Humans, Beasts, and Ghosts

by Zhongshu Qian

  “Well, what are you going to assign me to be then?”

  “Oh, that I’m still trying to decide. In your lifetime you consumed an enormous quantity of ink, so I could very naturally reincarnate you as a squid, so that you’d keep spitting it back out. But then you also wasted a lot of paper, and for that you ought to be reincarnated as a sheep, whose skin could be used for paper manufacturing. And you’ve presumably also worn out countless brush tips, so I should turn you into a rabbit or a mouse—or maybe that same sheep would do. What a shame that you’re a writer of these new times; you handle a brush about as well as a foreigner handles chopsticks. What you use most often are nibs inserted into holders and platinum-tipped fountain pens. I’m not too sure which animals produce metal, so I may just have to make you a ranking government official, from whose heart and countenance one could scrape off iron or steel. As for platinum, well, don’t we have that handy stereotype, the platinum blonde? Finally, considering the way you make a game of hiding yourself behind all those pen names, you should in your next life be made a fugitive from justice constantly under the pressure to create aliases. The problem is, you have only one afterlife and simply couldn’t be a woman, man, fish, rabbit, and so on all at the same time! So . . . so—hey, you can’t just run away! There are a lot of people waiting for you outside; they have accounts to settle with you yet.”

  Our Writer, finding the administrator’s talk getting more unsavory by the minute, had pulled open the door and was ready to make a run for it. Now stopped by his words, he turned around and sneered at him. “What? Settle accounts with me? Aha, Mr. Administrator, didn’t you make a fool of me just now for not being aware of the current world situation? I’m throwing that right back at you. You think geniuses of today are the same old down-and-out Bohemians, or dreamers who know nothing about financial management. By thinking of them as long-haired artists with a string of creditors at their heels you’re showing residual symptoms of an infection known as romanticism. I’m afraid you’re totally out of touch with reality! We’re not idiots, you know. We do realize the importance of personal finances in daily living. In fact, as if we weren’t smart enough, we hire lawyers and managers to safeguard our interests. Royalties and fees that total substantial amounts we invest in business partnerships. Of course, there are those cultural personalities who are nothing more than cultured paupers, but I’m not one of them. To tell you the truth, at the time I died, I left royalties on several novels and income from performance rights to several plays unclaimed. There were some thousands of shares I haven’t had the time to sell, and dividends from one corporation not yet cashed. I may have a lot of collecting to do, but certainly no creditors to settle accounts with me! Who’re you trying to fool?”

  “Sir, your grasp of reality—of the marketplace, that is—has never been doubted. The crowd outside hasn’t come here to clear financial accounts, but to file charges against you.”

  “What ‘charges’? It couldn’t be anything more serious that calumny, plagiarism, or immoral influence. If a man of letters gets sued, it must be for one of these three reasons.” As the Writer was well aware, a literary figure who has never been involved in a lawsuit, jailed, or put under house arrest—like a socialite who has never faced divorce proceedings—could never make a name for himself.

  “They are suing you for murder and robbery”—the last three words from the administrator’s lips came out crisp and cold, as if forged from steel.

  The Writer was scared stiff. His past, decades of it, instantaneously flashed through his mind in minute detail. Yet there was nothing in his earthly existence that even came close to such heinous crimes, only that for a while his writings did promote revolution. “Well,” the Writer pondered, “maybe a handful of foolhardy young men who could not resist any instigation really did pitch in everything they had—blood and neck included. So this would be a sinful debt, I suppose. But at the time my wife wanted children and I wanted to buy life insurance for myself—and all this takes money. If, in the interest of my and my family’s well-being, I did write stuff that indirectly cost a life or two, that’s no big deal. Besides, those fools with their blood boiling in their guts were too ready to die for a cause to regret it and demand settlement.” The Writer regained his nerve. With a sneer he pushed open the door of the office. But before he had taken a full step outside, he found himself bombarded from all directions by shouting and yelling.

