Death Fugue

by Sheng Keyi

  5

  As Juli applied medication to Mengliu’s wounded leg, it was just like the first time they had met. She didn’t say anything as she squatted before him, her face a distant landscape covered with a light fog. Mengliu felt like a fish, protected in her aquarium, but also limited, barricaded in. He was willing to give her up – he refused to write poetry, and she did not deliberately do anything to make it difficult for him, but his heart was very troubled, and he was sometimes suddenly filled with remorse. But then he would insist that what he was doing was right. If neither his repressed poems nor his body could be liberated, everything was meaningless to him. He thought she should understand this logic. When he had gone to bed with women, the bodies of both parties were free and uninhibited. It had always been this way. In his own room, doing whatever he pleased with his own body, who was there to bother? He looked at the stud flashing in Juli’s nose. Every so often she would get a different part of her body pierced. Her ears had been pierced until they resembled sieves, and even her navel hadn’t been spared. He thought that sooner or later she would become a human quiver, carrying arrows in the various holes on her body. Yet her natural orifices didn’t allow anything to penetrate.

  In the dull silence, after she had wrapped his wound in white gauze and told him about the effects of a squid bite, she said that if he tried writing poetry, the distraction would make the healing process go faster. The poetic impulse had a secret property that stimulated healing, causing the body to secrete regenerative cells. Most people, relying on natural healing, would only recover fifty percent of their health. The wound would continue to fester, the new flesh to decay, and the patient would eventually die of infection.

  ‘I’m going now to the opening ceremony of an exhibition at the art museum.’ Juli wore a knee-length black coat over her grey robe, her hair braided and fastened at the back with a red clip. She was transformed into an emerald-hairpin spiral-bun lady, an independent petal. When she spoke, he felt like he was surrounded by blooming peach trees and green willows. ‘If you are interested, you can come and have a look at what is going on in the minds of today’s young people, and see how things have changed.’

  Mengliu envisioned her naked body, her skin the colour of golden wheat, the nectar rippling in her full round breasts. He thought of all the women he had sampled as water, flowing wild and wanton during sex. At the moment of climax the buns in their hair would uncoil in a sudden burst, their bodies blossom, and their greedy throats utter a baby-like sound that hummed in his ears. They gripped his hair, raising their bodies and biting his shoulder, and he did not hold back. Sometimes after they had recovered they expressed sweet feelings of love, or politely exchanged stories about their background, laughing together over interesting people or experiences. But he had never again fallen in love with a woman.

  When Mengliu pulled himself back to the present, there was nothing in front of him but a fleeting trail of scent. He looked to the door through which Juli had walked, up the gravel path that cut through the grass, and out onto the empty road. He saw that it was an overcast day, as if rain was in the offing. His feelings grew dull, and the pain in his leg became more noticeable. He brewed a pot of fermented tea, then hung around the house sipping from his cup. The green plants that crowded the living room seemed to make the air more stifling. He went to the window to get some fresh air, and in the distance saw flashes in the clouds. He knew it was raining there, and that the bright flashes were moving in his direction.

  The art museum was four kilometres away at the foot of the mountain, about a twenty-minute journey in an environmentally-friendly electric vehicle. Mengliu set out to walk there, giving himself time to think. In this way, he could stop if he changed his mind, take a piss, then return home. The bushes gave way to pine forest, and the pine forest to wheat fields. He sat down on the edge of the grass near a field of wheat. Observing closely how the wheat resembled the colour of Juli’s skin, he plucked a spear, and tested its sharp, hard edge with his fingertip. Suddenly the sun came out, and it was as if a brush had swept over the fields, turning them a bright, glaring yellow. They were like a desert, and his gaze was drawn to a straight row of trees in the distance. Perhaps it was an illusion. When he set off again, he could not remember if he had stopped at all. On the left were rolling hills, covered with tall old trees, oak, elm, chestnut, and beech, all clustered together under the rolling wind and extending far into the distance. As he travelled the road between the wheat fields and the hills, he felt he was passing through emptiness. Suddenly, everything was gone. At the same time, two sentences escaped from his mouth:

  ‘My corpse is here.’

