by Sheng Keyi
As time went on, each day was harder than the one before. There was less food. Sometimes he didn’t eat all day. The water was cut off again. His body was mouldy and infested with bugs. Only the lice grew fat, and fleas, who leapt out from his quilt to attack what was left of him. He remembered how well he had dressed in the past, in shirts so fresh they always looked new, and clean underwear, always paying close attention to his sideburns… At that moment, if there had been a mirror in the room, he would not have been brave enough to look at his reflection. He was constipated, and soon developed haemorrhoids. His breath was offensive, and his muscles atrophied. He knew they were trying to turn his dignity to dog shit. Then, when he had written a Valley ballad singing the praises of their goodness, they would elevate him on the poet’s pedestal, and restore the dignity he had lost.
He picked up the pen, looked at the paper and struck the pose of one lost in thought.
Write, he said to himself, one poem, one ballad, ten lines, twenty…I just want to bathe and change clothes. It’s very simple.
He started writing. The white paper was like a screen with a film flashing across it. Juli’s gold-as-wheat body and coconut breasts, and a man’s inward stirring and frustration. He kept writing. A red file, artificial insemination, Rania’s blood flowing from the ward, through the forest, to the waste disposal site. He wrote faster and more wildly. His pen and the film were in a violent firefight, facing off in the chaos. Those sounds, those colours, the shouting, the distant snow-capped wind-swept mountains, the sun like a sharp sword striking his eyes. His eyes were bleeding. He kept writing. Qizi’s coquetry in the West Wing, the sadness on the radio, in Round Square. She turned into a phoenix and soared away from the smoke, speeding from the red earth, through the blue sky and into the pristine clouds. He wrote. He wrote! He wrote of Hei Chun and Bai Qiu. He wrote of sorrow and regret. He wrote of hunger…He and Qizi were together, fainting then transfused with energy, standing up together. They held their heads high and were inseparable. They pressed forward, speaking with one voice, moving towards the same goal. She leaned against him as if he were a great tree. Oh, and he wrote! Dazed with hunger, they entered a pretty restaurant and ordered Kobe beef, platters of sashimi, grilled saury, stir-fried seafood, gingko nuts, durian cakes, wine, spirits, sake, a table overflowing with fragrant food – so exquisitely fragrant. He poured the wine and gave it to her. Suddenly there was a gunshot. Blood splattered everywhere as Qizi’s head flew off. As it flew away from her body, in her dilated pupils he saw himself. His face was dirty, unlike man or ghost.
He snapped out of his reverie. The mouth-watering cuisine disappeared. There was nothing in front of him but a stack of blank paper. Qizi was still in his mind, still her former pale beautiful self, with sharp chin and dark almond eyes.
Barely able to suffer the horror of the dream, Mengliu was covered in sweat. His limbs were lifeless.
Though he wasn’t hungry, and couldn’t eat anything, the knowledge that she must still be alive strengthened him. Everything made sense again. She was watching him, listening to him. He had to respond to her, to make up for the past, to pay a belated tribute to all that their history represented after this long period of separation. He was pleased to see that his conscience was touched, that it had not been completely silenced.
At night he was hungry and cold. The wind moaned outside his cell. He couldn’t sleep, so he sat beneath the light catching lice, listening to the crunch of their bodies as he burst them between his nails. Every time he thought of her he killed a louse. He wiped their blood on the walls, and used it to draw Round Square, the people, the slogans, the faeces, the vehicles, the police in their helmets…He looked for his place there, but couldn’t find it, and didn’t know where he should draw himself. He faced the wall, deep in thought, until daybreak. He could only feel that night had turned to day. The room was always bathed in the same dim light. Just as he was thinking this, the light went off. The stars on the ceiling flickered out.
