Death Fugue

by Sheng Keyi

  ‘He wrote that book…I knew it was his writing style! But… does that mean that all along Swan Valley has been a product of your ideas?’ Mengliu stammered. ‘Wh…where is Hei Chun? I want to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m afraid that will be a little difficult.’ She pointed to a table on the podium. ‘He is in the urn over there. For him, after finishing The Principles of Genetics, a life of the flesh was superfluous. It was his own choice.’

  ‘He…you…you two…’ Mengliu feared his head would explode.

  ‘How is Shunyu’s father now? Does he still manage the Green Flower?’ She chatted as she operated on her prostheses, calmly and skilfully.

  ‘The tavern was seized. He was sent to prison…’

  ‘Prison huh? What crime did he commit?’ She stopped the action of her hands. Her speech filled with emotion.

  ‘There was a bunch of charges. Harbouring known criminals, escorting insurgents, participating in subversion…He died during the second year of his imprisonment. I don’t know how he died. No one could tell me…’

  One of the artificial legs rattled and dropped to the ground.

  She clicked a remote control and the electronic screens all flashed on again, creating a mess of fluorescence that flickered across her confused face, but the sadness in her eyes remained cold and bright.

  ‘He is your biological father.’

  ‘Yes. When I found out, it was too late.’ He picked up the prosthesis and handed it back to her. ‘I didn’t get a last chance to see him. And there were no ashes left…’ His voice grew lower, finally sinking all the way to the ground.

  She turned and reattached the artificial leg.

  ‘Did you bring your xun?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  She looked at him, then moved the wheelchair beside him and reached out and took the xun from his pocket.

  ‘Play a tune,’ she ordered, but it also sounded like a plea.

  From the flawless accuracy of her action he knew she remembered their past, and it warmed his heart. It surged up in him. He could not refuse her order, or request. And right at this moment his confused heart also needed a release valve.

  He kneaded the xun with both hands then, without thinking, played ‘The Pain of Separation’.

  The cylindrical hall was like a giant speaker. The mysterious deep tune, fluctuating between regret and mourning, seemed to spread out and fill the universe. In every corner of the world creatures listened to the music. They moaned, they howled, they lamented, they cried, and then they were silent.

  Ah Lian Qiu slowly stood up from her chair. She struck the keys on her remote like a skilled typist, commanding the movement of her legs, the bending of her knees, her walk, and then her standing still, all in fluid motions. It was hard to tell they were prosthetics, but the mechanical rhythm of her legs could not be completely disguised, so that in the end she resembled a lifelike robot.

  ‘There are two things that made your father proud,’ she said, as if preparing to see a visitor off. ‘One was your poetry, the other was the feeling in your playing of the xun. He planned to let the backlash from the demonstrations blow over, then sit down and have a good drink with you.’

  ‘Maybe he would be ashamed that I didn’t stay by your side and protect you.’

  ‘No. The one you needed to protect was Shunyu, your half-sister. I had the whole square, the whole of Beiping – the whole crowd of people waiting for the truth – to protect me.’ Her voice grew rich with pride.

  ‘Qizi?’ He wanted desperately to do something to dissolve the distance between them, and thought that recalling the memory of the earliest stages of their acquaintance might be the best way. ‘I remember the interrogation room. You said you were developing a mysterious machine…At the time I laughed to myself, thinking it was impossible.’ He paused, suddenly alarmed. He looked at the lake and saw what looked like a tornado in the sky above it. ‘But you did it.’

  Ah Lian Qiu’s nostrils flared as she sneered, ‘I am the spiritual leader of Swan Valley, Ah Lian Qiu.’

  ‘Qizi?’

  ‘I am the spiritual leader of Swan Valley, Ah Lian Qiu.’

