‘A poet can do without poetry. Why can’t a sinner who is sick go without a doctor?’
Mengliu was about to leave when he suddenly heard this barbaric logic coming from Esteban. He turned to see that Esteban was standing up, and looked like an African tribesman. His face was the canvas of a colourful oil painting, his hand clasped a spear, and was pointing the end of it towards Mengliu’s breast. He couldn’t move, as if the lack of oxygen had made his brain sluggish.
Just then, Darae came in. Perhaps because of the cold, he looked bleak, dreary of spirit. That wise handsome young man had become sluggish and dull. After pulling something from a box, he placed dishes on the millstone. There were four pieces of tofu, a wilted cabbage, and two slices of corn bread. It was standard criminal’s fare, coldly waiting for a mouth to devour it.
‘Darae, what has happened to your excellent skills?’ Mengliu, very carefully moving his body away from where he thought the tip of the spear might go, tried to inject a bit of humour into his voice. He really didn’t blame Darae, but the meal was too rustic to overlook. If he were still Head of a Thousand Households, he would have the best food served to Esteban.
‘I gave him something good, but he won’t eat it. What can I do?’ Darae said.
‘Are you also sick Darae? I know the recent flu has been very powerful…No, I should say, since the epidemic began…’ Mengliu tried to get a good look at Darae’s face. ‘I’m worried that Esteban’s illness…maybe you can persuade him…’
Darae just shook his head.
Mengliu suddenly felt discouraged. He saw Suitang pacing outside. Her image made him think of the situation with Juli. He engaged in some more useless talk, saying how a child couldn’t possibly soak in alcohol, how they shouldn’t be manipulated, how they should take Juli to the mountains to give birth, staying until things had blown over and she could come back.
Darae laughed, his laugh like a blast of cold wind piercing Mengliu’s body, but he finally agreed to go with them to the nursing home. He agreed to help them, to serve as a lookout. He said he too wanted to know, once and for all, what was going on.
But Mengliu backed away from Darae in the end, feeling he could not be relied on. Suitang seemed to hate his half-dead attitude. She thought they didn’t need to drag anyone else into it. Regardless of the outcome, it was a Swan Valley problem.
22
Accommodating two women at the same time always leads to trouble. Mengliu found that Yuyue had become difficult to get along with, never saying what she meant, remaining aloof, or merely answering any question with, ‘You should ask her.’ This ‘her’ referred to Suitang. When she was with Suitang, Yuyue always seemed warm and friendly, as if they were sisters. They would even crowd him out of their private conversations, with one of them always ready to throw menacing glances at him. Mengliu knew that Yuyue intended him to feel in the wrong, and that they were the innocent ones, and women should always unite. Perhaps in their imagination he had already turned into something wicked, but he had no idea what he had done wrong. At first, neither of them cared for him, but now, probably because each had found a competitor, they were both inspired to possess him. He lamented at how diabolically clever the two goblins were. They never showed their true intent, they hid their dark hysteria behind happy faces. He once overheard them talking. They were quick to reach the consensus that he would write poetry one day, and that he would again ‘rise up.’ He didn’t like this sort of prediction. It was like witches telling fortunes by casual divination. It was just superstition. Especially when it came to a matter as serious as poetry. They shouldn’t make such irresponsible comments. No one had a right to tell him what he should do. His intentions were like his personal beliefs, and his privacy should be respected and protected. As usual, he didn’t lose his temper but repeated his old line, ‘I am a surgeon, unable to do anything related to poetry. Please don’t waste your fantasies on me.’
The night before visiting the nursing home, they had dinner at Juli’s house. The dishes were rich and the rice wine sweet. She was in good shape, not as worried as he thought she would be about Suitang, and not in the least surprised by her arrival. Yuyue had already corrected Juli’s view on the matter, by declaring that Suitang was not Mengliu’s girlfriend. They were simply colleagues who had sometimes worked very closely together in the past. The three of them had come to persuade Juli to try to escape Swan Valley, but in the end they didn’t say anything. As soon as they entered her house, they knew that it would be a waste of breath to do so. Juli had more backbone than anyone. Dinner turned into a joyous affair. The rice wine made them tipsy and they lost all inhibition, laughing with abandon, and making Mengliu feel that he was a lascivious, fatuous, self-indulgent ruler in the midst of his wives and concubines. During the gathering Juli, pregnant though she was, performed a dance. Her body moved sinuously as her hands held her belly. It was as if she were at the harvest, the light from the fire turned her face golden, and her shadow formed weird shapes on the wall. She was excited, quite different from her usual self. When they told her about Esteban’s appearance at the mill, she was lukewarm, indifferent, as if the burden of his forced labour, the atonement, and the hanging between life and death were all normal aspects of love.
This beautiful life cannot be false. Even if it is, it is still beautiful. If it is not for the sake of rebuilding, why bother destroying it? The idea popped out of nowhere in Mengliu’s head, throwing him into confusion. It is perverse to shake people out of their dreams. They don’t need the truth. The truth is like a leftover scrap of bread, it’s unnecessary.
At this point, their entertainments were turning ridiculous because they had become overly merry. It was as if they were all play-acting even though they were sincere. Under the influence of alcohol Suitang and Yuyue both urged Mengliu to recite poetry, booing and hissing when he refused to be drawn into their pranks. Suddenly he saw the balalaika on the wall, and was grateful for the timely rescue. He took the instrument down. It had a solid body with an open-mouthed dragon carved at its head. The neck was made of rosewood and the drum covered with python skin. It looked very old. He plucked a few strings, and the sound was full-bodied, it lingered like smoke. He said he would perform a storytelling and ballad sequence in the Suzhou dialect, employing chen diao. When Yuyue asked what chen diao was, Suitang said, ‘I’m afraid it means clichéd tunes and phrases.’
As Mengliu continued to pluck, testing the strings, he said that there were three genres of pingtan — chen diao, ma diao, and yu diao. They were skeptical at first, not believing a traditional surgeon could play pingtan. When he really did begin to play, they fell silent. He sang softly, and his face became strangely animated. No one understood the words, but they were mesmerised by the music. While they were indulging themselves, he ended the performance with a few violent chords.
‘I have not seen anyone who could play that instrument,’ Juli said, holding her belly and wearing a look of perfect mental and physical well-being. ‘You play beautifully. I feel that tonight you are close to the heart of a poet, and your music reveals the secrets of that heart.’