A bell burst into the depths of his mind with a sharp ring, shattering his sleep. It sounded for two full minutes, during which he felt the floorboards tremble and shake. Thousands of feet ran through his mind, along with the roar of waves, neighing horses, and the bursting permafrost. An amputee’s shrill scream of misery. Suddenly the door opened. A light pierced the darkness and a chill wind entered in. He saw Qizi in the doorway – no, it was Suitang. She looked like she had just been to the beauty parlour. Her skin was pink and her long hair flowing. She said she had spent her days very well, and that they had taken her to visit the nursing home. It was paradise. She loved it. She wanted to stay there. He was in a semi-conscious state from hunger and sleep deprivation, but when he saw her he immediately grew clear-minded. He didn’t bother at all about what she said, he just felt embarrassment at the filthy state of his own body. Trying to hide deep in his blanket he yelled, ‘Go away! Don’t come in.’ He kept hollering until he couldn’t hear any movement. He stuck his head out from under the quilt. Suitang stood above him her hand outstretched.
‘You should eat,’ she said softly, eyes full of sympathy and affection, ‘and then write some poetry, the Swan Song, or a love poem, or many many poems, just like you used to do. You think you are sticking to your values, but it’s all meaningless, it’s all a cloud.’
He ducked away from her pale hand, and her red lips. Her eyes too were red, as if bloodshot.
‘Suitang, I just want you to be happy. Whatever you choose to do is fine. That is your business,’ he said weakly. He was like someone about to die, filled to the brim with tolerance and peace. ‘I was in Beiping. I was in the crowd, yet I felt more lonely than I do in this room. I am with them every day now, we talk about women, we talk about poetry, we curse whomever we want to curse. I see Qizi every day, hear her speeches, chat with her about her dreams. If Swan Valley wants to destroy my flesh in the name of poetry, then that’s just fulfilling my wish. Sometimes tainted things are good, though they make the heart uncomfortable – serious things, like ideals and beliefs, they make you ill-at-ease forever. Stifling the poetic impulse, it has been more painful than I imagined, like…don’t think I’m vulgar, but it’s like facing the woman you love and trying to control an erection, refusing to enter her body…I’ve written hundreds of poems in my mind…I don’t want to publish them. I am ashamed. Poetry has become a whore’s cry. Its dignity is in ruins. If the language of poets cannot furnish banners for the next generation…we haven’t been taught yet how to use our language in the service of freedom…’
His logic had grown muddled and incoherent.
He cried softly, reaching out into the void, his head hanging down feebly. ‘I will stay with you to the end.’
He spoke the last sentence as if from a dream, his voice so low even he could barely hear it, the rest of his words turning to wind between his teeth and lips.
‘Who will write your names in the history books martyrs? Those who write history aren’t your people…You don’t count as good citizens… Everything will be lost.’
When Mengliu rose from his quilt, he found that the room had made a miraculous recovery. The crystal chandelier was lit, the floor was carpeted, the window opened onto the sea again, and the stars in the ceiling sparkled. A pleasant fragrance had returned to the room, the toilet had been cleaned, the books restored to the shelves. For a moment he was startled, thinking he had woken in a wedding chamber. He looked down and saw he was wearing a new robe, its belt tied with a slip knot. His red underwear was new, and just the right size. He couldn’t help fumbling his hands over his face, finding it clean-shaven and his hair slightly damp, as if it had not yet dried after a recent shower. He panicked, wondering who had washed him clean. Who had undressed him without his permission? What had they done?
There were bottles on the night stand, showing that he had been on a drip. The room temperature was just right. He wasn’t hungry and his throat hurt, so he knew they had pumped food into his stomach. He angrily rang the bell.
Suitang appeared in the doorway, her long hair flowing, with a cold look on her face. It extinguished his excitement. There was an invisible wall between them. A rush of emotion swirled in his heart, and inflamed his face.
‘You look good. Seems you’ve recovered well.’ She spoke casually, showing no signs that she had been under house arrest. Her eyes were like a rabbit’s, as if blood might drop from them at any moment. ‘You’re taking this too seriously. It’s a poem for the occasion, easy enough to write. Do you really think it’s worth your life…We’re down to the last three days. They will try physical torture. I suggest you eat and drink now. They will whip you, flog you. I hope you can survive the pain.’