  ‘You’ve become a stranger…’

  ‘Power, beauty, physical torture – you’ve withstood them all. You refused to write poetry. You have proved yourself a poet. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I want to take you away. You can’t stay here. Death is spreading through Swan Valley. It’s over…’

  ‘Leave? Where would I go? Back to your motherland? Ha!’ Her wild laughter stopped suddenly. ‘Go back? Tell her, only when she chooses the most beautiful spring, when the red rose blooms, when she walks the truest path with the most sincere attitude, and admits her wrongs to me! Admits it to everyone! Admits it to the whole world!’

  She left him angrily, walking to the podium with a mechanical but swift pace. She picked up a red cloth from the table and expertly wrapped it around her head. She took up the remote control in her hand, then as she walked, she recited the old poem ‘Hunger Strike’, as if an audience of countless people were listening. ‘On sunny days, we are on a hunger strike…’

  When her recitation reached its climax, she took a stack of paper from the drawer and tossed it skyward, as if scattering pamphlets. Her tone suddenly rose.

  ‘…Democracy is life’s highest form of existence. Freedom is an eternal, inherent right. Everyone has the right to know the truth…’

  The leaves of paper fell. Mengliu picked one up. It was a page from the manuscript of Hei Chun’s Principles of Genetics. It was exactly the section he was familiar with.

  ‘To reconstruct the Roman Republic or the early emperor-governed Rome is possible. To achieve this goal, we must have people of courage and genius to constitute the ruling class…We do not need the common public to participate in politics…the contest between nations is only a contest between the quality of their people. It is a battle of knowledge. Therefore, to have a rich and powerful population one must begin with its genes…We will create a new society not because we are better than others, but because we are simple people with simple human needs – for air and light, health and honour, and for freedom and the highest spiritual pursuits. Our impartial behaviour is innate…The excellent and new nation of Swan Valley, in a few years’ time, we will demand the world’s attention.’

  Qizi’s voice rolled on, ‘Farewell, parents! Please forgive me. Your child cannot serve two masters. Farewell, citizens! Please allow us to serve you in this unusual manner…’

  As quickly as he could, Mengliu scrambled to collect the scattered manuscript. He had caught a glimpse of the value and weight of the work. It was Hei Chun’s vision. He had a responsibility to compile and publish it. And he had a great desire to read it.

  Qizi finished her recitation with the shouting of a few slogans. Then, as if she had suddenly discovered Mengliu was there, she shouted at him, ‘You! How did you get here? Quickly, go back! Go back and wait for me!’ She opened the door of the hall with her remote control.

  Startled for a moment, he bent over and picked up more pages. He thought, I’ve agitated her with my appearance, and that’s caused her to escape into the past, and now she is unable to return to the present.

  ‘I’m not alone. I’ve got a lot of people here with me. Everyone is with me…You? You still haven’t gone?’

  Seeing that he did not move, she pulled out a gun. ‘Get out of here now!’

  His heart pumped violently. ‘Qizi…calm down,’ he said.

  She fired a shot, shattering the big electronic screen.

  Like the barrel of the gun, her gaze was now pointed right at him.

  He saw that she was trapped inside her fantasy.

  He walked slowly out through the doorway.

  In the icy air Mengliu realised that he had perspired a great deal in the room, though he was not sure whether it was because he was hot or because of fear. He was cold now, and his wet clothes clung to his skin. His heart tightened.
He looked at the mess of papers clenched in his hand. For a moment he couldn’t remember that this was Hei Chun’s manuscript.

  He hastily straightened the papers, rolled them up, and concealed them in his clothing. He found Suitang near the column. He suddenly heard a series of muffled explosions inside it, and felt the rumble under his feet. Looking up, he saw smoke billowing from the top, growing thicker by the moment.

  In a confusion of anxiety he shouted out Qizi’s name as he searched for the door. He banged on the wall as he ran around the column.

  The flow of smoke from the chimney grew stronger. The wall was hot to the touch.

  What was the password…Open sesame…pineapples…He shouted a confused flow of incantations, his feet and hands running rapidly around and across the wall. The bricks remained steadfast and unmoved.