  “Give me my life back!”

  “My life! I want it back!”

  The throng completely packed the courtyard, even overflowing out of the main gates. Only the uniformed men at the steps were keeping them from coming up to the corridor and rushing the office. The administrator, patting the Writer on the back, spoke from behind him: “Well, since things have already come to this pass, you’ll just have to face their questions.” He walked him out the door.

  Catching sight of the Writer, the crowd stretched out their hands, jostling to come up close, shouting, “Give me my life back!” However, despite their numbers, their collective voice was weak and lifeless. Each was able to contribute only a wisp of sound, one not cohering with any other to form the stentorian roar it should have been. Taking a closer look, the Writer found that the people came in all shapes and ages and counted among them rich and poor, male and female. What they did have in common was a sickly look. They were in fact so emaciated that even the shadows they cast were blurred ones. From the exertion in their movements one could see their dire lack of strength. The arms they managed to stretch out were all trembling, not unlike a voice shaken by anger and sorrow, about to lose control any second. They also reminded one of the strands in a spider’s web hung between two twigs. “With such a crowd, what do I have to be afraid of?” the Writer concluded. “And then there’re even old grannies with bound feet, kids no older than five, effete women with whatever seductive vitality they once had almost totally drained from them. None of these could be among the martyrs who took to revolution under my influence. Unless . . . unless these are lives taken by those revolutionary heroes and are now tracing the responsibility to me. If you look at that old lady, you can tell at one glance that she must have been a stubborn mother, a prime target for family revolution. Well, people like that deserve what they get! They asked for it. Since I’m in the right, I have nothing to fear.”

  Clearing his throat, he took a dignified step forward, and announced, “Quiet down please, quiet down. I’m afraid you folks are mistaken. Frankly, I don’t even know a single one of you.”

  “But we know you!”

  “Oh, that’s not surprising. For people whom a person doesn’t know to know about him is just a measure of his fame. You might indeed know me, but that’s not saying an awful lot. The problem is, you see, I don’t know you.”

  “What? You don’t know us? Don’t play dumb! We’re the characters in your novels and plays. Now you remember, don’t you?” They were edging closer, craning their necks, turning their faces up to him so that he could take a better look. And they went ahead all at the same time to identify themselves.

  “I’m the heroine in your masterpiece Longing for Love.”

  “I’m that country bumpkin in your Chips Off the Emeralds.”

  “I’m the genteel young lady in your famed Dream of a Summer’s Night.”

  “I’m the grandmother in your fascinating Fallen.”

  “I’m the well-bred daughter of that distinguished family in The Thug.”

  “Remember your much-admired work Embraceable Me? Yes, I am that intellectual who lost his bearings at the crossroads of the ‘–isms.’”

  “I’m the spoiled brat born into the country squire’s family in your own favorite, the novel The Nightmare of the Red Chamber.”

  His memory now refreshed, the Writer responded, “Very well, we’re all one family. What’s going on here then, if you wouldn’t mind telling me?” Actually, deep down he was beginning to have a vague inkling of their intentions, which, like something drifting in the
depths of the sea, started to show up under the sunlight.

  “We’re here to demand our lives back. The way you portrayed us in your works was so dull and lifeless! Our every act and speech was like a puppet’s; we were just too far from being vivid characters. You created us but didn’t give us life, so now you need to reimburse us!”

