‘Mr Yuan, you don’t look good. Is something wrong?’ Esteban’s voice didn’t hold concern for Mengliu’s person, though he seemed interested in the cause of his discomfort.
‘Sorry, I’m just allergic to pollen.’ Mengliu recovered, pretended to sneeze, and tears started to form in his eyes.
Esteban turned up the corners of his mouth, putting on a smile that seemed to indicate an insight into how things really were.
Mengliu guessed that the other man must have seen through his lie. It wasn’t that difficult, really. After all, he hadn’t had any problem with the pollen at Su Juli’s house.
Esteban continued to walk at a leisurely pace, as if he were deliberately torturing his companion. He picked a flower, curled his upper lip, placed it beneath his nose, and took a long sniff at it.
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Mengliu continued with an affected casualness, ‘It’s not an allergy to every kind of flower. I’m not even sure which flowers are my natural enemies. It might not be just one kind, but perhaps a combination of several kinds. I haven’t been tested…But it’s nothing serious, just an allergy. It’s not a big deal.’
Esteban lifted the edge of his robe and strode across a gully. ‘From what I know, allergies are the body’s exaggerated reaction to stimulation. Of course, that also includes mental stimulation.’ He stood across from Mengliu, looking at him with stormy eyes.
Just then the raccoon-like child jumped out of the forest in front of them. He stood in the middle of the path, hair strewn with petals and body covered in pollen. In his right hand he held a long stick, sharpened to a point. A fire wheel made out of green bristle grass wound around his left elbow. He wore an expression of superiority.
‘Shanlai, did you go to see the peonies?’ Esteban asked.
‘Yes, the peonies have really opened up now. Those fellows are really plump,’ Shanlai answered.
Before long, Mengliu came across ‘those fellows’ that Shanlai had mentioned. There were worms on the peonies. The ‘peony silkworms’ were Esteban’s innovation, the result of a breeding method he had discovered. Their silk was very strong, able to withstand fire, radiation, even bullets. It was lightweight and warm. And it retained the smell of the peonies themselves.
It was hard to believe that Esteban could be credited with this discovery, but such a thing should not have been surprising in Swan Valley. There was no distinction between farmers and intellectuals here. Every farmer was himself an intellectual, and every intellectual was also a farmer or a craftsman. Everyone was a manual labourer and a thinker. Occupational discrimination did not exist. Everyone was equal. They advocated learning, and focused on nurturing a comprehensive sort of intelligence. One didn’t just become an expert in nails and screws, or understand a specialised, one-dimensional field of knowledge, while remaining an idiot in all other fields. In Swan Valley, there was no monopoly on a profession or authority. They had none of that so-called authority crap, where everyone had to listen like a fool, and take notes, without the ability to doubt or object.
The bulletproof peony silk made Mengliu think of artillery. The peony silkworms were manufacturing munitions for the citizens of Swan Valley. There was no need to pay them a salary or provide them with benefits or accommodation. There was no risk of these workers engaging in processions, protests, strikes, or violating law and discipline. The life of the silkworm ended when it stopped creating silk. From birth to death, they were the most law-abiding citizens in the world. He thought of Dayang’s vast area and abundant resources, with so much land available to cultivate not just peonies, but chrysanthemums, peach blossoms, pear blossoms, lilies…assuming everyone wore silk made from worms living on these flowers, thin as the wings of a cockroach, they would all be invulnerable, and their personal safety, and their quality of life, greatly improved. They would even have time to spend researching the use of Chinese herbal medicines to feed the silkworms, and then who could say what sorts of cures they might come up with for all manner of diseases. It would drop a bomb on the medical profession. They could apply for a scientific patent for the findings. A Nobel Prize would be given, and a legacy would be born.
The two men made their way out of the orchard and across a terraced field where some girls were picking tea.
They were still wary of one another. They had nothing in common to talk about.
Women’s voices raised in song wafted over to them. The bright clean voices melted the clouds and dispersed the mist.
‘I’m sorry. We’ve missed the planting ceremony. They’ve already started,’ Esteban said.
Girls dressed in red and green were lined up in rows across a paddy field, singing as they planted. Their hands rose and fell, quick and smooth, with a steady whooshing rhythm. The splashing produced a metallic sound.
Esteban said, ‘Rice isn’t the main crop. In Swan Valley planting is a leisure activity — please note that, it is for leisure. These ‘farmers’ are teachers, musicians, songwriters…They’re not the sort of farmers who toil with their faces to the earth and backs to the sky. You can enjoy beauty and art in their labour, and in their happy lives. It’s not just toil, and they are neither poor nor ignorant.’
Dayang had a lot of people who spent their lives being neither warm nor well-fed. They were only half alive. They had no money, and even when they died, they had to pay out of their arses to clear their debts. The demarcation between rural and urban brought with it discrimination, prejudice, injury, and all sorts of harmful consequences. All of these were compressed, hidden in the silent spaces of individual fate.
Reclining against a mound of earth and chewing on a stalk of grass, Mengliu asked the raccoon, ‘Shanlai, what grass does the lion eat? I hear that the grass lions chew on has healing properties.’
The little creature had grabbed a handful of clay and was sculpting a portrait of someone. It looked a little like Esteban’s silhouette. He answered, ‘It’s hard to say what kind of grass lions like. There are lots of different kinds of grass in Swan Valley — Kentucky bluegrass, tall fescue, perennial ryegrass, Bermuda grass, bent grass, white clover, red clover, weeping lovegrass, Bahia grass, creeping dichondra…some kinds of grass don’t even have names. The lion has to nibble on hundreds of them, and maybe the miraculous healing power comes from the mixture.’ The creature paused, then went on, ‘You’re a doctor. You should learn from the legendary farmer god, testing hundreds of types of grass to find a way to cure sick people. If you keep thinking about reaping without sowing, you’ll just be a good-for-nothing.’
Mengliu spat out the grass. ‘That would be going back to barbarism. If all the good doctors went up into the mountains and started trying herbs together, then all that sick people could do would be to sit and wait for death. Moreover, hospitals have set procedures and a certain mode of operation. A single person can’t be picking herbs and handling pharmaceuticals, as well as seeing patients and performing surgery…That’s not practical.’
‘What I’m talking about is the spirit of the legendary farmer god. The spirit, you understand?’ The boy finished sculpting the nose, picked up his work, and took a closer look, as if lecturing the face he had created. ‘What you lack is “spirit.” You can’t even discover the vast majority of illnesses, and when you discover an illness, you can’t find a cure. For the illnesses you can cure, the patient has to wait a long time for you to treat them. With difficulty, he finally takes a number, then when he gets to see you at last, you don’t even take the pains to cure him. Sometimes the cure comes just because the patient has endured the disease and let it run its course so the body can heal itself. But when the patient recovers, you get the credit for curing him. When they die, well, you’ve done your best. So it seems like doctors don’t do anything.’