  ‘My spirit is there.’

  He took out his xun and, after polishing it with his fingers, started playing ‘The Pain of Separation’. The tune howled like the wind.

  A small road veered to the right, passing through the middle of a forest, sheltered by trees on both sides, the sky visible in the interstices between the branches. The sun shone on the leaves as they were blown by the wind, reminding him of the rustling of the crowd that had filled Round Square. For all this time Mengliu had not been able to picture the moving armored vehicles in detail. His imagination collapsed completely at some point. But the cold wind at this moment seeping into his oxygen-filled brain from across the vast wheat fields made him realise that it was harvest time. To the beat of a cheerful, pleasing rhythm, the rows of wheat were falling in succession, the farmers’ faces full of a festive spirit. The earth would be left empty as the sun turned red, leaving only the low-flying egret to watch over it. Where were the sheaves of harvested wheat? At the celebration, the wine would be thicker than blood, sweet and sticky. A spilled glass of wine would flow like a river, and a word would transform into a corpse. Right or wrong, man or woman, old or young, innocent eyes would open, large and round, silently swept into the rolling, invading waves and returning with them to the sea when the tide turned. Every summer, all of the world’s wheat lowered its head, the flowers withered, fruit remained underdeveloped, insects were more rampant year after year. Summer was meant to be like a woman in the throes of love, wet and thunderous. At this moment, his imagination and the wheat fields were alike bathed in golden radiance, and poetry soared like the birds of the forest.

  He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.

  ‘Hi! Wake up, Mr Yuan. What are you doing snoozing here?’ a girl’s voice asked. As if in a trance, Mengliu found himself still sitting by the road, facing a seemingly boundless wheat field, leaning back against a birch tree that had been stripped of its bark. An ant was walking in circles on his sleeve.

  ‘Oh, it’s you…’ He stood up, a little embarrassed because he could not recall the girl’s name.

  ‘I’m going to the art museum. Would you like a ride?’ Her hair was golden and her skin pink, and her dress a little unconventional. She straddled her bike, balancing her toes on the ground. She had a wicker basket full of scrolls. Her elongated features wore an expression of sneaky arrogance.

  ‘No, it’s all right. Thanks,’ Mengliu said. A plump girl, he thought.

  ‘You seemed to be brooding…’ The girl cocked her head to one side in a way that made her look like a fat bird. A cloud of curls was flying around her. ‘Are you cooking up a poem or something?’

  ‘No, no.’ Mengliu did not want to discuss anything related to writing poetry.

  ‘God, you mean sitting across from such fine scenery, you’re really just sleeping by the roadside?’ The girl straightened her head and peered at Mengliu.

  ‘Being able to sleep any time, anywhere, means you were good in a past life and have no regrets.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re talking about a pig,’ she said bluntly.

  Mengliu looked at her carefully. ‘More or less.’ He didn’t want her to go on.

  ‘That’s right. I see that you aren’t like a poet anyway.’ The girl snorted, threw him a contemptuous look and, with a whoosh, the bike was gone.

  As
if someone had slapped him, Mengliu sat stunned for a while. Using the force of his back against the tree, he pushed himself up and the friction rubbed off some debris. He wanted to scold the girl, but the view of her riding off on the path between the mountain and the wheat field stopped him from doing so. The girl was nothing like Qizi. He had only to see a girl on a bike to think of her though. Sometimes when he saw a bike, or any turning wheels, he would think of her. All young girls would make him think of her.

  He lowered his head as he walked, as if he were looking for something on the ground. After a while he came upon an electric vehicle, which was enveloped in youthful laughter. He remembered then that the girl who looked like a fat bird was Juli’s student Rania. She had a sharp tongue, and enjoyed bandying about all sorts of political rhetoric. Mengliu had a very bad impression of such women. It could even be said that he hated them.

