by Lu Min
Come on, let's dance, too. She refused to remain a wallflower, making a move in Danqing's direction. She had big eyes, yet they weren't naive or reflective of pain past. He took constant retakes as if nearsighted, as if afflicted with blurry vision. However he could tell she had on lipstick, which seemed luxurious and ceremonious, but simultaneously imbued with its aggressive hue.
A military compound…assertive…these phrases vaguely flashed through his brain, and with no time to think of anything else, he accepted her hand and headed for the dance floor. The floor boards complained and vulgar music blared, but Danqing truly felt that when they took their first momentous step together, everything around them glittered like gold! He clumsily stepped to the beat, limbs erect, like a cripple pushing around a prosthesis-but could there have been a cripple in the world as lucky as he was?
My name's Si Jia. She raised her head gracefully, saying what sounded to be a translation as she circled around Danqing in undulations-he was holding her hand, stiffly shifting like the pivot point of a sundial.
Dancing is my favorite sport now-the full-body movement, how everything spins around. You know what? I could even dance a stellar waltz with a mop handle!
The other guys were probably chatting along with their dance partners, but Danqing wouldn't have heard any of it. His focus was locked on the space between he and his partner-and the air, a thin air which separated their nicely warm bodies-such an insignificant yet eternally insurmountable space that prevented all bodily contact. Danqing suddenly thought of a joke he once heard: an old man was selling candy and he asked a drooling child next to him, You want some? The child shook his head and said, I really don't want to have some. That's right-being so close to a young woman, you actually have to think this way: don't hold or hug, don't touch…
He made the most stimulating score. Just concentrating on his hands could have driven him crazy. It was his first time holding a young woman's hand for so long. Si Jia's hand was so small and smooth, that he feared he'd lose grip…and to add to the challenge, she alternated between having their palms together and apart, their fingers intertwined or with her hand cupped his, from loose to tight fists that touched together 3…Wow! Can the other young men feel it? It's so stimulating-like prose read right out of a book…
They did on occasion exchange some words, but they came out a bit stiff. It's good that she liked talking about her height (Why that would be, I wouldn't know.) She said she likes ice skating and plays a keyboard sometimes. Without the slightest apprehension she criticized Danqing's skin color and hair, then suddenly satirized a classmate, all without giving it a thought. Humph! He doesn't have a beard yet! He doesn't have even the slightest bit of muscle! That callow boy annoys me the most! I like, yeah…older men-a lot older men…old men, even…
She seemed to be speaking for dramatic effect, with furrowed brows and nervous lips. Danqing had never before run into a young woman with such an unbridled and bemusing style. He admitted to himself that even if she didn't have any physically stimulating traits, her personality alone would have captivated him.
They heated up as they danced. At that point the other young women took off their jackets, too. Their hand-woven, common sweaters, though nothing amazing to look at, stirred the heart on such a candle-lit night. The young men got even more riled up and rushed to take off their winter jackets. There was one guy, that is, the master of the house, who revealed a tie from under his jacket, looking quite handsome…everyone poured glasses of wine with great formality, clinking their glasses together and blowing rings of smoke. Si Jia and another young woman also had cigarettes that someone lit. They very rarely smoked, but did it just to hold it and pose as a smoker, billowing out cloud after cloud. But it somehow made her look like a spy or a social butterfly of some sort. In conclusion, the atmosphere was nasty, and like the smell that veiled the interior, it was choking and intoxicating.
They went back to dancing after a short break.
Because young women were in the minority, some young men on the sidelines from the last dance got up for another round, jumping into the women's embrace…some of the women feigned complaints, huffing and puffing: Can't you see we're tired? You get a regular break, but we're going nonstop! Geez!
Just listen to these exciting words! It was as if montage of going up in turns had some vague, maddening "badness" about it-the young women dancing nonstop and the young men swapping! Swapping-what a shocking way to play!
In conclusion, Danqing had to step out around and watch another man hold Si Jia for a dance. Danqing sat on the sideline watching and gritting his teeth in particular dislike for the young man replacing him, the one who offered his place and was even wearing a tie…
To appease himself, Danqing simply re-evaluated Si Jia in detail. Her form was particularly upright, as if she were a limp marionette pulled up by a wire. Her sweater was just about too tight, and on every dance you could see slight jiggles in her chest and waves undulating under her sweater…her lower limbs were agile, alone and helpless, acting in concert with her hips and behind, forming every kind of uniquely gorgeous angle and posture…
Danqing subconsciously let his hand seek out some paper and a pencil in his pocket-he picked up this habit from a young art department teacher's assistant who was smartly suave, but Danqing rarely had the opportunity nor courage to do it himself. Though inspired to have a go, he still knew his current skill level wouldn't fully catch the sense of Si Jia's limbs and grace-aye, he wouldn't catch but a meager trace of her. But what could he do? He couldn't just let it all fly by-it was too beautiful, too rare-and when would such a golden opportunity come to his way again?
Danqing held his breath, feigning experience as he sketched, working out the lines, the calves, the chest and neck…
[4]
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. It wasn't a loud knock, but it had a serious tone.
