Death Fugue

by Sheng Keyi

  ‘It doesn’t matter where you are. It only matters that you have arrived safely,’ said a robotic voice, resonating around the whole space. ‘Now you both need to rest. In a moment, someone will come to show you to your rooms. I dare say that you will like the view, overlooking the sea on one side, the garden on the other, and with the stars overhead.’

  Mengliu ran to the front of the stage. He was enveloped by a strong golden light. ‘It’s you again, the great spiritual leader.’ He enunciated his address carefully, leaning forward in an eloquent manner, with a fluid, natural dramatic flair. ‘An epidemic has broken out in Swan Valley. You shouldn’t be hiding here. In fact… why don’t you show your true face?’

  ‘You really disappoint me, Mr Yuan. You are still so long-winded. The punishment for trespassing on military land is to be thrown to the squid. But this depends on your luck. And my mood. Ha ha ha.’

  ‘Why don’t you show yourself? Let me look at Swan Valley’s spiritual leader, so I can see whether you are superhuman or not.’ Mengliu moved to a different spot, peering suspiciously into the dark. ‘Well, you’re obviously just a machine. You aren’t human. You have no heart, much less a sense of goodness.’

  There was another fit of soundtrack laughter. ‘Dr Yuan, when you start using real language, like a poet, I will talk with you face to face. Farewell.’

  The light went out and the scarlet curtain closed from both sides.

  A robot of indistinct gender appeared at the side of the stage, waiting for them. Following the robot, they walked through a dimly lit passage, accompanied by a sound like the sea crashing against rocks. After five minutes they entered a garden where snow covered the flowers, grass and trees, the pavilions, a stone bridge spanning an artificial lake, and around the knot of the icy lake, a row of willows.

  As Suitang walked, she repeatedly asked what military grounds had to do with the nursing home. The spiritual leader was full of hot air, just a pretentious fool. Suddenly remembering she said, ‘Isn’t he that robot person you mentioned?’

  Mengliu nodded. He couldn’t retell the whole of his conversation with the robot. Perhaps he wasn’t a robot. The voice had been manipulated. Maybe he was a woman, but he had the cold processes of a machine. He remembered it had said it wanted to save him, to allow him a renaissance as a poet. That had developed into an argument about enslavement and freedom. A lot of information rushed into his head at the same time. To avoid watching eyes and listening ears, there were some things he could only discuss with Suitang in private. For now, he knew nothing about their situation, why they had been brought here, and what the military grounds had to do with the nursing home. Suitang’s thoughts were even more bizarre. She said she feared that they had been put here for genetic testing, perhaps even to be disembowelled, their flesh flayed, tortured until they were neither humans nor ghosts, and then tossed into the incinerators like medical waste. When she said this, it made her own hair stand on end.

  They crossed through a stand of low trees on a path with snow piled up on either side. Their sweat had not yet dried, making their icy clothes cling to their bodies, freezing them both through and through. After five minutes, they were separated, and another robot led Suitang away. In a building that looked like an ancient castle, the robot opened the door to a room, then stood at the door without moving, as if standing guard. Mengliu went into the room and, to his surprise, was greeted by dazzling luxury. There were rugs, crystal lamps, murals, large divans, bookcases and a desk set before an expansive window, skirted by a tasselled curtain, through which he could see an azure sea. There was a card on the table, prompting him to ring the bell to call for assistance. He tried pressing the button, and someone answered him from outside the room. He knew what all this was about, but he was certainly not going to be taking this approach. He had no interest in pleasure. His spirit had died long ago. He could not be bought. He only wanted to go on living. He had to pretend he didn’t know anything. The less you know the safer, was always an irrefutable truth.