What did she say? Whip? Flog? They wanted to use torture on a surgeon, a common citizen? His expression was full of doubt. He didn’t believe the spiritual leader of Swan Valley would be stupid enough to threaten torture. Brutal tactics should be used on important people, but he was just a powerless foreigner. He wondered whether it was really Suitang who had come. He couldn’t tell what was illusion and what was real. ‘I hope you didn’t betray yourself.’
Suitang didn’t answer, but continued with her own train of conversation. ‘You think this pettiness can make you noble and great, cleansing you of your past cowardice and indifference…It’s just wishful thinking. If you write your Swan Song poem, you can preserve yourself and leave Swan Valley. At least your poetry will save your life.’
He thought Suitang must have been put under a magic spell to make her say those words. Once her sense of justice and art and order had disappeared, she grew dim, and her beauty turned tacky. She had already returned to the vanity of material things. The people of her generation simply didn’t have ideals, and she was puzzled by his assertiveness and sense of mystery. Because she had never loved through troubled times, she would feel the deep love of an Akhmatova or a Pasternak to be ridiculous. He said goodbye to her, then calmly acknowledged that he was willing to die. He would leave no trace, nor would he need anyone to mourn for him.
26
At ten the next morning, the simian-like Sama visited. His appearance was startling. His hair was tied up with a black headband, and his face painted with Chinese opera makeup. The hook-shaped eyebrows made him look quite handsome. He wore a blood-coloured robe with a broad belt around the waist, and sleeves of the kind worn by actors in a martial role. His feet, clad in high boots, moved unsteadily. Mengliu had seen Chinese opera and thought his outfit an insult to it.
Sama pulled his expression into a smile and winked conspiratorially. Then he told Mengliu he first needed to complete a ritual, which was to recite poetry for his arms to hear, so that when they were filled with emotion they would not be too harsh. These words seemed as crazy to Mengliu as Sama’s appearance, so he interrupted the recitation, and asked Sama what was going on. Sama replied, ‘Today is the day you’ll be whipped. For a professional thug, this would be nothing special, but for a poetry-lover like myself, it is a rare honour.’ He started reading again, and it was actually a verse from ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’. He finished with a flourish, then from behind his waistband he drew out a bamboo cane and flexed it until it formed a circle. As he released it, the cane made a whooshing sound, and created a tremor in the room.
Mengliu was gripped with horror. He asked weakly, ‘Where will you strike?’
‘The whole body.’
‘How many strokes?’
Sama, casting a charming glance his way, replied, ‘It depends on your endurance.’
As he saw Mengliu’s face slowly lengthening, like one who is making a vow to die without surrendering, Sama expressed the admiration he felt deep in his heart. He thought Mengliu possessed the appropriate attitude for a poet under the threat of flogging. He believed in a poet’s moral courage, so he had decided to help the poor fellow. As if by magic, he pulled out a bottle of red pigment and whispered, ‘You’ve got to cooperate. Each time I whip you, you should scream, and you’ll need to show agony on your face too if you’re going to fool them.’ A look vaguely like love appeared on his face, and he used his shoulder to give Mengliu an intimate push as he quietly hid the paint.
‘Now we go on stage.’
‘On stage?’
‘Yes. Where I will whip you.’
Woodenly, Mengliu followed Sama out of the room. The frozen lake was smooth as a mirror, with the light of the sun reflecting off it in a surreal glare. His dazzled eyes could barely adapt to the landscape around him. He hung his head as he walked. The cracks between the stones underfoot made him dizzy. Lashing? At first he thought this was a good word, that they wanted to encourage him. When he saw the bamboo cane, he understood it to be a whipping, like they might do to animals. But that wasn’t anything very different. Once you’ve landed in the hands of people who’ll use any means to control you, it doesn’t really matter what they call it. ‘Yes, the place where you will be beaten.’ He thought the effeminate tone sounded like it was describing a place where peach blossoms were in bloom, a place full of beauty and longing. But that was true enough too, since bruises would soon blossom across his back. If the cane was equipped with metal hooks, the blossoms would mature into rotted fruit. Perhaps his innards would gush out, flowing from his body. When this came to mind, he became unusually calm. He did not intend to accept Sama’s kindness, and to emit shrill screams to fake his pain. That sort of idea insulted a dignified man greatly. He hoped he would lose consciousness in a moving and tragic way with the first stroke, leaving his body to its fate. He really wished Qizi could see the scene, a poet enduring a beating without uttering the slightest groan.
