by Sheng Keyi
The only other thing worth mentioning about the inside of the church is that this first little bit of physical contact between Mengliu and Juli occurred there. Afterward, in order to avoid retracing their earlier route, they followed a bougainvillea-lined path into the forest. Its floor was covered with a variety of flowers, the roots of the huge trees were blanketed with lush wild grass, twigs and fallen leaves, and insects filled the air with a chirping sound from within the detritus. The deeper they went, the more moist it became, until the air above their heads was shrouded in a layer of fog. As he breathed in the rich odour of mulch, soil, and flora combined, Mengliu’s heart once again warmed. He felt like he was walking along the paths of paradise, with angels darting in the folds of Juli’s clothes and hair, and rustling between her legs with each movement. Sometimes he looked out at the tobacco plants growing on the hillside, or at the towering rocks, or to the spot where nameless flowers were in bloom on a strange tree. Otherwise his eyes remained on the creases in Juli’s skirts, an absorption interrupted only by his sudden loud sneeze that startled the birds from their perches in the trees.
In a strong voice Juli said to him, ‘It’s cool on the mountain. If you don’t feel comfortable, we can go home.’
He waved off the suggestion with his long slender fingers. He noticed that his hands were so pale they were almost transparent. Obviously his blood flow was slower than usual, and his breathing was ragged too. Still, he did not wish to abandon this journey, now that they were halfway to the ‘interesting place’ to which Juli had promised to bring him. And so, with a pretended ease, he asked, ‘How many metres above sea level are we?’
Juli told him they were around 4800 metres above sea level. Mengliu, having never been at such an altitude, suppressed his feeling of surprise. He made some amusing comment about the elevation, inducing a smile from Juli.
Perhaps it was out of boredom, but Juli began humming a tune to herself. It was one of those old folk songs with a melody that sounded like a Buddhist chant, making her voice bounce like a coiled spring. He instantly saw the angel’s notes tumble to the ground amongst the leaves. He thought, ‘Doing it at an altitude of more than four thousand metres would be out of this world.’ Then an even more specific thought crossed his mind, full of possibilities about how he and Juli might enter an even more spectacular realm.
He pricked up his ears and listened. The notes were like a school of lively fish splashing out from Juli’s throat. With their tails they created a stream of water, spraying the droplets onto his face. The melody flowed into his ears, and entered into the cramped confines of his soul. There, in a sudden burst, green trees sprouted and a cluster of pink camellias bloomed. At this moment he knew without a doubt that he was in love with her. His rapid heartbeat was certainly not the result merely of altitude sickness. Then his body alerted him to the fact that it wasn’t love, but lust, and that everything in and around him was waiting for him to take her.
But his mind sharply refuted the notion. How could anyone separate love from lust, any more than one could separate the flavour of chocolate out of chocolate ice cream? The two blended together to form one exquisite taste. He enjoyed this metaphor of his own that he’d come up with. Being with Juli had brought back to his mind a poetic sensibility, and he felt a strong lyrical impulse pulling at his heart. Without realising it, his thoughts began to follow the rhythms of Juli’s song, and some lines popped spontaneously into his head:
I am listening to someone sing
‘God bless the people whose bellies are full’
and so I think of those without food
wondering whether they are like me
– bellies empty, but ears full –
For them are life’s simple joys,
the morning dew on the grass
and a sense of piety in dark times
He got stuck there, and so stopped for a moment, bowed his head, and sought the next line. He wondered at his own gratuitous thoughts for the hungry, those who were too weary with life to change their own destinies – the silent majority, who had leapt right into his romantic imagination, squeezing their way into his thoughts. Each line of poetry was like a corpse laid in formation, here at 4800 metres above sea level, waiting for him to review it. He looked down to the foot of the mountain, to the river where his memories of Qizi flowed and to the ghostly quietness there, and he felt himself to be a bell so large it needed several men to ring it, swinging back and forth in a slow, methodical manner.
Juli hummed her tune. The edge of her dress was dirty with mud and grass stains.