The master of the house dropped Si Jia's hands and went to the door. When he opened it, a dried-up and frail middle-aged woman stood at the threshold. She carefully stretched her leg inside, using her hand to lightly fan away a noseful of smoke, carefully sizing up the grand circle of young men and women. Some of the young women were wearing bright red skirts, which particularly caught her attention, as if she were a seamstress studying another's handiwork. She then went so far as to find the shut-off light on the ceiling, her eyes pausing over the candles and crepe flowers-and also things like butts on the floor and wine on the window sill. It was a long process, and moreover her facial expression, the mirror image of a botched portrait, was unusually abstract. I'm from the neighborhood committee. We just got a report from a resident that there's a lot of noise up here…Tisk, tisk. Just who are all of you? Isn't this Party Secretary Li's house?
So what? I am Secretary Li's son…Having Christmas in my own home and a little dance with our college friends-Why would I have to report this to you, ma'am? With young women as an audience, the student put on a good show of his tough attitude. He had bubble gum in his mouth which was lightly floating between the rows of his teeth.
Well, in that case fine, you can keep going, but don't be a nuisance. Keep the noise level down. She'd changed her mind in what seemed like a split second, retracting her leg, and disappearing without a trace. Why would this seemingly impossible woman suddenly turn into a child, for whom just a sucker'd suffice to shut up?
Ah forget it. Let's not spoil the good mood. Let's keep it going!
Like a refrain after a rest, everyone acted with a victorious lack of restraint, lifting their wine glasses in succession and slamming down glasses of ice-cold wine. Someone changed the tape over to dance music, getting everyone to start twisting their hips. Wow, that feels good, working your butt down with all you've got-a little to the left, a little to the right, and a little to the front and back. Hard, harder! Go to the extreme! Is winter still here? Why'd anyone still be wearing their winter coat? It's boiling-take it off…take it all off! Stripping down nude would feel even
better!
Danqing rested from the dance floor, scrambling for more paper, sketching out Si Jia's momentary form again. The way she twists is contagious-like a maniac, tossing her hair around, twisting her waist, sticking her chest out and swinging out her hip bone like that! Danqing's pencil was just about vibrating, and his ideas were impossible to put to paper. What a wonderful, convenient coincidence that he'd learned a sketching trick or two and could eke out a little souvenir for Si Jia…
The dancing left all the guys and gals exhausted and burning hot. The music stopped, and everyone spread out in all directions looking for a place to rest.
They all went into the side and back rooms. They all wanted to air themselves out-the young men grouped up and untucked their cotton and wool shirts, and the young women, also staying together, tucked their hair up high.
Si Jia stayed in the living room, stroking her warm hair sticking on her temples and stripping down more without a care in the world. Under her sweater was a cotton, collarless button-up shirt with a sweet pink color like you'd find in a warmly-toned nude portrait.
Whatcha doing? She came up close and cozy, grabbing Danqing's paper to fan herself. She suddenly stopped herself short.
Well look at what we have here…you're an artist! Are you a Dadaist? An animist? A cubist? Then she impressively dropped the names of several renowned painters, showing that when it came to art she wasn't completely ignorant. She bolstered her tone almost sarcastically when she talked, but there was a hint of admiration in her facial expression. What was on her mind? It could have been something else altogether. Danqing was completely at a loss as she wiped off sweat and perused his drawings with what was possibly a smile on her face.
Danqing was thoroughly ashamed of his hastily doodled, crude lines and vague body parts, which not only looked foreign to art, but boldly provoked a perverse interpretation instead…he held the pencil firmly in his fingers, seeing her body like a ball of fire, dangerously rolling towards him. In a flash and an extreme confusion like a free-fall through the clouds, every image or phrase he'd seen about sex came charging at him like an unbridled horse that would quickly trample him to pieces. He pathetically reached out to Si Jia, possibly reaching for those shameful sketches-or to that place, ever pink…
Execution Night
[1]
This is our last goodbye, Danqing-my son! I'd have never believed it that we, father and son, would ever be permanently separated like this.
There's a deafening clamor in the streets right now. It's a thundering, threatening event the likes of which haven't been seen here in quite some time, I'd guess. There's a crowd, huge and ecstatic, that's come out to watch on as criminals are punished in public. It stretches from Xinjiekou all the way past Shuixi Gate 4, which is where you're going to be executed. Keeping up with these highly consequential developments, the PA system keeps repeating the same news, with a male announcer broadcasting a script: "Relevant authorities aim to resolutely implement 'The Chinese Communist Party Politburo's Decision Concerning the Strict Punishment of Criminal Offenses', in a grave, rapid and severe manner, striving for 'visible results in two years, improved conditions in three years, ensuring public security and the fundamental amelioration of our social atmosphere…" His voice is truly pleasing to the ear. It's justified, collected, and has a penetrating tone. But this is the voice announcing your death sentence. "…The offender, a nineteen year-old male named Lu Danqing, is guilty of committing (along with his accomplices) gang promiscuity on the twenty-fourth of December, 1983, subjecting in a grave plot and with deleterious social consequence an underage woman to rape…it has been determined by the court to be hooliganism 5in flagrante delicto, deserving the sentence of death, slated for immediate implementation, and the permanent negation of all political rights…"
Your mother is in the other room crying and biting the corner of a blanket, keeping the noise suppressed in her belly like a whimpering animal.