  From among them a woman with ill-defined features broke in, “You remember me? I suppose only the way I dress gives any inkling of what kind of a character I was supposed to have been in your book. You were going to depict me as a femme fatale, the ruin of countless youths who otherwise had the most promising of futures. But what really became of me under your pen? I was neither a woman who looked like a human being, nor a human being who was like a woman. I didn’t have the personality to support any clear, sharp image at all. You said I had ‘watery,’ not ‘limpid,’ eyes, and that my gaze was so ‘pointed’ that it could pierce the soul. Good God! How could anyone even think of such lines? My eyes, sharp and dripping wet, had to be icicles on the eaves during a spring thawing. You wanted to make me a metropolitan temptress, draining the mental and physical energies of men. But on your pages I wasn’t given one breath of life—I wasn’t concrete enough to be a sponge! I was more like a piece of worn and tattered blotting paper. You described me as a person who spoke ‘frankly and boldly.’ Right—‘frayed and broken’ is how I’d describe the voice I have now. You’ve made a total waste of my life. Now what are you going to do about it?”

  A well-dressed, elderly gentleman next to her spoke up too: “In your work I got old as soon as I was given life.” He gasped between words. “That I don’t mind, but an old man should act his age. Should I be fancying a concubine, what with my health and all those years behind me? Isn’t that asking for trouble? You scoundrel, you not only denied me life but also made a mess of my second life—my reputation. And I couldn’t even risk my life to get even with you, since I never had one. But now our paths have finally crossed. Let me first wrest out of you the life that’s due me, and then risk it to—” Choking with excitement, the old man couldn’t go on.

  “Mister, you’ve said enough. It’s my turn to ask him something,” a swarthy man, patting him on the shoulder, interrupted. He turned to the Writer, “Hey, you recognize me? I’m one of the uneducated roughnecks you created. You think I look the part?—wearing a short vest, sleeves rolled up, pounding my chest all the time, with expressions like ‘your daddy’ and ‘his mama’ crowding my speech. Your book claimed that I used gutter language, but doesn’t all the ‘daddy’ and ‘mommy’ talk add up to one big happy family? It’s nowhere near the streets!12 Since I’m uncivilized, I was thinking of giving you a couple of slaps on the face before we even start to settle accounts. But then if you slapped me back, I wouldn’t even have enough in me to fight you. What a shame!”

  It was a good thing that the Writer had not portrayed this roughneck true to life, or he would have been in for a sound beating. At the moment, however, he was really too harried to indulge in this kind of self-comfort, for the characters were now all clambering forward to speak to him. Some of them appealed to the administrator directly, urging him to hand down a verdict with a proper sentence without further delay.

  “Although this case we have at hand is not exactly a phonograph record,” the administrator grinned, “we’ve still got to listen to both sides, right? Eh, Mr. Writer, what do you have to say in answer to their charges?”

  The Writer rose to the occasion. He faced the crowd at the foot of the steps: “What you’ve just said is not entirely groundless, but how else would you have existed if it were not for me? Since I am your creator, I must be considered a forefather. ‘Of everyone under Heaven, only parents make no mistakes’: that’s how the ancient saying goes. In other words, one should be ever mindful and respectful of one’s origins. So stop giving me trouble.” While the administrator was snorting at this, twisting his mustache, a male character yelled in outrage: “In the book you made me start a family revolution because of my ideological beliefs, driving my own father to his death. How come you’re talking about filial piety all of a sudden?”

  “If you’re my father”—a female character picked up the questioning, a smile forming at the corners of her lips—“where’s my mother, then?”

  Another man, sobbing uncontrollably, put in, “All I know about is motherly love—exalted, unadulterated motherly love. While in your work I never felt the slightest need for any fathers.”

  Then it was a middle-aged man: “Even a father who is supporting his children doesn’t necessarily win their sympathy. You’re supported by us, so why should you be let off easy? You made us all lifeless in your works, but out of that you gained your livelihood. Isn’t that both murder and grand larceny? At the very least it is criminal intent on an estate. And that makes us your ancestors.”

  The old man nodded in total agreement. “Well said, well said!”

  “Yes, here I am, one of his ancestors!” chimed in the roughneck.

  “Ancestors?” the metropolitan temptress protested. “I’d hate to be that. And there are cases in which the old live on the young. Don’t you see all those young girls sacrificing their bodies for their fathers? There’re lots of those around all right.”