They crossed a stone bridge. A lake. A forest. During the days of confinement Mengliu had grown accustomed to talking to himself, and now he was chattering all along the way.
‘A lost decade. My fiancée. She’s alive. I know she’s been alive all this time…She couldn’t come back, couldn’t get in touch with me, couldn’t find me. She knows I’m waiting for her. You don’t think so? Why would you say that? Do you know what love is? Everyone plays around a bit, but other than that? When disaster strikes…What Jia Wan said was right. He told me not to go out that night, that something big was going down…If I’d gone to warn her instead of collapsing into a deep sleep at home…The reason I didn’t go with them to the court was not because of cowardice… it’s because I really didn’t know, and I really didn’t believe that kind of thing would happen…no one believed it. They were innocent as doves…Now they’re lost to the sky…’
He stopped Sama for a moment, wanting him to talk about the time he had found the notebook, who the dead person was, why he had died, and where he had lived, but Sama didn’t know. Curious why a small book could be of such interest to his idol, Sama said, ‘We often find dead foreigners in the forest.’
They soon reached their destination. The theatre was completely empty.
The curtain opened. The backdrop on the stage was of a dark cell, its wall painted with angry script. A spotlight fell on it, illuminating a ladder, over which was draped a rope, the props for a flogging. The spotlight swept to stage left. There was an old narrow table, on which was a pen and paper, and a vase of unopened rosebuds.
Backstage, Mengliu was changed into a white frog suit, then moved toward the ladder, under the dim sleepy dust swirling in the lighted air around him. He turned his back to the empty seats in the theatre. There was a hole in his clothing, exposing his bare back, buttocks, and hips. He was like a wooden puppet going through an out-of-body experience. Under Sama’s guidance he faced the ladder, arms straight and legs splayed, and allowed himself to be tied to the rungs. Sama patted his buttocks several times, then pinched, testing their elasticity and firmness to determine how much force to use as he swung his cane. Undoubtedly flogging was an art. The whip in hand and the interior of the mind had to work in unison to generate the right amount of pain without causing death. Sama understood what it took to create just such a masterpiece.
As he checked the bonds on
his idol’s hands, Sama asked softly, ‘Does it hurt? Is it too tight?’
Mengliu moved slightly, and Sama was almost in tears, thrilled at being in such close contact with his idol. Finally, he leaned into Mengliu’s ear and said, ‘You look even more attractive than the crucified Christ. Remember to cooperate. You have to scream, okay?’
Everything was ready. Sama elegantly lashed the ground with his cane, and a resounding thwack stirred up the dust.
A band sounded from the back of the stage, an ensemble of erhu, yueqin and a three-stringed lute.
After a moment the plaintive music stopped. Sama directed all his strength to his belly and squeezed out some lines from a play in a strange tone:
‘My most loved and respected poet, before you endure the scourge of my rod would you like to change your mind?’ The last word was uttered in a heavy tone, shrill and trembling. At this moment, the erhu grew articulate in its accusing tones. Sama ran his hand along the cane, applying red pigment to it. ‘Now I ask you in the name of the spiritual leader of Swan Valley, regarding your Swan Song – will you or will you not write it?’ He pointed his finger with an actress’s hand gesture, a classic pose made on stage to show delicacy and grace.
Mengliu’s chin rested on the rung of the ladder. He was unable to move, and his eyes stared straight ahead. ‘I swear by my fiancée, you can give up…you’re all crazy!’ He matched Sama’s tone.
Turning to face the audience, Sama laughed. Not without irony, he announced, ‘He says that for the sake of a woman he will…’ He turned back again. ‘Oh? So this woman, what sort of extraordinary person is she?’