He bowed his head and continued walking. There was a layer of fine fur growing on the tobacco leaves, their edges made jagged by the artistry of tiny insects. Riddled with disease, the plant was gradually giving up its hold on life, like a weary, emaciated figure making its final prayers before death. Before he could sift through the rapid changes of emotion going on inside him, the next verse came to him, riding the rhythm of the insects as they gnawed the tobacco leaves.
Only the wind enters the wilderness
Beating against the farmer’s gaunt form
Alongside the final rays of the setting sun
It sweeps over the tomb
There harvesting every last stalk
When the black cloth of night,
Completely covers weakness
Who, on his way back home
will contemplate the death of another?
By the time the rod is raised halfway
Destiny will cease its call for mutiny
Let us, like this, eat our fill
The sun shining on our bellies
We need no written word
To lord it over us
Each stage of life’s cycle
Is a ringworm settled between my fingers
But I remain master of myself
My ulcer-racked body lying on the earth
Sees next year’s cotton erupt
From my own navel
Then, we may all be blank slates
We will break the tyrant’s muzzle
And slowly make our escape
‘The tyrant’s muzzle? Mr Yuan what did you say?’ Juli asked.
Only then did he realise that he’d given voice to his song. The moment he looked at her, he realised it was Bai Qiu’s poem. One evening years ago Bai Qiu had sat by the Lotus Pond at the Intellectual Properties Office and composed it all in one sitting. It had immediately spread far and wide. By the time the sun had gone down, a group of influential poets had initiated a movement in which they used verse to stir the soul of the people. In the spirit of the real Three Musketeers, they swore themselves to a common destiny in life or death, to honour and loyalty, and to action at the critical moment.
Juli did not need an answer from Mengliu, nor did she wait for him to speak. Pointing ahead as they stepped out from the cover of the forest to a rock that protruded over the valley, she continued, ‘We’ve arrived. That’s it –’
Looking in the direction she pointed, Mengliu saw in the distance the ‘interesting place’. Across the valley on the slopes opposite them were the green tiles and flying eaves of white buildings standing transcendentally among the vibrant hues of flowers and leaves. Green vines climbed the walls and roofs, and purple blossoms dotted the facades, scattered like stars across the sky. Down the face of the mountain beyond flowed a waterfall, which looked as if it was falling from the heavens, creating a mystical atmosphere. Rising through the clouds was a cylindrical tower constructed of beautiful red brick. As the wind blew and the clouds parted, they saw at its top a giant clock, which filled the valley with its music as it struck the hour of three.
‘Oh, it looks like a lovely holiday resort.’ Mengliu gazed at it for a long time, then asked, ‘Does it have any special significance?’
‘Upon reaching fifty years of age, anyone can live there.’ Juli’s face wore an expression of longing. ‘It’s the best nursing home in Swan Valley. I’ve heard that they have everything
there – library, cinema, theatre, chess matches, debating clubs, athletic events…or you can just laze about all day on a huge sofa in the café, listening to music and chatting while you consume unlimited supplies of fresh fruit juice. You will never feel like a lonely old person living there.’
‘Go into a nursing home at fifty years old? Things are very different in a welfare society,’ Mengliu said, laughing. ‘But, I’d rather work till I’m eighty, growing vegetables and rearing chickens in my own garden. I’d never want to live in a communal facility.’
‘But this is policy. It’s all according to regulation.’ Juli picked a flower and placed it behind her ear. ‘Of course, it’s also what the people want.’
Seeing Juli’s feminine gesture, Mengliu felt that her serious tone was basically just a pretence.
‘The government is subjective. They don’t care about what people want.’ He looked at the brilliant wildflower behind Juli’s ear. It struck him that it would soon wither, and he felt pity for it.
‘Everything is free. What benefit could the government possibly have?’ Juli stared at him with a taunting attitude.
‘…What I mean is, simply put, it may not be quite what it appears on the surface. Furthermore, fifty years, just as a person’s in his prime…’
Mengliu hesitated. Suddenly coming to a realisation, he said to himself, ‘No wonder I only see young people here. The middle-aged have already been shut away in nursing homes. Don’t they have any interest in the outside world anymore? Don’t they come out and have a look around?’