  Suitang seemed to come from nowhere, she grabbed Mengliu’s hand and they bolted.

  They had only run about ten paces when they heard a noise behind them so loud it threw their bodies to the ground. A wave of heat swept over their heads. Their hair felt like it had been singed. Sediment rained down on them until they were both buried in debris.

  Mengliu slowly pulled himself up and looked back. The cylindrical building had collapsed, and was burning in a chaos of smoke and fire.

  A page of manuscript drifted down from the sky. Catching it, Mengliu read:

  white doves have taken our eyes away

  and people are left with hungry tongues

  in a domain buried in silence

  where thorn-like arms wave

  nothing in the world that exists

  is higher than you

  in this land, on this soil

  you are equal to the storm

  the sun itself may be imprisoned

  and the death bell will toll

  resistance will alter your face

  lightning will pierce the sealed horizon

  silence is despicable

  oh children! exalt your spirits

  a mother has put on her dark shroud

  and nobly welcomes a dawn

  as bright as death

  Epilogue

  A banquet had been arranged on a cruise boat in Beiping. It had just gotten dark, and the boat was moored on the lake beside the moon. The lake’s glittering surface extended to the barely distinguishable shore in the distance. The lights of houses could vaguely be seen. The cabin of the boat was like a small auditorium decked out for a celebrity performance seasoned with literature and art. Jazz and the smell of fruit juice mingled with the taste of champagne. The gathering swelled, evening gowns swished, voices bubbled, the sound of intimate conversation produced the inevitably dull buzz of a party.

  Mengliu leant against a window, looking apathetic, depressed and weary. It seemed as if he had not quite awakened from sleep. His biological clock had been a mess. He had only just established his own pattern of day and night, operating according to his own laws. Over the years a quiet voice like a Jedi’s constant meditations had run in the back of his mind, reciting Hei Chun’s poetry, and causing his mind to be in a constant state of tension.

  ‘Lightning will pierce the sealed horizon…silence is despicable…’

  He was wearing an archaic navy blue robe with flat black shoes. After returning from his years of travels, he had adopted this eccentric dress, and his speech had taken on a more discrete and elegant character, as he talked of Plato or Epicurus’s garden city, playing the part of the poet on all occasions. Everyone has the right to self-correction. There is no shame in it. Theodor Adorno said that after Auschwitz poetry was impossible, but he later changed his views. If such a great philosopher could deny his earlier position, then Mengliu felt he had strong support. He continued to write poetry now, but for some reason he couldn’t publish it. For a true poet publication is not always the motive. He edited a national poetry journal, which collected a variety of voices, and he printed poetry in books to be read only by those who needed them. He knew what he was doing. He wasn’t interested in happiness, or perhaps he thought this was happiness. His passion for women had not subsided, but he had renounced the world of frivolity and promiscuity, and now showed a heartfelt appreciation and respect for them instead.

  It was an eclectic gathering of beauties clad in revealing evening dresses, elbows tucked to their sides to display their white necks and cleavage to the best advantage. The Mengliu from long ago would have already succeeded in his conquest, and would be whispering to a girl in some private corner. But now he just stared over his wine glass, squeezed into a space in his own mind in a corner by the window, acting cool while appreciating the subtleties of his own heart.

  He still remembered drinking the fisherwoman’s leicha, sailing to the middle of the lake, suddenly being shaken by waves, then looking up over his arm where his sleeping head had lain at the fierce tornado and the black hole…After losing consciousness, he had found himself in a place called Swan Valley…He was sure he had lived there for a long time. It was a thrilling experience, full of wonderfully romantic times. He had finally found Qizi, and this time she had really gone. He missed the place, and Juli, and Yuyue…

  Presently, the waiter came over and asked if he needed more wine. He nodded and handed over his glass.