  ‘What is it they want?’ It was hot in the room. He began to sweat again, so he removed his coat and spread himself out on the bed. The crystal lights in the ceiling were like ice, and looking at them gave him a chill. The ceiling panels were dark blue, filled with twinkling stars. He lay there thinking for a while, at a loss and feeling irritable. His stomach rumbled, so he rang the bell and asked for food, then went to the window and looked at the sea. Maybe he could find some inspiration there, but he found that the sea was actually air-brushed on the glass, and even the window was fake. Behind it was a blocked-up wall. He turned to the bookshelf and found Paul Celan and Walt Whitman amongst the books arranged there. He felt a surge of joy, which soon turned to horror. They even knew his favourite poets. He refused to touch them, but quickly suppressed the disgust inside him, then reached out and fingered the spines of other books. He pulled out The Golden Lotus. There was no doubt in his mind the room had surveillance equipment and that spies somewhere were observing his every move. If they were really doing genetic experiments, then it would be necessary to observe him too. He stopped at the thought of genetic experiments, shuddering a little. He had done experiments on animals, and many of humanity’s medical advancements had first been made on animals such as dogs, rabbits, rats…He personally had done experimental surgery on a dog, opening it up four times, the last of which was to remove the pancreas, draining the animal of life. The dog was continuously sick after surgery, lying down, or swaying as it walked. Up until it died it still wagged its tail each time it saw him. At the time he felt he had been cruel, and that sooner or later retribution would come. Perhaps this was his day of reckoning.

  He put the book back, then pressed the bell again. He asked to talk to someone. While he was waiting for a response, he worried about Suitang, and at the same time thought of Qizi, of the time they had sat together in the interrogation room chatting, fearless. He remembered how she looked when she spoke, expressive and full of banter, her temper not as loud as her voice, stomping her feet in her tantrum, delicate and charming. How did a weak little girl suddenly become so big and independent? Her voice gathered strength. She used hand gestures to awaken her sleepy eyes, letting everyone know that the faeces question was a human rights issue. At the time he thought it was funny, but he wasn’t laughing now.

  The door opened, and the person who entered carried a whole roasted rabbit, the flesh cut off and accompanied by the complete frame of its skeleton, brown and shiny with oil, with a special sauce and a plate of the local dough sticks. From the artful way it had been carved, he could tell this was Darae’s work, and was even more certain of that fact after tasting it. From that moment he knew he was still a valued guest in Swan Valley. He ate and drank, leaving his utensils in a mess, and thinking all the while. This time he was determined to get to the bottom of things.

  He heard a familiar voice coming from the corner.

  ‘Mr Yuan, now do you understand a little better? Our motive is simple. We just want you to write an ode for the increasingly large number of people in Swan Valley – you could call it ‘Google’s Swan Song’ – to be sung at the five-hundredth anniversary of our valley-building, which we will celebrate next month. You can use the opportunity to restore your identity and your glory as a poet. I can say for certain that your reappearance in the poetry world will be a fabulous event.’ The spiritual leader was uncharacteristically gentle, full of patience and amicability. ‘Your memory has been recorded. I have seen your whole history. Many years ago you wrote the poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls”, then when you left Round Square you also left poetry. But there is one minor issue – why were your actions and your poetry in such contradiction?’

  He couldn’t answer. He felt that his privacy had been invaded, and he had been stripped naked in public. Looking around for an excuse he glanced at the ceiling and saw that a certain star up there was emitting a weak red light. He knew there were eyes on him.

  ‘Never mind if you don’t answer M
r Yuan, there are pen and paper on the desk. You can start composing your Swan Song any time you like.’

  ‘Surely it’s not just machines? Is anyone here?’ he asked aloud. ‘I want to talk to someone. Where is Suitang? I need to see her.’

  ‘She is fine. After you have finished writing, you will meet.’

  ‘Goodness is the highest virtue in Swan Valley, but you illegally place a citizen under house arrest. It won’t be good for you if this is made public.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that. We’re being very hospitable to you. We’ve given you the finest food Swan Valley has to offer, and the most comfortable lodgings,’ the spiritual leader said in a tepid tone. ‘Look how quiet it is here, much more conducive to writing than your West Wing. As long as you don’t ring the bell no one will disturb you.’

  A sudden apprehension rose in Mengliu. Testing just how much the spiritual leader actually knew, he said, ‘What West Wing?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have forgotten that. There was an acacia tree in the courtyard, and you kept a pot with a rose that refused to bloom.’

