Not wanting to be made a shadow, Mengliu turned and continued viewing the exhibition on his own.
‘Mr Yuan, seeing these pieces of the students’ art, you must have an opinion, no?’
Esteban walked a few steps with him. ‘Would you be willing to be interviewed, or perhaps write some articles on the works?’
‘Thanks, but I am just a doctor. I know nothing about art,’ Mengliu waved his hand. ‘I am just filling in time, and casually browsing…’ He paused, then continued, ‘Señor Esteban, may I venture a question? Do you feel that Swan Valley is perfect?’
‘If you would write a long poem, that would be perfect.’ It was as if Esteban had not heard a thing he said. ‘That is what we lack, good poetry, and a great poet.’
Mengliu eyed Juli, and she raised her chin slightly, as if sensing rain falling upon it.
‘I always have a hard time believing the great poet’s background.’ Rania put her hands in the pockets of her fancy dress, as nonchalant as a cat after a meal. ‘People in shackles can only write shackled poetry.’
‘Chaos isn’t freedom. Freedom comes from order,’ Darae interjected.
Esteban turned his back to a snowy scene three or four metres long. His brown robe was silhouetted against the white snow. ‘I think that a great poet’s drive should come from a noble, pure spirit. You know, people are like trees in a forest. They need each other so that they can get air and sunshine. Then each tree can grow up straight and beautiful.’ His mouth flicked to the right, like a breeze blowing the flame on a candle, revealing the trace of a smile. ‘Those trees that are separated from one another grow up crooked and tangled.’
Mengliu glanced at Juli again. He did not want to talk about poetry. He wanted to escape from such conversations.
‘You and Darae go and have a look at the sculpture exhibition. There are a few parts of it that need to be tweaked,’ Juli said to Rania, and the two young people bustled off. ‘Would either of you object to a drink at the café?’
‘Good idea. I am a little tired.’ Mengliu raised his injured leg.
They passed through a maze of corridors. The café seemed to float in the air. Beyond it, the vast expanse of golden wheat spread to the horizon, meeting the sky in the distance. Clouds were scattered overhead.
A waitress with a flower-trimmed apron served them onion rings, French fries, corn-breaded calamari and coffee.
‘Of course, human nature, this crooked piece of wood. It is impossible for us to make anything absolutely straight.’ It seemed that Esteban wouldn’t eat anything until he had finished speaking. He crossed his legs, stretched his hands along his robe, smoothing it out, and looked toward Juli.
Juli took a book of poetry from her bag, saying that such fine weather and such a perfect moment would be ideal for reading. Opening the book, she slowly read, ‘“When I think of the things I regret in life, plum blossoms fall, like seeing her swim across the river, or climbing to the top of a pinewood ladder…”’
Each time she read to this point, she went back and started again. After reading it several times more, just as she was about to reach her momentary pause, Mengliu blurted out, ‘Dangerous things are sure to be beautiful. It is better to see her riding back…’ He seemed to be possessed and continued reciting without taking a breath, his face turning red and his eyes ablaze. He stood up, faced the endless wheat fields, and recited the final lines, ‘“I need only think of the things I regret most in life, and the plum blossoms will fall on the southern slopes’’.’ Tears welled up in his eyes amidst the silence of the abrupt ending. When he turned back, his face was pale again, and the light had gone from his eyes. The three of them stared at each other.
‘Your voice proves that you are still a good poet. You have a very strong feeling for language.’ Esteban was excited, and it broke his usual calm, arrogant demeanour.
‘Esteban is right. Maybe you are not even aware of it, but your appeal just now…’ Juli’s two chocolate eyes stared at Mengliu. Her speech betrayed an obvious lack of confidence.
‘They eat human flesh, but in the end, they will be eaten by humans.’ Mengliu picked up a piece of squid from the bamboo basket, sniffed it, and put it back again. ‘I am a doctor. I recommend that you all eat a healthy diet.’
6
That night, Mengliu was a little sad. He thought of Suitang. In the pink of health, she was like Jupiter hanging in the night sky before his window. The moon in Swan Valley was always round, sometimes golden and sometimes silver. Sometimes she was covered in fine hair, sometimes she was more like cold rock, sometimes like a big sesame seed cake, and sometimes she did not look like anything other than the moon. She was always three-dimensional, often making him feel that he would see her back if he stood on tiptoe. He believed Suitang was there, her white face tightly clenched, chest bulging, black eyes rolling, as if she was always searching for some misplaced item. She was absent-minded when she cared for the sick, and caused her patients a lot of distress. Once, she was responsible for a patient’s death, but of course the incident was only known to a few people. The hospital had to protect its own cadres if it wanted to avoid developing a bad reputation that would harm its ability to generate revenue and to contribute to the nation.
He knew that Suitang had greater ambitions than just to be an anaesthetist. Her lifestyle was on a much higher level than her career. She was an artistically talented girl. Her calligraphy was beautiful, and she produced inscrutable paintings. Society needed more unfathomable works to be produced. All people were doing these days was comparing who could draw the roundest circles. And she could carve. Her desk at work was covered with the carving of a strange creature. It was hard to tell whether it was an animal or a plant, and on closer inspection it was hard to make out anything other than a few scratches. But the identity of an anaesthetist was too strong to be surrendered. The role was part of the mainstream, and as it surged, it washed her clean of everything other than her anaesthetist’s pale face. Mengliu loved the part of her that had been obliterated, like that of an angel that had passed through death. He found it difficult to extricate himself from her gaze.
Now it was Qizi’s face that was imposed over the moon in the night sky, making him feel several centuries had passed. He had in fact already forgotten her face, but every time he grasped the feelings he once had for her, he felt she had grown into a polyp, or a gallstone, or a kidney stone, something like that. He wished the polyp, or kidney stone, would start burning. God, I can’t feel my own body. The moonlight poured over him, venturing east. The birds and insects glided in the wind as if surfing on waves, like black meteors passing before his window. He stroked his major organs one by one — heart, liver, lungs, gall bladder, spleen, stomach, large intestine, small intestine, bladder, kidneys, eyes, nose, lips, ears… finally he remembered his genitals. Ah, my testicles, my penis. Poor little things! They were like refugees, beggars sheltering under the eaves of a great cold house, wrinkled and filled with a malaise. How they wished for a meal with precious delicacies! They waited for a glorious release. He worried about this ligament, that his muscles would deteriorate and he would develop other sorts of dysfunctions…He wanted to soothe his hungry cock. Its body was gradually waking up with the warmth of his touch. It was standing up energetically now, looking at the world. It saw the moon’s flowing in the soft night. It stood up and strutted, flapped its wings and cried out to the moon as it soared heavenward. He saw Qizi. She had just finished bathing and was walking out of the moon’s palace, her hair wet, lips red, dressed in white and holding a rabbit in her arms. Her chest swelled, flowers bloomed in her eyes. She had become a celestial being, was transforming into the rocks which covered wild places.