“Why?’’ she answered in a low voice. ‘‘Adopt what measures? Are we all jittery? What you just said made me wonder. You’ve been a stenographer for so long, and you’re still so fickle. I can’t understand you.’’ The writer walked on with her for a long time in silence. She didn’t say anything and her expression was grim. Not until they parted did she suddenly scold him: ‘‘It is most unwise to substitute one’s own fantasies for the objective laws of nature.’’
The widow’s opinion was representative of the attitudes of the elite group in the Five Spice Street community. For a long time after the meeting held in the dark, there was no activity anywhere on Five Spice Street: even if Madam X hung a demonic mirror high up in front of the window, others led their disciplined lives as usual. Similar meetings were held several times, but this didn’t mean that there would ‘‘be any action,’’ because the gentlemen attending these meetings were ‘‘old sparrows who had weathered many storms.’’ They wouldn’t do anything premature. When there was a meeting, they went: they loved taking part. The elitist style intoxicated them. The mysterious dark atmosphere intrigued them. So they all got to the meetings on time. They all wore dark overcoats and sat up solemnly in the dark room. Their calm and steady manner taught the writer a lesson, causing him to move from admiring them to imitating them. After a while, he was like a duck taking to the water. In order to squeeze into the elite circle and get his artistic talent recognized, the writer purchased a dark overcoat and earnestly prinked from head to toe. He mingled with the crowd at the meeting and then, without saying a word, took a seat in a corner. That’s when the writer began learning how to be quiet like a smart person and began to understand that silence is golden. In the dark, who could tell who was talking? And even if they could, what did that mean? Because of our silence and composure, even if we were talking about major issues such as everyone’s safety on the street, we wouldn’t be jittery. Otherwise, wouldn’t we be acting prematurely? Wouldn’t that show we were capable of nothing but biting our nails over this kind of issue, so that people would say that a certain insignificant person’s supernatural power was making the Five
Spice Street elite eager to prepare for combat? Wouldn’t that sound ridiculous? No matter what others supposed, we instinctively took no action. We achieved victory through our special tactic-by living our daily lives as usual and not changing at all. No one paid any attention to a certain person’s supernatural power, but instead we held regular meetings. This was our mighty offensive. No matter how strong they were, all the forts would be breached. When we wore dark clothing and quietly slipped into the meeting room, any cunning enemies were scared out of their wits. How did the countermeasures of the Five Spice Street elite affect Madam X? Perhaps not everyone can be sufficiently aware of these high-level spiritual actions. Was it possible that Madam X was also unaware of the countermeasures they took in the dark? Ms. B painstakingly investigated this. She reported that the countermeasures had been notably effective: Madam X’s supernatural power was rapidly declining, she looked ‘‘more sallow by the day,’’ the frequency of her going out had ‘‘atrophied a lot,’’ and ‘‘the symptom of attempting suicide’’ was revealed in her words. At this point, Ms. B sprang to her feet and drew her finger across her neck to illustrate ‘‘attempting suicide.’’ ‘‘What other way out does she have? None. When the people have formed a mighty force, confronting it with her little trick was no different from ‘throwing straws against the wind.’ Committing adultery was bad enough, and now she’s also been deploying her evil supernatural stuff. She’s asking for trouble!’’ She also told everyone a piece of astonishing hot news: a black curtain was hanging at Madam X’s window, and it had been twenty-seven hours since she had closed her door and not emerged.
To satisfy his burning curiosity, the writer impulsively charged into Madam X’s bedroom. It was as dark as a vault, and he was assailed by strong puffs of a floral scent-enough to choke a person.
‘‘Have a seat. There’s no problem with that chair,’’ a voice said from a corner of the room. ‘‘There used to be some things in this room that were problematic, but I’ve solved them all one by one. I don’t like sloppiness. Can you see now?’’ She propped herself up on the recliner.
One by one, the thick curtains, table, chairs, and bed appeared before the writer’s eyes. Large and small mirrors were flickering continuously with white light, making everything in the room seem phony and affected. There were quite a few pots of flowers in the corner where Madam X sat, and that’s where the fragrance was coming from, bringing with it a certain exaggeration. In this artificial environment, Madam X became strangely talkative.
‘‘There’s nothing wrong with anything here. All the legs on the chairs are sturdy; this isn’t so outside this room. Once I went out and saw people sitting on problematic chairs. I was so frightened that I had to shut my eyes and flee back here. I should go out less frequently. Don’t worry: everything in this room is sturdy. I don’t like being suspended in the air.’’ She smiled. She held out one gloved hand to the writer. Steeling himself, the writer shook it: he felt that the thing inside this glove was very suspicious.
‘‘I’ve decided not to take my gloves off. Don’t you think this is a good idea? The curtains are freshly mounted. Aren’t they quite special? I just recently had this idea.’’
‘‘Could it be that you had an unrealistic expectation of this world that you fabricated for yourself?’’ the writer said, deeply worried.
‘‘Are you talking about self-image? I’ve never been concerned about that. I just look at myself in the mirror, but I don’t have my photo taken. All of you know my foibles well. I’d inadvertently plunged into a kind of interlinked trap that was set by your-oh- Miss Chen. It’s hard to break away from it. I sit here and gain an increasingly unambiguous impression of the outside world. You, for example: you’re the one mending the net. You wanted to catch a little mouse. I made up my mind and solved all the problems.’’ She laughed softly again. ‘‘What have you come for? No one else has come: they aren’t used to being in a problem-free place. Young Miss Chen said, ‘It’s like an empty, transparent zone’ in which ‘people begin to float.’ ’’
The writer felt depressed. A shaft of light flashed out from a certain mirror and reflected his eyes. ‘‘Will you still go on with your research about eyeballs?’’
‘‘There’s no question but that my research has entered a high- level stage. I’m in the midst of struggling to break away from the microscope. I sometimes think: why don’t I create a miracle? Creation would be much more interesting than research! This curtain is my first step. But this isn’t a big deal. I will create a miracle out of nothing.’’ After saying all this, she suddenly held her head high and picked up a mirror next to the table. She threw it to the floor, and it broke into pieces. ‘‘I’ll create a miracle in this space. You can go. When you go out, be sure you don’t let any light in. That gives me a headache.’’
Truly, the writer had no way to make any connection-even one as fragile as a hair-between what Madam X was doing in her dark room and the mighty offensive of the crowds outside. She sat there, blocking out the light with heavy curtains, making rustling noises as she created ‘‘miracles.’’ Even if people couldn’t restrain their inner enthusiasm and rushed in and started attacking her, it would be hard to say whether she reacted or not. The people on Five Spice Street all happened coincidentally to act in refined ways. They definitely didn’t intend to turn to action: they just blindly used an invisible spiritual weapon. Outsiders regarded that weapon as a certain kind of ‘‘qigong,’’ and no one could ensure that Madam X would be harmed by it. Looking at her, it didn’t seem that she sensed this ‘‘qigong’’ at all, so after leaving Madam X’s home, the writer was deeply worried: had the elites been mistaken in their judgment? And could this cause trouble that would be difficult to mend?