  ‘No! You’re wrong. It did bloom! It bloomed!’ Unable to bear the slanderous remarks against the rose, he interrupted without thinking. ‘It bloomed, and it was…’

  ‘Bloomed?’ The spiritual leader sounded surprised, as if it were hearing something impossible. ‘What colour was it?’

  Mengliu had retreated into his own memories, and saw nothing but the rose before his eyes. ‘She said open, and it opened. She said it would be red, and it was red.’ His tone was almost that of a dream. ‘It bloomed six times in all, always with four blossoms, which remained open until the frost came. The scarlet petals would drop around the flower pot, then dry and harden. I collected them and laid them into a collage forming one word.’

  ‘Was it “Qizi?”’

  ‘No. It was “Freedom!”’ He was like an old friend pouring his heart out. ‘I was free. I got rid of her. No one would care about me anymore. Oh. I’m glad you know everything. I have nothing to hide, and nothing to talk about. I hope you understand my feelings. I have not told this to anyone before. Now I can really let go.’

  The spiritual leader was silent for quite a while, then said, ‘Too bad your fiancée did not see the flowers. That is to her credit.’

  ‘Later, I left the Wisdom Bureau and studied medicine for five years. As if to affirm my choice, my hands took naturally to the scalpel.’ He reached out his soft thin hand in a moment of appreciation. ‘The language of exile has no motherland. Writing poetry is just misguided.’

  ‘These excuses make it obvious that your problem is one of self-esteem, Mr Yuan. Your talent is beyond doubt…but since the rose bloomed – and moreover, it was red – you should at least honour your promise – never to give up writing poetry.’

  ‘It’s too late, useless. I have lost my imagination. Who can make a butterfly with broken wings fly? Poetry abandoned me, choosing of its own free will to fall short.’ Mengliu felt as if he had returned to himself after being put into a trance. He faced the red flashing star and said, ‘See, we can carry on an agreeable conversation. You might as well tell me about yourself now. Perhaps talking face to face. That would be better.’

  ‘As Swan Valley’s spiritual leader I solemnly promise you, as soon as you finish your Swan Song, it will be your choice whether you stay or go.’

  ‘I recommend Darae. He’s the most outstanding local poet. And he has a much better understanding of Swan Valley than I ca–’

  ‘You have a month. I wish you well.’

  The red star suddenly went blank. The stars on the blue ceiling continued to glitter.

  25

  Over the next two days Mengliu passed the time with The Golden Lotus, though secretly he was considering all sorts of counter-measures to employ against his captors. His days were not too difficult, spent idly reading the erotic passages. On the third morning, two robots entered uninvited, took down the paintings decorating the walls, and the crystal chandelier, leaving only a dim bulb for light, casting shadows on the four uneven concrete walls of the room. At four o’clock in the afternoon, they also took his bed and mattress, removed the carpet, and left him only a pile of tattered quilts. On the fourth day, the room was completely emptied, revealing a rugged cell with a cracked toilet and no water coming out of the faucet. His food too was stripped bare, to cabbage and tofu accompanied by a cup of cold water once a day. The bell was completely disregarded. He looked angrily at the pen and paper on the table, then threw them at the wall. Then the radiator was switched off, and even with all of his clothes on he was cold. He wrapped a quilt around him. On the seventh day he started counting the stars on the ceiling, and used his footsteps to measure the room. He picked up the pen and paper, placed them on the small table, and stared at them for a long time. He had no water to wash himself with, nor clothes to change into, and the toilet smelled of urine and shit. He scratched his itchy body until the dry skin bled. He felt he had become an animal. Before long, he would grow fur all over his body and lose the ability to understand human speech. He would begin to howl.

  On that seventh day someone new served his food, a young person. He was strong and good-looking, his skin and hair as black as a gorilla’s, his waist flexible, his lips thin and wide. His eyes were those of an actor, his expression soft and tender, his face youthful and yet tainted with age. He was a quiet creature. He set the dishes down as if he was serving a meal to a king, with his eyes humbly lowered and his hands clasped. He bowed as if waiting for orders, and didn’t seem to mind the pungent odour in the room. Mengliu tried to strike up a conversation with him. He didn’t speak, just bowed at the waist in response. Mengliu thought perhaps he did not understand English. He scratched his head in distress. Not to speak with someone would surely drive the prisoner mad. Taking a few phrases of Swanese he had learned from Yuyue, he asked the simian fellow in tortured language if it understood English, suggesting that perhaps they could chat a while, he had a belly full of stories to share for free. He sincerely hoped the ape-like creature would look up at him, even if it really was an ape. If all it did was watch him as he spoke, that would be enough.