  Seen from a distance, the Swan Valley Art Museum looked like an egg sitting horizontally, a grey stone shell wrapped around it, free of all attachments, making it seem aloof. The square outside was full of nude sculptures of strange shapes and sizes, and both sides of the path leading to the museum were lined with national flags. It was noiseless, so silent that even the sound of footsteps was swallowed up. Mengliu sat on a wood-coloured bench. The wound on his leg was hurting, and he began to worry that it would continue to rot, right through the flesh, leaving only a skeleton’s leg. Bai Qiu had long ago turned to a skeleton in the earth. His poems had been authorised and published. People read his poetry, but no one questioned why he had died. Mengliu smelled the mixture of sunshine and fresh grass and felt confused by his own presence at this place. Groups of gorgeous men and women walked into the art museum. Some of them waved, seeming to recognise Mengliu, but he ignored them, immersed in his own emotions. When a colourful bird descended with a screech and perched on a statue’s head, he remembered that he had followed Juli here. He stretched his legs and stood up. All of Swan Valley’s exhibition halls were free of charge and open to the public, so he went straight down the promenade covered with a red carpet that led to the museum. There was applause, as the opening ceremony was just ending, and the crowd began to disperse in an orderly way.

  Mengliu thought it was a sealed egg, but then he found that the inside of the egg was brighter and more spacious than he had thought. He could not figure out where the light came from.

  The huge space had been constructed out of many scattered pieces, and light broke at various angles through these pieces. There were various types of paintings, sculptures, photographs, and craft…some pieces hung, some floated, and there was space for animations, films and videos. His attention was captured by a cluster of oil paintings. On the canvasses were pictures of a snowy scene with a dilapidated old factory, cold chimneys, a steel ladder, and footprints across the quiet depressed landscape, the traces of poor, humble lives. The strings of steel between the trees were laden with tattered children’s clothing blowing in the wind. Amidst the abandoned train tracks, rusty ventilation pipes and boundless snow, he seemed to be able to see things beyond the canvas. He felt he had been in this remote town, perhaps in his youth or childhood, perhaps in a dream. Anyway, he was familiar with the scene, and his heart was touched. He wanted to say something. There were people around him who likewise stood in melancholy silence for a moment before the group of paintings, then moved on with blank expressions. They had no desire to speak. There was no Hei Chun here, no Bai Qiu, Qizi or Shunyu …The wound on Mengliu’s leg started aching again. He leaned over and checked with his hand to see if the area around the wound was swelling. The skin was very hot to the touch. At this point two pairs of feet stopped in front of him, and their owners held a whispered conversation.

  ‘Darae, if pigs take an interest in art, how interesting can it be?’

  ‘From a philosophical perspective pigs do not think, but if you want to know whether pigs think, maybe you should ask a pig…’

  ‘Hi, Mr Yuan!’ The toes turned toward Mengliu. He straightened up, his head almost bumping against the girl’s chest. It was she again! ‘What a coincidence. Do you think…a pig can take an interest in art?’ Rania smiled as she spoke. Her fertile body crowded his space, and he felt himself being pressed into a corner. He didn’t retreat. It was his first close-up view of the contours of the girl’s face. It looked like it had been carved out of dough. The eyes were light blue amber and the lips red and sexy, and naturally a little mocking. Darae was positioned between Mengliu and Rania, forming the third side of an equilateral triangle. He obviously did not know where ‘the pig’ had come from. The two men shook hands, maintaining the distance between them.

  Mengliu still had not spoken. Juli and Esteban suddenly appeared from behind another screen.

  ‘I heard your leg was injured. Are you all right?’ Esteban wore a brown robe with a straight, standing collar. He had shaved his head, leaving only a short beard encircling his mouth.

  ‘Never mind. It’s much better now,’ Mengliu said. Seeing Juli and Esteban appear together, he was filled with a wave of jealousy, yet he could not help admiring the way Esteban spoke so compellingly, with a gentle suggestion of arrogance. Mengliu praised Esteban in his heart, but at the same time felt that he had endured some sort of invisible persecution at his hand. Esteban was a man with a burning purpose. Like a candle in the dark, he would turn everything around him into shadows.

