by Sheng Keyi
Even though it was clear that Hei Chun was joking, Mengliu cringed. He busied himself by gulping down more wine.
‘Hei Chun, are you trying to hide something?’ Bai Qiu asked. ‘Everyone in the world knows you’ve been bitten by the love bug. You hide under the covers at night writing Qizi’s name in all the languages of the planet. Now that she’s fair game, you can seize the opportunity to confess your love. You don’t need to drag all of us into it.’
They all ribbed him, growing more and more waggish in their jibes.
‘Hey! What fucking nonsense!’ Hei Chun’s eyes flashed like the fluttering of bat’s wings, but he quickly restored his bright countenance. Making an about-face, he began to expound on another topic of interest. ‘There’s a good poem on the double-tracked wall. It says, “Honest men die, while hypocrites survive; passionate men die, left to be buried by the indifferent.”…The best kind of government is the one that does not make its presence felt. The next best is the one that makes its subjects feel close to it. After that, the one that uses administrative measures. The worst is the one that resorts to violence. What do you think?’
‘Sh! Don’t let my father hear or he’ll kick all of you out. He told me so himself.’ Shunyu, really anxious now, turned her wide eyes on Hei Chun.
‘Okay, okay, okay. Let’s switch to the entertainment channel then. Mengliu, show us your unique skill. Blow us a tune to make us forget all our troubles. Make us believe all is well.’
‘I didn’t bring it,’ Mengliu replied, suddenly nervous. He didn’t feel like showing off in front of Qizi right now. Hei Chun poked a hand into Mengliu’s pocket and went right for the lady-charming chuixun. ‘Unhappy with your performance fees, you little prick? Everyone, give him a round of applause.’
A mix of applause and heckling came from the group.
‘What do you want to hear?’ Helpless, Mengliu wiped his instrument.
‘Anything. Whatever you play is best,’ said Hei Chun.
‘Then it’ll be “The Pain of Separation”.’ Mengliu took a sip of water and wet his lips. ‘This is especially for the two lovely ladies, Qizi and Shunyu.’
He fingered the flute and began to blow. Within seconds they had all been transported to hell, the music drawing out of them the great sorrow that lurked inside. It was the kind of mournful, melancholy tune that could break your heart.
When they left the bar, Shunyu’s father gave Mengliu a thumbs up. ‘You play that kazoo divinely. Even better than I do.’
7
As he pushed his way out from the dark mountains, across the thickly forested hillside, Mengliu climbed to the top of the hill to have a look. He saw a city, a real city full of mushrooming buildings, with spires sticking up like towering ancient trees. The atmosphere was solemnly quiet and mysterious, the air full of the aroma of buckwheat.
The sun was shining. A river ran down from the mountains and then through the city, stepping all the way down the slope like scales. Wild chrysanthemums swayed on the hill, dancing to their own tune. Church bells broke the silence, a ringing full of forgiveness and serenity, as if proclaiming to everyone, ‘All manner of sin and blasphemy will be forgiven. Don’t doubt, just believe.’
Mengliu raced like an escaped horse toward the city, his mane flying in the wind, eyes enlarged and nostrils puffing. He took wing, like a bird, the wind whistling in his ears, the trees falling rapidly away behind him. He shot forward like a bullet at lightning speed.
Of course, that was only in his fancy. In actual fact, he was squatting in front of a strip of engraved stone, carefully observing the text he saw there. The script looked like Hei Chun’s writing, thin and aloof, strong strokes that added a lot of character to each word.
He saw that he’d come to a city-state called ‘Swan Valley’.
Twenty minutes later he entered the city. It was extremely small, perhaps more appropriately called a town. The streets were deserted, and a mystical white smoke floated over the rooftops. The trees were low and tidy, their leaves thick and shiny. The buildings sprouting up in the midst of the trees were all of an identical style. Even the patterns on the windows, the door handles, and the stone steps were the same. None of the buildings were higher than two or three stories, constructed from beautiful granite stone. The joints were filled with plaster, and the walls topped with simple roofs resembling mushroom caps. White screens fluttered at each latticed window. The cloth on each screen was coated with a translucent oil, giving it an amber tint. The doors and windows were all wide open. The rooms inside were well-lit, and appeared clean and warm. They looked just like the sort of places where one might sit and talk of old heroic deeds and the current day’s farm chores over a cup of tea or wine.
