‘‘Behind everyone, there are at least two shadows. Some have even more.’’ He said to his wife, ‘‘The shadows on the ground are like folding fans. Looking at them makes me dizzy. (I don’t know when he began to talk like this, as if his voice were coming from a deep grotto.) It takes a lot of strength for me to focus my eyes enough to pull the doubled shadows into one. Of course, this isn’t at all pleasurable. (His tone was now indignant and vehement.) All of you are so smug. It’s ridiculous! If I tell the truth, you’ll be furious again. You’ll think I’m a mayfly. You’ll agree with each other by exchanging understanding glances in order to set your minds at ease.’’
‘‘The bees are still flying around outside. You must have heard them.’’
‘‘Right, I did.’’ He acknowledged this despondently, and then like a shadow, he contracted himself bit by bit back inside the room.
After Mr. Q completed his metamorphosis, he went to Five Spice Street in secret and began his adultery with Madam X on a certain day in a secret place that no one knew about. This occurred another four or five times, always without anyone’s knowledge. If it hadn’t been for that hapless cat, their adultery might have gone on forever. This isn’t to say that all of us on Five Spice Street were numbskulls and didn’t know what was going on under our noses. We just kept quiet, that’s all. Our silence had far-reaching significance.
About the place and the facts of the adultery, those of us on Five Spice Street expressed ourselves in thoroughly abstract ways. This time, everyone kept a straight face. We didn’t even move the corners of our mouths. Whether the lights were on or off, whether there were a lot of people or just a few, whether in our homes or on the main street, whenever the writer or any other outsider brought up this matter, all of us expressed ourselves with solemn, straight faces. Only if a person had a talent for abstract thought and had special training could he discover the instinctual understanding of those people. Otherwise, he would think them crass, unreasonable, and short-sighted. He would complain of their indifference to history. Many simple-minded scholars had arrived here cheerfully and believed that their passionate work would yield something. Inevitably, they would return to wherever they came from while blaming us for being uncooperative or even rocking the boat. They never examined the limitations of their concepts or were the least bit self- reflective. We have no use for this type of scholar and artist and wish they had stayed home. Why come here? We could plan our daily lives much more easily without them. Aside from disturbing people, is there anything they do? If a committed artist carefully considered the situation, he would realize that the straight faces on Five Spice Street did not indicate impoverished selves and empty heads. Instead, they implied infinitude, like a rainbow on the horizon or a mirage in the desert. We can easily offer five or six interpretations.
First, this is our privacy, which is like a precious treasure we don’t want to share with outsiders. Our unique place is the only place that can produce such high-quality spiritual sustenance. Our own people all know how to view this matter. Each of us has his or her personal feelings about it, and it isn’t necessary to talk it over with one another. And so we keep straight faces.
Second, are we sluggards? Are we idle and self-indulgent? Besides poking into a certain person’s meaningless activities all day long, have we nothing else to do? Do you dare doubt that our people have any libido? Yes, some envious people like to insinuate that we do nothing but roam around all day long, spying, listening at the walls, and looking through cracks in the doors. We won’t fall for this! And so we keep straight faces.
Third, what sort of person brings up such questions? Does he have the upbringing necessary to understand this sort of thing? Does he conduct himself in a serious manner? If he looks at the world with salacious, indecent eyes, we decent people on Five Spice Street won’t have anything to do with him; he can just delve into his research by himself. Let reality give him a brutal lesson. Let him come to ridiculous conclusions. Who cares? We aren’t obligated to let him pester us. And so we keep straight faces.
Fourth, when getting close to the essence of the matter, the highly cultured crowds on Five Spice Street always produce a single spontaneous response: something like this can’t be explained in words, nor can it be conveyed with facial expressions. It can be sensed only with telepathy. This is very complicated and multilayered. We wouldn’t be a bit surprised if an outsider didn’t possess this mental power. We are always very self-confident about this superiority of ours. If a rude outsider could become as wise as we after dashing around our street for a few days, that would be the saddest tragedy. No way! We don’t care if they think we’re not civil and don’t care if they are furious with us. We persist in our old ways. We aren’t going to swim with the tide. And so we keep straight faces.
Fifth, there may also be persons with ulterior motives: after ascertaining our true views, they then made unfair use of them with various kinds of guesswork. None of it was their business. They had nothing to do with it. But they tried to play the role of savior, as if we had to depend upon them-those rats who came out from the sewer to manage our community. And so we keep straight faces. We could give a lot of other reasons for keeping straight faces-almost everyone has at least two reasons, which might change several times a day.
If we want to understand this adultery from Q’s side, we can raise the following possibilities: (1) That afternoon Q had the misfortune of falling at X’s entrance, and while he was unconscious a person quick on his feet injected him with a hallucinogen. (2) Since childhood, Q had had a virus similar to rabies lying dormant in his body: when it surfaced, he became manic about self-sacrifice. The writer had just noted these key points when the female colleague, who’d been hiding behind him and spying, scared him by hooting loudly.
This time, the writer reacted promptly: he stood up from the floor and bowed in a refined and humble way. He took the female colleague’s soft hand, brought it to his nose and smelled it, and in a gentle voice asked her what she thought of him. Did she like what he had written? As he talked, he stroked her face with his other hand. This moved her greatly, and she gradually calmed down and told the writer that she liked what he wrote. She just wanted to add something important. This was of the utmost importance: without it, history would be an expanse of darkness. If she hadn’t dashed over here with her strong sense of social responsibility, well, it would be impossible to imagine the losses. She very much believed in the writer’s artistic talent. Ever since he had adjusted his attitude and become endearing, she’d furtively observed everything he did. She believed wholeheartedly that now, with a fine artist as stenographer for the people, everybody would feel that ‘‘life had become rosy.’’ She cheered the writer on, hoping his talent would ‘‘blaze with brilliance.’’ She would be eternally grateful for his success. Their chaste friendship was incomparably lofty: was there anything more beautiful than the pursuit of spiritual communion? Her good friend Madam X had never experienced this sublime ardor; she was interested only in ‘‘going to bed.’’ Thinking back on it now, that kind of person was too pedestrian! Too infuriating! As the female colleague talked, she shed tears. The writer took out a handkerchief and gently wiped them away. He gave her a hand and helped her sit on the edge of the bed, where she rested for a long time. The two sank into a sorrow from which they couldn’t extricate themselves. Finally, filled with melancholy, the writer sent her on her way.
Supplemental Materiaclass="underline" Another of Mr. Q and Madam X’s
Conversations on the Street
X: It’s bright out today-are you aware of that? Every time you and I stand and talk in such bright light, I feel dissatisfied with you. Sometimes I have wicked thoughts: I think you’re shrinking day by day. This change was unconscious; it couldn’t be helped. I yearn for the cobblestones in the sunlight (she stretches out her hands as if grasping something in the air). Come closer to me. I’m going to cry. (Pretending to wipe away tears, she took the opportunity to lean against Q.)