  Not wanting to be made a shadow, Mengliu turned and continued viewing the exhibition on his own.

  ‘Mr Yuan, seeing these pieces of the students’ art, you must have an opinion, no?’

  Esteban walked a few steps with him. ‘Would you be willing to be interviewed, or perhaps write some articles on the works?’

  ‘Thanks, but I am just a doctor. I know nothing about art,’ Mengliu waved his hand. ‘I am just filling in time, and casually browsing…’ He paused, then continued, ‘Señor Esteban, may I venture a question? Do you feel that Swan Valley is perfect?’

  ‘If you would write a long poem, that would be perfect.’ It was as if Esteban had not heard a thing he said. ‘That is what we lack, good poetry, and a great poet.’

  Mengliu eyed Juli, and she raised her chin slightly, as if sensing rain falling upon it.

  ‘I always have a hard time believing the great poet’s background.’ Rania put her hands in the pockets of her fancy dress, as nonchalant as a cat after a meal. ‘People in shackles can only write shackled poetry.’

  ‘Chaos isn’t freedom. Freedom comes from order,’ Darae interjected.

  Esteban turned his back to a snowy scene three or four metres long. His brown robe was silhouetted against the white snow. ‘I think that a great poet’s drive should come from a noble, pure spirit. You know, people are like trees in a forest. They need each other so that they can get air and sunshine. Then each tree can grow up straight and beautiful.’ His mouth flicked to the right, like a breeze blowing the flame on a candle, revealing the trace of a smile. ‘Those trees that are separated from one another grow up crooked and tangled.’

  Mengliu glanced at Juli again. He did not want to talk about poetry. He wanted to escape from such conversations.

  ‘You and Darae go and have a look at the sculpture exhibition. There are a few parts of it that need to be tweaked,’ Juli said to Rania, and the two young people bustled off. ‘Would either of you object to a drink at the café?’

  ‘Good idea. I am a little tired.’ Mengliu raised his injured leg.

  They passed through a maze of corridors. The café seemed to float in the air. Beyond it, the vast expanse of golden wheat spread to the horizon, meeting the sky in the distance. Clouds were scattered overhead.

  A waitress with a flower-trimmed apron served them onion rings, French fries, corn-breaded calamari and coffee.

  ‘Of course, human nature, this crooked piece of wood. It is impossible for us to make anything absolutely straight.’ It seemed that Esteban wouldn’t eat anything until he had finished speaking. He crossed his le
gs, stretched his hands along his robe, smoothing it out, and looked toward Juli.

  Juli took a book of poetry from her bag, saying that such fine weather and such a perfect moment would be ideal for reading. Opening the book, she slowly read, ‘“When I think of the things I regret in life, plum blossoms fall, like seeing her swim across the river, or climbing to the top of a pinewood ladder…”’

  Each time she read to this point, she went back and started again. After reading it several times more, just as she was about to reach her momentary pause, Mengliu blurted out, ‘Dangerous things are sure to be beautiful. It is better to see her riding back…’ He seemed to be possessed and continued reciting without taking a breath, his face turning red and his eyes ablaze. He stood up, faced the endless wheat fields, and recited the final lines, ‘“I need only think of the things I regret most in life, and the plum blossoms will fall on the southern slopes’’.’ Tears welled up in his eyes amidst the silence of the abrupt ending. When he turned back, his face was pale again, and the light had gone from his eyes. The three of them stared at each other.

  ‘Your voice proves that you are still a good poet. You have a very strong feeling for language.’ Esteban was excited, and it broke his usual calm, arrogant demeanour.

  ‘Esteban is right. Maybe you are not even aware of it, but your appeal just now…’ Juli’s two chocolate eyes stared at Mengliu. Her speech betrayed an obvious lack of confidence.

  ‘They eat human flesh, but in the end, they will be eaten by humans.’ Mengliu picked up a piece of squid from the bamboo basket, sniffed it, and put it back again. ‘I am a doctor. I recommend that you all eat a healthy diet.’