A white porcelain dish held pig’s trotters that glistened in the room’s exquisite glow, like a lotus blossom made of meat. In a short while, all that was left was an empty plate and discarded bone fragments. Mengliu cleaned his mouth with his hand as he looked at the house’s decor. One wall was covered with a huge batik painting – the most eye-catching decoration in the room. It was a map that showed men, horses, bows and arrows and deer, all in scenes of chaos and tension.
The dining table was formed by a few round wooden blocks. The edge of the table retained the shape of the original log, its surface made smooth, and the wood grain distinct. It was covered with script written in a child’s hand, in what looked like the Latin alphabet. A cupboard held blue and white porcelain pieces, all beautifully crafted. They were covered with elegant patterns that gave them a historical feel. Rattan chairs filled the space with the smell of grass. Round baskets were hung around the room, each containing green Chinese wisteria plants dotted with blooming lavender flowers, giving one a sense of the owner’s genteel, delicate tastes. Mengliu rummaged around for more food, and ate a jarful of colourful cakes. He was not sure whether they were made from wheat or corn, or perhaps even some sort of ground soya bean.
Without regard for manners, he washed and changed into a grey robe and black cloth shoes. The sun was bright, but mild. He was bathed in comfort. Feeling that he’d entered a medieval atmosphere, he imagined people of that era, sheep herders spending their days out in the fresh air. They chanted curses when they got toothaches, and when they got tired of one place, they simply uprooted themselves and went on their way. They seemed to have just passed by.
Mengliu left the house and walked to a curved building. He found himself standing in an empty hall lit by stained-glass French windows. The floor was tiled with a red porcelain that made it look like coloured glass. There was a curtained stage, with the walls on either side hung with paintings depicting the events of a fairy tale. The remaining spaces were hung with embroideries, paper cutouts, and paintings made with shells. A few musical instruments, having been polished, stood in a neat row. Passing through the building, he encountered a group of children playing marbles, wearing odd clothes and speaking in a strange tongue. The marbles rolled in the sunlight, setting off sparkles to rival the glow of their fancy jewellery.
Seeing Mengliu, the children stopped their game and began whispering to one another. After laughing strangely, they ran off. A boy of about five or six years, with short hair and brown eyes, was left behind. He approached Mengliu like a little raccoon, picked up the marbles, offered them to the guest, then turned and walked away.
The boy had given Mengliu dazzling diamonds, so bright they made him squint. He hid them nervously in his clothes, then left in haste.
When he had walked along a path for what seemed like a long time, Mengliu came to a square full of sculptures. Crowds of people sat on the grass. Some banners with slogans hung from the trees, while others lined the roadside. Everyone looked cheerful and relaxed, as if enjoying a barbecue while on holiday. People drank beer or other beverages. Several played pipes made from reeds, with a crisp lyrical melody that crackled with a fiery vitality.
The crowd was full of people of different skin colours. Their clothing was light grey and of a coa
rse linen texture, loose-fitting, plain, and simple. Some were embroidered with complex patterns of fish, dragons, bamboo, flowers, butterflies, or the Buddhist swastika symbol, resembling clothing typical of Han Chinese, though not as beautiful. The men wore shirts with short fronts and baggy pants or open-necked long gowns, and their heads were either wrapped in turbans or left bare, exposing their curly hair. Their mannerisms and language were cultured. The women were distinguished by their colourful clothing, the sleeves had borders and the kimono-style collars were low-cut, exposing their inner garments. Some wore their hair loose, some covered it with a black hairnet, others chose to put it all up, adorned with a few brightly coloured hairpins. Some pulled their hair into a single ox-horn-shaped bun, situated on the left or right side of their heads. They tied their hair with something like flaxen yarn, of many different shades and patterns. There were also women who chose to plait their hair, curling the braids around their heads, inserting crescent-shaped combs at the crown to hold them in place. Others chose to pull their hair into spiral-shaped buns with scarves folded into hats at the crown, the neatly stacked ribbons flowing in the wind. The crafted shells used to secure the scarves shone like gems.
