’re busy. I’m not going to interrupt you. It’s nothing.”

  Jianhou said, “We’re not busy. Do you want to read the preface to my travelogue?”

  Aimo said, “I remember you already told me the gist of the preface. Fine, I’ll read it together with the first chapter after yo
u finish it. It’s not interesting to read the preface by itself. Jianhou, may I ask Yigu to write invitations, when he has time, for our party three days from now?”

  Yigu hadn’t expected Mrs. Li to take the cover off his name—no surname, no “Mister”—leaving his name stark naked, like a man going into a massage parlor for the first time and not expecting the masseuse to take all his clothes off.

  He said hurriedly before Jianhou could answer, “Certainly, certainly! But I’m afraid that my handwriting isn’t good enough—”

  With this modest remark, Yigu had meant to appear at ease, instead of clumsy to the point of incoherence. Jianhou, of course, agreed. Yigu took the guest list from Aimo’s hand and willingly began to write invitations for Aimo, leaving the dizzy Jianhou by the window of the thirty-second floor of the New York hotel. Writing Jianhou’s travelogue had made him feel as if he had been wronged, but in doing something as trivial as writing invitations he became, on the contrary, as pious as a monk using his own blood as ink to copy Buddhist sutras. After returning home, he still considered this trifle proof that Aimo thought highly of him. The next day, he answered several unimportant letters for Aimo. On the third day, he read a new novel that Aimo had been given by the author and gave her a synopsis of it, because the author would be meeting Aimo the following day. Far from being a chore for Yigu, these tasks made him return home in the afternoon with the feeling that his day had been extraordinarily fulfilling and nurtured in him hopes for the next day that he otherwise would never have dared contemplate.79