  An unexpectedly loud voice boomed forth from the middle of the crowd: “I for one certainly am not a product of your making!” This one drowned out all the other voices, mere whispers in comparison.

  The Writer looked up and could not have been more delighted. It was none other than his best friend from the human realm, a cultural entrepreneur who had died just a few days before the Writer did. Son of a nouveau riche family, he had since his younger days been a man of principle. The principle, as it turned out, was not to spurn the family’s quick yet sizable fortune but rather a deep regret that they hadn’t been enriching themselves long enough. Their wealth was, one might say, glittering so brightly that it hurt the eyes, stinking so much that it was an offense to the sense of smell. There was no touch of class to it. His father shared these misgivings and made every effort to give the family name the ring of long-established status, much like one who, wearing a gown made of a down-home fabric, crumples it on purpose to reduce somewhat its feel of the countryside and the rustling noise it makes. The father had always hoped to further his goal by having his children marry into families of corrupt bureaucrats or gentry who had fallen on hard times. The son, on the other hand, devoted all his time and energy to playing the Bohemian poet, singing in praise of alcohol, opium, loose women, intoxication, and sin in general.13 Thus knocking around in life, he made it with a number of women, and the brands of tobacco and alcohol he consumed could well have formed a League of Nations. But he failed to commit any sins at all, other than producing some freely plagiarized free verse.

  One day while eating out with his mistress, he suddenly noticed how lipstick always got swallowed with the food a woman ate. Naturally, then, after the meal her lips would be robbed of color, and she would have to put on lipstick again. This stirred his inherited business instincts, which emerged as if awakened from a dream, or like a snake coming out of hibernation. From the next day on, he exchanged Bohemian living for entrepreneurship, starting a factory with money his father had made. The first thing rolling off the lines was Vitastick, a new product so great that only his advertising chief ’s catchy sales slogans could do it justice: “For Both Beauty and Health—What Else?” “Never Before Have Kisses Been So Nutritious.” That last line was actually the caption to a picture showing a young man dressed as a Daoist priest embracing a girl not unlike an unshaved nun. So this scene was supposed to be Jia Baoyu of Dream of the Red Chamber tasting rouge. Another line was: “What Fulfilling Love!”—this one being a caption to a picture of a fat man gleefully holding the hands of a woman with pouting lips. Her gesture was meant to focus attention on the thick layer of blood-building Vitastick on them. The chemical composition of this particular lipstick was no different from others for cosmetic use;
all our entrepreneur did was concoct a name. The result turned out to be so appealing to the mentality of the masses that he multiplied the capital his father gave him several dozen times. He kept at it, coming up next with products such as Intellegrowth, an ointment that promised to stimulate the growth of both hair and intellect, canned Diet-Rich Chicken, which promised not to put weight on slim misses, and Cod Liver Gum.

  At forty, having made enough money, he thought of old times, and his youthful hobby of patronizing the literary arts came back to him. Since drama was the genre that appealed best to both the learned and the popular taste, he, with a sustained effort, advocated a movement for “healthy drama,” in much the same spirit he had earlier pushed his new products. He thereby succeeded in rallying quite a few writers to his camp. He figured that comedies made one laugh, and laughing was undoubtedly good for one’s health. But then unrestrained laughing would add wrinkles to the face, and a mouth wide open invited germs. Besides, that would also lead to cramps of the stomach muscles, dislodged jaws, and a host of other unhealthy conditions. Thus the kind of comedies he promoted abided by the rule of causing audiences only to chuckle. As for tragedies, he thought them good for the health too. The daily functioning of any opening on the physical body meant one form of elimination or another. However, modern man, raised in a mechanized culture, lacked the normal range of human emotions. This resulted in insufficient elimination from the eyes. The moderate quantity of tears that tragedies produced would do the job of preventing diseases that were to the eyes as constipation or gas was to the digestive system.