  Actually, his expectations had been too low. Using charming eyes to look askance at him a couple of times, the fellow began to speak. In an effeminate tone, he answered in perfect American English, looking on Mengliu with devotion the whole time. He said, ‘I’m your ardent fan. I know you’re an awesome poet. I really admire you…you established your status in literary circles when you were only in your twenties. You’re really amazing! The poems the Three Musketeers wrote, I read them all when I was ten, and yours are the ones I like the best. I always dreamed of getting a chance to meet and talk to you, but I never really believed this day would come. And…you’re still so young! You have the grace of a poet, just like I imagined you would have.’

  As the monkey spoke, he shyly took out a little notebook and asked his idol for an autograph.

  Perhaps because of his hunger, Mengliu felt slightly dizzy. Steadying himself, he took the notebook from the monkey’s hand. The book contained autographs by many famous people. He leafed through it slowly, thinking how after so many years, in this strange place, a fan had emerged, and it made his heart churn a little. He thought of how fans had asked for the autographs of the Three Musketeers in just the same way years ago. The Three Musketeers would hide behind closed doors and practise their signatures in their free time. Hei Chun’s autograph was very artistic, written with a flair that made it impossible to read. Bai Qiu’s was clumsy and honest, belying his wisdom. But Mengliu had completely forgotten what his own signature looked like in those days. Certainly it was not the same as he had used to sign medical charts. He thought of finding a blank page to show off a little, just to satisfy the effeminate’s request. Suddenly, a few words in Dayangese jumped out from the book, stinging his eyes and making his heart tingle. Yes! It was Qizi! He recognised it as soon as he saw it. It was Qizi’s autograph! He grabb
ed the ape’s hairy hand excitedly, barraging him with questions. The poor fellow, shaking like an electric shock had bolted through him, shot back, ‘It’s not mine. I found it in a dead person’s pocket.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Mengliu.

  ‘Underground. Probably only the bones are left now.’

  Mengliu said in an authoritative tone, ‘I don’t mean the body. I mean, where did you pick up the book?’

  The simian fellow looked frightened by his idol’s expression. His thin lips were speechless for a while, then he said in a sorrowful tone, ‘It was in the woods. About five years ago.’

  Mengliu flipped through the pages of the autograph book once more and, holding it tightly to his chest, looked up and let out a long sigh. The clue’s thread had been cut with a stroke, but the signature at least meant that Qizi might still be alive. The discovery made him shake uncontrollably. He seemed to smell her breath, to hear her voice on the wind, to see the shadow of her figure haunting the foliage.

  The fellow placed his folded hands on his abdomen again and said shyly and cheerily, ‘If you want this book, it’s all yours. I’ve always dreamt of giving my most treasured possession to my idol. Oh God is good to me! I am so blessed! My name is Sama. If you can remember that – Sama – I will die happy.’

  Mengliu did not move, not even a twitch. Confronted with his fan’s emotional expression of adoration, he offered no emotion of his own.

  He ate nothing. Stimulated by the thought of Qizi, he suddenly felt it would be too shameful to eat in a stinking place like this, as if he were some barnyard animal. He had never been treated like this in his life, and he would hold his head up with dignity now. Changing tactics, he rang the bell, and asked for someone to clean the toilet, and allow him to shower and dress before writing his poem. A voice simply reminded him of the due date for the Swan Song, telling him to cherish his time and his life. If he failed to complete the task, he would be thrown in the river to feed the fish. He quietly cursed the ruthless robot. It’s unscrupulous to force a surgeon to write poetry. The arrogance of this authoritarian attitude! Well, let’s just see how you’ll make these hands write!