The public cafeteria was housed in a stand-alone building surrounded by a grey stone wall covered with carvings of animal figures, water buffaloes, dogs, birds, and goldfish. The door was propped open, and the windows had coloured wax drawings on their panes. The cafeteria wasn’t large, and had timber walls, floors, tables and chairs. The atmosphere was rustic and warm.
A stream of people wandered in and took their seats. Some poured rice wine from a large jug into smaller jugs, cups or bowls. When the food was served, there were buckwheat cakes, corn on the cob, cubes of jellied blood, sour fish soup, bacon, fruit salad, salmon, sushi, and rice dishes. Mengliu had learned the names for many of the dishes. He liked the buckwheat cakes and salmon. He had been hungry for some time, and he eagerly took up his chopsticks and was about to pick at the dishes. But no one else had moved to do the same. As it turned out, there was a ceremony to be observed before the meal.
A man who looked like a pastor took a small book from his breast pocket. His beard quivered as he cleared his throat, and began reading from his bible.
A young man beside Mengliu started playing a flute. It was a sparkling melody that brought to mind harvest festivities. The atmosphere was relaxed but dignified, and everyone spoke lightly as they ate. They were gentle and polite, and the sound of chopsticks striking against bowls was seldom heard. Some used a fork and knife. They conversed in Swanese, sometimes mixing in a bit of Chinese, such as the words for ‘soul’ and ‘reincarnation’ and the like. Their laughter too was typical of Swanese, used sparingly, with their merriment more evident in their soundless smiles. Occasionally there was a monosyllabic utterance, such as ‘eh’, ‘huh’, or ‘hey’. There were dozens of diners, but it wasn’t noisy or disorderly. Unlike Beiping, where restaurants were always full of a wanton clamour, everyone here ate and behaved moderately, with movements as careful as if they were meant for feeding a baby.
They discussed the soul and death, the spirit and its ideals. This was their version of small talk.
The raccoon-like child raised the question of the immortality of the soul. No one treated him like a child, and his question was taken seriously.
‘God started with the body and breath. When he put these two elements together, the soul came into existence. When a person dies, the spirit goes back to God, and the body to dust. The Bible never records anywhere that the soul lives on after leaving the body and walks about here and there. The soul or spirit cannot exist apart from God’s living power in the body,’ the man who looked like a reverend said.
The small fellow didn’t even blink as he looked at the speaker, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Suppose I have boards and nails, and I hammer the nails into the boards and make a box. I have three things — boards, nails and a box. If I take the nails out, I’ll only have boards and nails again. The box will be gone because the box only exists when the nails and boards have been brought together.’
The raccoon glanced at Esteban as if looking for encouragement or expecting praise, then carefully concluded, ‘The soul is a box.’
‘The soul is indeed a box,’ Esteban said, nodding in agreement. He commented that Shanlai would be a distinguished philosopher in the future then, changing the subject, said, ‘Now let us listen to the great poet’s thoughts.’
He turned to Mengliu and said graciously, ‘Mr Yuan, Buddhism teaches that there is reincarnation. What is your belief about life and death?’
Mengliu did not believe in reincarnation, but he could not deny that life was indeed a misery, and that both rich and poor endured suffering. When the mind became derailed, ideals vanished, then the spirit became an empty box, and no amount of talk could fill up this gigantic void. He did not want to lose face, so he began with the caution of a surgeon in an operating theatre.
‘Where there is life, there must be death. The Chinese philosopher Laozi says that every person must walk the path of life before he can attain immortality. Some people cling tightly to life, and they fear death. Sometimes, the value of life is to be found precisely in death. For some, beliefs are more important than life, and ideals greater than any individual. There’s an idiom, Some things are worth dying for. For example, there’s justice, enlightenment, democracy, freedom, and so on. That would be the best way to understand life and death…’
Mengliu had begun with an attitude of diplomatic sincerity, but as he spoke, numerous English terms welled up in his mind. They were like a red-hot iron poking into his bloodstream, and making his whole body feverish. ‘Because of justice, enlightenment, democracy, freedom,’ he spoke so eloquently and expressed himself so boldly! He was moved by his own speech. Someone led a round of applause, and everyone joined in. The applause turned into a rumbling sound, a pressure closing in from all directions. He felt a bit weak, as if he were going to fall to the ground in a faint. He grasped the edge of the table with both hands. The action restored him to a more assertive disposition, and he steadied his emotions. His strenuous tone and attitude made what came out of his mouth next seem extraordinarily solemn.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, here in Swan Valley, has there ever been bloodshed and sacrifice?’
16
As Mengliu and Qizi approached the dorms in the Literature Department, they heard Hei Chun’s voice talking about the current political situation, as it had arisen from the Tower Incident. The light in the room was dimmed by smoke filling the air. Cigarette butts were littered all over the floor. The people inside could only be vaguely made out, a pair of legs here, half a head there, and some moving shadows. It was a gathering of scruffy-looking ghosts.
Hei Chun hopped down from the windowsill and, as if passing through a smoky battlefield, walked across to meet Mengliu. He grasped Mengliu’s hand and cranked it up and down several times. He smiled and said, ‘The Unity Party welcomes you,’ ridiculing him for hiding out at Qizi’s. They could not find him, so they had to have the meeting without the VIP, and hoped he did not mind.
The cigarette Hei Chun held had burned down nearly to his fingertips, so he threw the butt on the ground and stepped on it with the toe of his shoe, then turned to shake Qizi’s hand. He observed her crimson cheeks, her slightly parted lips, and the length of her white neck where it met the boundless expanse of her alluring chest. His gaze could only go down. He stretched out his hand for hers, as if he were waiting for a hand to slide into a glove, a fish to swim into a net, or a bird to fly to a nest, like a young woman walking into her own house, which contains everything she loves and values. But the little hand he held bounced and jumped, shattering all of his fantasies. Qizi said, ‘Nonsense,’ and slapped his hand away, laughing at his addiction for meetings.
Hei Chun shrugged and ignored her. He invited Mengliu to take the seat of honour — the windowsill — saying that everyone wanted to hear him speak.