To lord it over us
Each stage of life’s cycle
Is a ringworm settled between my fingers
But I remain master of myself
My ulcer-racked body lying on the earth
Sees next year’s cotton erupt
From my own navel
Then, we may all be blank slates
We will break the tyrant’s muzzle
And slowly make our escape
‘The tyrant’s muzzle? Mr Yuan what did you say?’ Juli asked.
Only then did he realise that he’d given voice to his song. The moment he looked at her, he realised it was Bai Qiu’s poem. One evening years ago Bai Qiu had sat by the Lotus Pond at the Intellectual Properties Office and composed it all in one sitting. It had immediately spread far and wide. By the time the sun had gone down, a group of influential poets had initiated a movement in which they used verse to stir the soul of the people. In the spirit of the real Three Musketeers, they swore themselves to a common destiny in life or death, to honour and loyalty, and to action at the critical moment.
Juli did not need an answer from Mengliu, nor did she wait for him to speak. Pointing ahead as they stepped out from the cover of the forest to a rock that protruded over the valley, she continued, ‘We’ve arrived. That’s it —’
Looking in the direction she pointed, Mengliu saw in the distance the ‘interesting place’. Across the valley on the slopes opposite them were the green tiles and flying eaves of white buildings standing transcendentally among the vibrant hues of flowers and leaves. Green vines climbed the walls and roofs, and purple blossoms dotted the facades, scattered like stars across the sky. Down the face of the mountain beyond flowed a waterfall, which looked as if it was falling from the heavens, creating a mystical atmosphere. Rising through the clouds was a cylindrical tower constructed of beautiful red brick. As the wind blew and the clouds parted, they saw at its top a giant clock, which filled the valley with its music as it struck the hour of three.
‘Oh, it looks like a lovely holiday resort.’ Mengliu gazed at it for a long time, then asked, ‘Does it have any special significance?’
‘Upon reaching fifty years of age, anyone can live there.’ Juli’s face wore an expression of longing. ‘It’s the best nursing home in Swan Valley. I’ve heard that they have everything there — library, cinema, theatre, chess matches, debating clubs, athletic events…or you can just laze about all day on a huge sofa in the café, listening to music and chatting while you consume unlimited supplies of fresh fruit juice. You will never feel like a lonely old person living there.’
‘Go into a nursing home at fifty years old? Things are very different in a welfare society,’ Mengliu said, laughing. ‘But, I’d rather work till I’m eighty, growing vegetables and rearing chickens in my own garden. I’d never want to live in a communal facility.’
‘But this is policy. It’s all according to regulation.’ Juli picked a flower and placed it behind her ear. ‘Of course, it’s also what the people want.’
Seeing Juli’s feminine gesture, Mengliu felt that her serious tone was basically just a pretence.
‘The government is subjective. They don’t care about what people want.’ He looked at the brilliant wildflower behind Juli’s ear. It struck him that it would soon wither, and he felt pity for it.
‘Everything is free. What benefit could the government possibly have?’ Juli stared at him with a taunting attitude.
‘…What I mean is, simply put, it may not be quite what it appears on the surface. Furthermore, fifty years, just as a person’s in his prime…’
Mengliu hesitated. Suddenly coming to a realisation, he said to himself, ‘No wonder I only see young people here. The middle-aged have already been shut away in nursing homes. Don’t they have any interest in the outside world anymore? Don’t they come out and have a look around?’
‘There’s a small self-contained community in there,’ Juli said, ignoring Mengliu. Turning her head, she looked fondly and longingly at the nursing home. ‘Inside, there will one day be a famous old craftswoman, creating strange and wondrous things — and that will be me.’
Mengliu climbed a few steps further up the rock, searching for a better angle from which to see more clearly, but all he could see was the outer wall surrounding the nursing home, blocking the view as effectively as if it were the Great Wall. He saw the old trees, the flying eaves, the waterfall and path, and the tower that seemed to disappear into the sky. Silence glided over the walls from the garden, and came to rest in the mysterious forest behind them.
18
Cycling to the suburbs was Mengliu’s idea. He said that people in love should not miss out on the spring, and he persuaded Qizi to put down her physics books and relax for a while. At dawn, they ate fritters, soya milk, steamed buns and porridge, then took a pair of bicycles and set out through the bleary-eyed city to visit its outskirts. An hour and a half later, the thick white smoke released from the chimney at the brewery had turned to a thin wisp. The bustle of the city was blown away by the country air. The cycle path was covered with crushed black coke and the broken chips of red bricks. The two mingled colours resembled an abstract painting. As their bicycle wheels rolled over the path, they made a crunching sound. All around them were crops, vegetable patches, ponds, bamboo, birds in flight, animals and people, with smoke on the rooftops and the yelping dogs serving only to emphasise the silence of the countryside when their echoes reverberated over the scene.
Happily humming schoolyard folk songs, in what seemed like the space of a breath they had cycled more than ten kilometres. They stopped at a roadside farmstead and asked for a drink of water. They chatted with some wrinkled old plowmen, and saw from their expressions that they envied the young couple their youth and knowledge, and love. Qizi’s face was like an apple at the end of autumn, flushed with a healthy rosy glow. Among the villagers were some who had travelled to the city and seen the crowds of people on the street. They were curious and eager to find out more as they sat smoking their morning pipes, one leg crossed over the other or a grandchild tucked between their knees. They talked about the city as if it were a completely different world.
Mengliu and Qizi answered them perfunctorily. Then, after expressing their thanks, they continued on their journey.
The pair now fell silent. The grinding of their bikes on the gravel became monotonous, and each felt the other’s anxiety.
They had thrown aside their work, given up a wonderful play, rejected invitations to salon gatherings and parties, and at last they were experiencing a moment of freedom and beauty and tranquility. Neither of them wanted to destroy this unique opportunity. Their legs continued to pedal mechanically, perpetuating the crunching sound and advancing their journey. They stopped at what might have been an abandoned watchtower or church. Putting their bikes to one side, they gazed upward for a minute. Holding hands, they entered the building and were overwhelmed by the pungent smell of manure. They realised that the building was home to a tied-up water buffalo. It stood chewing on feed, staring at the intruders with red eyes as big as the rims of cups. They went up a rickety wooden staircase that had been reinforced with hemp ropes, and climbed right up to the third floor. As they climbed, the staircase shook badly, throwing off a lot of dust. They kept climbing, quivering all the way to the top.
The building was empty except for the water buffalo downstairs. Through the windows they saw the village they had cycled through. Neither of them knew why they had wanted to go up to the top, but there they stood, inside the dilapidated building, facing one another.