‘There’s a small self-contained community in there,’ Juli said, ignoring Mengliu. Turning her head, she looked fondly and longingly at the nursing home. ‘Inside, there will one day be a famous old craftswoman, creating strange and wondrous things – and that will be me.’
Mengliu climbed a few steps further up the rock, searching for a better angle from which to see more clearly, but all he could see was the outer wall surrounding the nursing home, blocking the view as effectively as if it were the Great Wall. He saw the old trees, the flying eaves, the waterfall and path, and the tower that seemed to disappear into the sky. Silence glided over the walls from the garden, and came to rest in the mysterious forest behind them.
18
Cycling to the suburbs was Mengliu’s idea. He said that people in love should not miss out on the spring, and he persuaded Qizi to put down her physics books and relax for a while. At dawn, they ate fritters, soya milk, steamed buns and porridge, then took a pair of bicycles and set out through the bleary-eyed city to visit its outskirts. An hour and a half later, the thick white smoke released from the chimney at the brewery had turned to a thin wisp. The bustle of the city was blown away by the country air. The cycle path was covered with crushed black coke and the broken chips of red bricks. The two mingled colours resembled an abstract painting. As their bicycle wheels rolled over the path, they made a crunching sound. All around them were crops, vegetable patches, ponds, bamboo, birds in flight, animals and people, with smoke on the rooftops and the yelping dogs serving only to emphasise the silence of the countryside when their echoes reverberated over the scene.
Happily humming schoolyard folk songs, in what seemed like the space of a breath they had cycled more than ten kilometres. They stopped at a roadside farmstead and asked for a drink of water. They chatted with some wrinkled old plowmen, and saw from their expressions that they envied the young couple their youth and knowledge, and love. Qizi’s face was like an apple at the end of autumn, flushed with a healthy rosy glow. Among the villagers were some who had travelled to the city and seen the crowds of people on the street. They were curious and eager to find out more as they sat smoking their morning pipes, one leg crossed over the other or a grandchild tucked between their knees. They talked about the city as if it were a completely different world.
Mengliu and Qizi answered them perfunctorily. Then, after expressing their thanks, they continued on their journey.
The pair now fell silent. The grinding of their bikes on the gravel became monotonous, and each felt the other’s anxiety.
They had thrown aside their work, given up a wonderful play, rejected invitations to salon gatherings and parties, and at last they were experiencing a moment of freedom and beauty and tranquility. Neither of them wanted to destroy this unique opportunity. Their legs continued to pedal mechanically, perpetuating the crunching sound and advancing their journey. They stopped at what might have been an abandoned watchtower or church. Putting their bikes to one side, they gazed upward for a minute. Holding hands, they entered the building and were overwhelmed by the pungent smell of manure. They realised that the building was home to a tied-up water buffalo. It stood chewing on feed, staring at the intruders with red eyes as big as the rims of cups. They went up a rickety wooden staircase that had been reinforced with hemp ropes, and climbed right up to the third floor. As they climbed, the staircase shook badly, throwing off a lot of dust. They kept climbing, quivering all the way to the top.
The building was empty except for the water buffalo downstairs. Through the windows they saw the village they had cycled through. Neither of them knew why they had wanted to go up to the top, but there they stood, inside the dilapidated building, facing one another.
Mengliu kissed Qizi extravagantly, but even with his most dazzling gestures he could not move her. She wasn’t in the least bit confused. Her expression was sober, her eyes misty, and there was some sadness in her smile. She put her hands on Mengliu’s chest and slowly pushed him away, saying, ‘There’s a demonstration this afternoon. We should get back.’
Mengliu, burnt by her expression, suffered a moment of heartache. She was an intelligent girl. He was becoming more and more aware of that.
‘Let’s take a break first. We’ll find a farmhouse where we can scrounge a meal. We’ll fill our stomachs and then make a decision, is that okay?’