This moment…is heavy as a boulder. The two of us can do nothing but sit at home like this and wait…wait for your image and death pronouncement to be projected onto a big screen-and wait start mourning your evanescent life. Due to the stigma of the crime, our family and friends can't easily visit or call us, but for this we're thankful in our hearts. Including the neighbors circling around to avoid us, the students lowering their heads pretending not to see, and the slow, tactful words of professors-we're exceedingly forgiving and grateful for all of it. I'll venture a guess: this behavior of theirs is not due to hating or discriminating against you, but rather being at a loss for how to approach me and talk about you-or even about what happened with you. The best empathy, we've found, is for them to drop the issue.
In twenty minutes-no, only eighteen-you'll be gone. The dead and living will each find their proper place. What's there to say? How ridiculous it is that all I can think to do is struggle to remember how you looked as a baby taking a bath, laying in the wooden tub all sparkly white and chubby, babbling goo-goo ga-ga, with your fat, tender fingers splashing up water! In a flash you're grown up, yet in another flash, you're marked for death. How can I be expected to abandon you-I'm not even old yet!
Danqing, my child. You know that dad was always a materialist, but it's been too cruel to keep that faith these days. I can't let you disappear without a trace into the vacuum of materialism, without one strand of hair left. I'd rather believe there's a soul, reincarnation, and a next life. This way, it seems like you still exist in some place. This way I can still eat normally, teach my students, and even watch TV and read books.
However, reincarnation brings up other vexing issues. For example the bodiless souls of criminals cannot pass Naraka Bridge (Naraka means hell in Sanskrit), while the good are allowed over without question-how will you make it over the bridge, my child? I'm really worried for you, but I know that as your crime is not so grave you won't fall into the abyss below. I never tell this to anyone because I'd be making a fool of myself. But I want to tell this to you on a personal level-no matter what it was that you did. Child, I believe you don't deserve the death penalty and that you'll certainly and safely pass.
Moreover, child, after passing Naraka Bridge, you'll see a five-flavored tea of forgetfulness 6, and they say that drinking it makes you forget all worldly affairs. Danqing my child, you must remember at all cost-don't drink it! No matter what, your dad will never abandon you, and surely you've no need to abandon us and leave without a trace. At nineteen years, your life has just begun, so why leave it all behind? Dad will always write letters for you like this, and telling you what's happening after your parting is the same as letting you stay alive among men. You'll always have someone to talk to in me…
Also, Danqing, even now I still don't know what in the world you did on Christmas night. From the time it happened to now, three months later, these three perilous months-my child, we only saw each other twice under strict supervision from the prison guards, and this left us without the slightest chance of having a real conversation. I couldn't interrogate you about what it was you did, ultimately, and how on earth it was that death had become a part of the equation…what a terrible nightmare! Things can never return to normal.
I'm sorry, son, but I can't continue writing. It's your mother's third time fainting, and I know it's almost 10:40…pretty much your time to "hit the road". It's as if a big hole was punched in my chest and howling winter winds are blowing into me and freezing me to the bone.
This is our last goodbye!
[2]
No dad, it's not scary; it's not as scary as you think. Things we don't understand like the universe, technology, being handicapped, and death tend to get exaggerated by casual observers.
I remember when I was little you took me for a walk and we came upon a blind child, and because I pitied him, I, out of my own weakness, started crying. I thought being unable to see all the colors in the rainbow, he'd be better off dead. But when I was done crying I actually saw out the corner of my eye that he was s
miling! He was touching a big balloon in his hands, and because he could feel a new texture on the balloon, he was happy as a clam.
So I'll put it this way: dearest father, now I'm just like that blind child. So don't feel sorry for me-I have a big balloon! It's as simple as basic math. I made a mistake, and then I died. Isn't everyone going to die? Who can say with certainty which way or which reason is best? The way anyone dies must often seem coincidental or preposterous, but ultimately, it must be an appropriate death…
I don't regret it, really. I've experienced the greatest beauty in the world, and it was this same beauty which finally determined my death.
In this moment, it's insignificant. I'm just sad for you and mom. The way my sentencing was worded, "gang promiscuity and rape of a female minor", surely gave you a big scare. It must have completely invalidated your honor and made it impossible to go outside the home or even just to talk to someone. I know you guys-especially you, dad-have always had a pristine image, made good examples for others and held up a high moral standard, like the way you walked around the library at dusk and reservedly greeted only those familiar with you with a nod…
Aye. If it were only just to let you be the way you are, I wish I'd died some other way!-like being run over and killed by a car, getting a cramp and drowning in a swimming pool, dying of malignant cancer, being accidentally killed by thieves-all in all, any way would have been better than then being executed with a shot to the head for "hooliganism". But what can you do? I so happen to be shamefully dead from committing a sleazy act, disgracing all the honor you ever had. So for the way I died, I give you my deepest apologies, and I offer you an apology deeper than death itself.