The women bloomed like flowers, and Mengliu was elated at the sight of them. He walked to the statue of a naked man and stood beneath it. At its base, he saw a plaque inscribed with a description in English. This was one of Swan Valley’s spiritual leaders. He had created Swan Valley’s language and led a life of hardship and good deeds. He established kindness as Swan Valley’s most important virtue.
The spiritual leader looked like a woodcutter. He held a sickle or some sort of weapon in one hand, while the other was clenched into a fist. He was muscular, with ripples protruding all over his naked body. He exuded power from head to toe, and all of the strength of his being was centred in his phallus. It stood impressively erect, pointing straight ahead, like invincible artillery aimed at the very spirit of evil.
Mengliu thought, ‘What artist had the guts to take the clothes off his spiritual leader? Didn’t he stop to think of how it would make all the women lust after him?’
A young man climbed nimbly up the statue. He hung a red banner with white lettering on the phallus of the spiritual leader. The slogans billowed outward in the breeze.
They were commemorating the spiritual leader’s birthday. Bird-shaped flowers bloomed everywhere. Mengliu later learned that these were the spiritual blossoms of Swan Valley, and stood for liberty and independence.
Enthusiastic applause broke out in the square. People beat on drums. The reed pipes belted out their sharp notes. The people, well-trained, raised their voices in unison a few seconds later. Their timing was as precise and clean as the slicing of a knife.
On a huge electronic screen, a spaceship flew through distant stars, and drew nearer. Its door opened slowly, and the image of a figure decked out in a space suit as it floated in the cabin was vaguely visible. It was impossible to tell its age or gender. The creature adjusted its position so that it faced the people, then waved and said in a robotic voice:
‘Beautiful and highly intelligent people of Swan Valley, greetings! In our Swan Valley, where kindness is the priority, each person has the potential to become the new spiritual leader. Choose the better history, put into practice the precious right that has been passed down from generation to generation, these noble ideals: it is God’s promise that each of us is equal, that all people may be free, and that everyone has the opportunity to reach the full measure of happiness. Thank you for your trust, your passion, and your sacrifice. Your insights and your upbringing are all influenced by the spirit of Swan Valley. You are all perfect, the pride of Swan Valley. We do not allow the soul to remain imprisoned. Now as your spiritual leader Ah Lian Qiu, I will do my best for the beautiful Swan Valley, giving my all, even my life…’
Mengliu did not understand the language of Swan Valley, but did get some impression of the spiritual leader’s meaning from the English phrases mixed into the speech, which used words such as ‘good,’ ‘spirit,’ ‘soul,’ and ‘freedom.’ He had no interest in the spiritual leader and his speech. With so many wonderful women in the gathering, he had, from habit, already been out on the prowl. In this area he had an innate sense, and he quickly homed in on a woman in green. She wore a simple robe, with the hem of her skirt, neckline and waistband all embroidered in blue. Her blouse was low-cut, her bosom full and her neck smooth. Her black hair reached all the way down to her waist. Tiny feet peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt.
His heart was like a car careening along a mountain road. The bumps and turns of it shocked him.
Just as he thought to go over and make his advances, he found himself surrounded by a crowd. They could tell he was a foreigner. According to their tradition, they were competing for the chance to take him into their care. He stood out like a cherry on a snowy-white cream cake. But they didn’t speak to him at all. As if he were an animal that had strayed among humans, or an item in a bazaar, he was surrounded by heated debate, as if they were discussing whether to send him back to the zoo or release him into the forest. The dispute rushed on, punctuated by expressions of modesty and sincerity, and even some pleading.
