‘‘Impressive!’’ she said all of a sudden.
‘‘Who?!’’
‘‘Who else?! She said he was impressive, that he was an impressive man! A man out of the ordinary! Do you understand? You idiot! What are your qualifications to be a stenographer? Who chose you to come here? How do you dare assert that you’re a stenographer? As you sit here in the dark, I see that you’re simply a pile of mud! A pile of useless mud! My God! What could I have been thinking to carry this wooden pole and dash over here? How can this be? I’m finished!!’’ She sobbed, and her fists fell like hail on the writer’s back.
She said that because his conduct had tainted her image with the people, she wanted the writer to ‘‘make up for the damage.’’ She also said that she had never laid eyes on a stenographer: she had been friends with a government official! People like artists weren’t trusted by the people: nobody could take them seriously. As for their considering themselves important, that was just fishing. Who would fall for an artist? If you did, you’d better not count on holding your head up. She didn’t want to be swayed by emotions-that would just make trouble for her. The writer patiently endured this beating, not uttering a word until the woman’s sobs subsided.
‘‘X and Q also mentioned the leak in the boat,’’ she added, and then tweaked the writer’s cheek to show that they were all right again.
Eyes blurry with sleep, the writer left the little room with the dark woman, who immediately disappeared. The writer had no choice but to stagger ahead in the dark. He didn’t see anyone anywhere. All was quiet. The many houses at the side of the road were a frightening black color. What lay ahead? The writer was nervous, and beads of sweat seeped slowly from his forehead.
‘‘I can give you first-hand information.’’ He didn’t know where Old Woman Jin had come from; she was blocking his way and smacked his shoulder. ‘‘Haha,’’ she laughed out loud.
‘‘Where am I?’’ The writer was confused.
‘‘On our street! Are you possessed? Why don’t you recognize it? Come, let’s sit on the curb and chat. Listen, everyone’s asleep. No one will disturb us. I guarantee I’ll give you first-hand information. You mustn’t believe other people; don’t believe anyone. They’re all making things up, that’s for sure. They want to toy with you. For example, the dark woman just now: do you think she’s still young? She’s sixty years old-ten years older than I am! She must have told you she’s only forty; that’s what she always tells people. She wears bright clothing to make herself look younger, figuring that she can fool the men. What a joke! How can anyone lack self-understanding and want to play an inappropriate role! Isn’t this crazy? There’s nothing more frightening, more tragic in life, than a person going crazy. When a good person goes crazy, she’s no longer worth anything. Yet, she isn’t aware of this; she gives attention only to playing the role of a clown. It’s macabre! When that crazy woman locked you up in her room, I smelled something wrong and watched out for you here. (I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for you.) I did this just in case she tried to murder you in desperation when she couldn’t get what she wanted. You know, she could have done this, since there weren’t any eyewitnesses. I know this sort of person. I had to wait in the dark and protect your life. You know: a mixed-up woman can be much more dangerous than an ordinary gangster. She is capable of all kinds of brutal things. Just now, when I saw you leave there safely, a big load was taken off my shoulders. In the end, she didn’t do it to you! Just now I mentioned supplemental information. I tell you, what is the very most important thing to a stenographer? Sources. This is a vital issue, for it determines success or failure. A lot of people slip up here. If I want to find good material, the first thing I have to do is find a person who can supply such material. For instance, just now you almost made an irreparable mistake. In your confusion, you actually made inquiries of a mentally unbalanced sixty-year-old floozy. You fell into the trap she set for you and stayed in her room for one hour and twenty-five minutes. I wanted to rush over to warn you, but I couldn’t because when it happened, I was arguing with someone about whether we should insist on printing enlarged color photos in our blackboard newspaper. What material could that lunatic give you? If I hadn’t been secretly watching over you, any kind of tragedy might have occurred. People who give material to artists must be tough, wise, and experienced. Perhaps they’ve experienced the vicissitudes of life but haven’t been struck down by brutal realities: they have an innate ability to turn all the suffering into nourishment for life…’’
Old Woman Jin looked up at the vast night sky and seemed so intoxicated by her emotions that she forgot to go on talking. She was absorbed in humming a march. As she hummed, she beat out the rhythm by tapping her heels on the road.
After about ten minutes, the writer tugged at her sleeve and gently reminded her: ‘‘The material?’’
‘‘Right. This is of the first importance. You have to be strong- minded and sharp-sighted and be able to distinguish the true from the false with just one look, and then your work will evolve. Some people who used to have talent were unfortunately taken in by a certain pose and went astray. They worked hard for a lifetime but didn’t get anywhere. Lessons like this are widespread. We can’t keep these schemers from living in this world, nor can we annihilate them; we can only heighten our ability to discriminate, and prevent tragedy. Too bad there are so few people with sufficient life experience and wisdom. Otherwise, how many brilliant talents would they train?’’ Her attention wandered and she began humming the march again. She tapped da, da, da…, her chin moving along with the rhythm.
‘‘But you haven’t given me your material!’’
‘‘Bah! Men are always like this. Listen to him, never satisfied, bothering you all the time, as if you owed him something. A charming woman is doomed in this world. Once you weaken and do what they want, they’ll soon want more! Within five minutes, they start in on you again, just like the hungry ghosts. They make all kinds of requests and say that’s what you promised them. What did I promise? What can a woman do? She certainly can’t get anything from men; all she can do is give all she has to them, but it still isn’t enough. They want still more, still more.’’
‘‘I didn’t ask you for anything. I just mentioned the material…’’ ‘‘Just! As if this isn’t much trouble! In my lifetime, how many men have said ‘just once more’ to me? And after once more, they want another once more. It never ends. Don’t they have even a little self-control and spirit of sacrifice? No! They just seek their own satisfaction!’’
‘‘Then shall I go home?’
‘‘Go home! You haven’t gotten what you wanted, so you go home! They’re all like this, all stamped out of the same mold. They don’t know what warmth is, what affection is, or what continuous longing is. They want just one thing, and if they don’t get it, they immediately show how cold they are inside. They just tell you loud and clear: I want to go home! They even purposely show you how tired they are, to frustrate you from head to toe. How can one bear this kind of world?’’
‘‘Just now, we were talking about X,’’ the writer nervously reminded her.
‘‘What does that have to do with me? Bah! Bah! I can’t even get a handle on my own situation-it drives me nuts-so why would I want to be concerned about X! Who is she? What’s she to me? Don’t change the subject-don’t try to pull any tricks! Is she the main point, or am I? How dare you diminish me? I’ll make you know who I am. Humph!’’
In the end, the writer couldn’t get any information from Old Woman Jin. She was really tight-mouthed. And more than that, she hurried to a meeting and made an appeaclass="underline" she wanted ‘‘women to unite and fight off men’s encroachments, which are all too clearly under way-we can’t take them lightly.’’ After she finished her speech, she took out a dagger. Terrifying everyone, she sent a ‘‘flying dagger’’ to a wooden post in the back row of the hall. Everyone screamed and bedlam ensued, lasting as long as thirteen minutes.