She was obviously a little tired. Leaning against him, she said in a soft voice, ‘I love you.’ He kissed her again, this time plainly and passionately, and he got more of a response. She returned his kiss, and he felt her melt in his arms, as if she were about to flow right out of his grip. He pulled her into a tighter embrace, feeling himself to be an infinite chamber, able to furnish her body, and her life, with riches.
After some time, she raised her head from where it lay on his chest and said, ‘I know you’re concerned about the Unity Party business. Hei Chun was right, we all have a responsibility. Escaping is cowardice.’
Her words pierced Mengliu like nails, setting off a burst of misgivings. He turned to the window and looked out across the distant assortment of trees, flowers and farmhouses with a frown.
She leaned lightly against his back and said, ‘None of us knows what kind of feathers we wear, but at least we can make them as brilliant as possible.’
He turned around. Her eyes seemed to have been washed clean by the pristine countryside. They were emitting a strange glow.
‘So you want to forget about going overseas?’
She thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
‘You won’t regret it?’
She looked at him and said resolutely, ‘I won’t regret it. I want to be with you.’
He suddenly felt that her strength was propelling him toward the sunlight, and he felt bright and clear. Yet there was still a part of him covered in shadows. He knew that he was the only one who could drive the shadows away. He asked himself, Does it have to be like this? but he could not come up with an answer.
When they reached the city, the demonstrators had arrived in Beiping from everywhere.
Mengliu stood astride his bike on the side of the road, drooping as if he had been drenched in heavy rain. He hunched his body down, hands on the handlebars, and drew his neck into his shoulders, as
if the rain were unbearable.
Qizi leaned her bike against the trunk of a tree. As she looked down the road, her expression was the same as Mengliu’s.
They saw Hei Chun directing the contingents of demonstrators, with a strip of fabric tied around his head. He was full of energy, and resembled a revolutionary from a film as he swaggered in front of the slogans on the banners that fluttered in the wind like flags.
Mengliu noticed that a darkness had fallen over Qizi’s face, and her ears were inflamed. He signalled her with his eyes, and pushing his bike walked in the opposite direction, away from the demonstration. Beside the mighty torrent of people rushing towards Round Square, he and Qizi were like a pair of fish swimming against the current, furiously shaking head and tail in their efforts to reach a buffer zone. By the entrance to the Green Flower, they saw Shunyu at the window watching the action. She winked and waved to them.
There was not a single customer in the bar. Her father was wiping glasses at the counter, wearing the expression of a man who was smoking a pipe. His eyes were half closed, and his teeth were clenched on one side. His hair flew and curled chaotically, and his face was flushed.
They sat at the window, their stomachs rumbling. Their morning meal had long since been burned up, but they had no appetite now.
There was an unceasing flow of demonstrators before the bar’s entrance.
Mengliu could not look at the street any longer. Taking out his chuixun, he began to blow a few bars in his frustration, then put it back into his pocket.
Shunyu’s father brought over some food, saying amicably that it was all free. After a while, he brought a jug of wine and said with enthusiasm, ‘I’m very happy to have a few glasses of wine with some young people.’
Mengliu understood that this was his way of rewarding them for not participating in the march. He also wanted to take the opportunity to find out about the young people’s ‘ideas for the future and feelings about life’.
‘I used to play the xun pretty well when I was young,’ he said pleasantly, sighing. ‘The life of a soldier is monotonous, and my comrades-in-arms would pester me all day to play for them. Comrades like to hear the chuixun, isn’t this the popular taste? But the senior officer of our unit thought the tunes were negative and depressing, that they wouldn’t boost morale, so I wasn’t allowed to play any more – though he said a harmonica would’ve been all right. Fuck him! That was only his personal preference. But he was the senior officer, and I was just a soldier. My fingers were itching to play, but I had to control myself and obey orders. The army is inhumane. It doesn’t talk reason…So, look at those people outside. Processions, sit-ins, even if they create a greater disturbance, it’ll all be the same. It’s futile.’