Mengliu soon understood that he was the cherry to be plucked, taken home, washed, placed on a clean white plate, and stored in a warm, hospitable cupboard. He was all too used to seeing the cold and ruthless treatment of others, farmers going to the market with their bullock carts overturned and their bullocks slapped around; doctors who had not received red envelopes with payoffs inside sewing their patients’ anuses shut; the elderly left to freeze to death on the roadside, the poor to die at home. People kidnapped children and sold them, demolished homes, abused animals. Now he stood here, a stranger, and he could feel the selfless love of these people. He was completely captivated by their show of friendliness.
They spoke Swanese, the language of the valley, occasionally mixing in English words. He did not know if this was just a fashionable mode of expression or if it was a regular part of their language. They also accented their speech with physical gestures and expressions, shrugging or pulling at the corners of their mouths. Sometimes they stood straight, hands folded at the centre of their bodies. They occasionally lifted a hand, then lowered it back into the same place.
Mengliu only had eyes for the woman in green. He believed she was of mixed blood, with her wheat-coloured skin and oval face, eyelashes like fans and narrow chocolate-brown eyes. Her glances darted here and there, and her lips were like a half-opened rose. She wore a silver ring in her lower lip, and with her mouth turned up, her implied smile was full of meaning. When their eyes met, he felt that this woman and her exotic flavour eclipsed every woman he had ever seen before.
A handsome young man stood up and offered to mediate. In English, he said, ‘Now, please, choose anyone from this crowd. You may follow that person home, and you will be taken care of.’ He looked like a Mexican, dressed in a long shirt zipped in front, his head covered in short curly hair. His teeth were too white and too neat. They had a cold sharpness to them.
Without hesitation Mengliu pointed to the woman in green.
The young man dismissed the crowd, and calmly swept his melancholy eyes over Mengliu, his expression like the dark billows of the sea at night.
Mengliu thought to himself, ‘This young man harbours some jealousy.’
‘Follow me,’ the woman said in English. Her voice warbled like an oriole’s.
8
The woman in green pulled her hair back. Without a word she cooked and brewed tea. Mengliu was like a mute, sitting and waiting dutifully for the smoke to rise and the food to be served. At first, he was a little uncomfortable and his eyes followed the woman’s movements closely. He wanted to ask her something – her name, age, occupation, interests – anything really, so long as it meant he could hear her voice and watch her expressions. But she showed no inclination to chat with him, as if he’d always lived in the house
and had been a member of the family for a long time.
He looked around as if bored, taking the opportunity to get a reading of her body. Taking the measure of her with the precise observations of a doctor, he assembled a series of numbers for her height and weight. His estimates suggested that the numbers were in perfect proportion. He smiled, convinced that she was supple in every part of her body, and probably incapable of hiding her solitude and loneliness for long. Sooner or later she would become an exuberant she-wolf, breaking out of her confines and turning the whole world upside down. He concluded that she would be one of those women who liked revolution.
Her chest boasted a pair of loaded coconuts, uniquely lethal weapons with which to wage her revolution. They were a potent pair of aphrodisiac tear-gas canisters. Day or night, if she willed it, she could pull the pin and instantly fill the world with smoke. No one would be able to escape from her.
His fingers bounced in the air as if stroking the keys on a piano. On his fingertips was the warmth and smoothness of satin, the slope of the hills, and his touch made the flowers tremble.
The woman in green suddenly turned and looked at him. At her glance, his mind exploded like a spring thunderstorm, leaves whipping in the tempest around him.
She did not say anything. Her face remaining expressionless as she turned away again.
The leaves danced, and the noise subsided.
Mengliu meekly averted his gaze, reining it in. His heart pounded. He cautiously got a hold on himself and with a flashlight’s beam, he began to sweep the room with his eyes. In a situation like this where he did not know much about a woman, he was used to following external cues, reaching a conclusion based on various sources of otherwise irrelevant information, as if knowing that the body’s systems were closely interrelated, and firmly mastering that knowledge, could help one to move the whole person. This was a strategy he called ‘the village surrounding the city.’