  Still, what was hard to understand was how he had woken to find himself again in the sailboat. The setting sun seemed to prove that he had just been in a deep sleep. The night was coming on. When he rowed the boat back to the village, the sky was dark and the fisherwoman and her husband were waiting for him by the lake with a lantern. They said they thought a monster from the lake had caught him and carried him away. He stayed the night, and while they ate, the couple told him of the monster’s doings, how it hunted people during storms and carried them off…

  Outside the window, the lake shimmered. Not far off, a small boat was moored. A red lantern hung from the front of its canopy. There were people in the boat chatting and playing the xun in soft tones.

  At eight, Mengliu began to feel it was the middle of the night. The party had just begun. He knew nothing about the occasion, having been dragged along by his wife. Marrying Suitang had been the natural thing to do. He didn’t need to think much about why he should marry her. He was in a sleepwalker’s trance, and felt that everything was an illusion. Known and unknown thinkers and professors, experts and scholars, black-, silver-, blonde- or white-haired, they were all a blur before him. As they shimmered, he saw their mouths move in conversation, but he couldn’t quite hear what they said.

  This was the first time he’d met Qizi’s legendary ex-boyfriend Dadong, the fellow who had blown himself up mixing chemicals when he was manufacturing fake antiques. His hair was already white. He had a puffy face and a singular ebony pipe dangling from his mouth. He was a real expert on antiques. He had established a name for himself in the field, and earnt a fortune, so now he wanted to ‘try his hand at running a film company’.

  Dadong had invited everyone to his party, mostly because preparations were complete for his company’s debut film. It was called Death Fugue, and they were about to go to an island to begin shooting.

  He presented a short teaser, indicating that the film was mainly a solemn commemoration of and reflection on ‘the Tower Incident.’ It would not exclude his personal feelings toward Qizi. In fact, that could be said to be an important feature of the project.

  ‘If our generation continues to remain silent, this whole incident will be erased.’

  Because of Yuan Mengliu’s close relationship with the central figures in ‘the Tower Incident’, Qizi, Hei Chun and the others, they had asked him to serve as the film’s literary advisor and had confirmed this with a letter of appointment. Mogen was responsible for the screenplay – he no longer showed traces of the beaten-up pained spirit Jia Wan’s betrayal had occasioned in him. Dadong and Mogen shook hands with Mengliu, and talked about the past with the enthusiasm of survivors.

  Then everyone sat in their allocated seats as
Suitang presided over a forum on ‘artistic freedom and urban violence.’ She had retired from her career as an anaesthetist and, taking up the mantle of poetry, had become a leader in Dayang’s ‘retro genre’ movement.

  ‘To free a person’s thought from a benevolent authority isn’t easy, because this sort of freedom requires one to walk away from the comfortable and alluring contexts bestowed by the authority, and to question the authority itself.

  ‘The past should not be forgotten. Sometimes art is the only means by which we may find out the truth, and the only tool flexible enough for its communication. Some may think that freedom of expression depends upon one’s environment, but I want to say to all poets and writers and artists that the environment shouldn’t be the real issue. The real environment is in your mind. If you have a flame in your heart, then you can make any kind of water boil. If you have enough talent you can find the secret path to freedom.’

  Her voice, amplified to fill the room, was brimming with an embellished beauty.

  Sheng Keyi was born in Hunan province in China in 1973 and now lives in Beijing. Death Fugue is her sixth and most recent novel, and the second, after Northern Girls, to be published in English translation. She has also written four collections of short stories. Highly regarded in China, her work has been translated into German, Korean, Japanese and Dutch.

  Shelly Bryant lives in Singapore and Shanghai, working as a teacher, writer, researcher, and translator. She has translated two previous works of fiction by Sheng Keyi, Northern Girls and Fields of White, for Penguin Books, as well as titles for Epigram Publishing, the National Library Board in Singapore and Rinchen Books. She is the author of six volumes of poetry, and travel guides to the cities of Suzhou and Shanghai.

  The translation and publication of this novel in English has been made possible by the generosity of Mr William Chiu, through a philanthropic gift to the University of Western Sydney Foundation Trust.