In general, other people were inclined to think that ever since Mr. Q and Madam X started their illicit affair, Mr. Q’s appearance had changed greatly: it had become ‘‘filled with lust.’’ Actually, this was nonsensical speculation-a conclusion based on prior beliefs without rigorous authentication or independent analysis. What happened at the fence had overturned these simple-minded fancies. Let’s suppose something else: when Mr. Q rushed at her, the widow wasn’t able to ward him off and was tarnished by him. Though lamentable, at the same time she could tell that after contact with the flesh of a real woman who released his libido, the sex appeal in his face would have vanished. Every day and all day long, the widow was entangled by these hypotheses and deductions. Her eyes grew dull, and her face withered. It’s said that not long afterwards, Mr. Q repeated his sex attacks. Several beautiful women on Five Spice Street were ambushed in broad daylight-always near the warehouse. They said he launched his offensive with the ball and then rushed up wanting to ‘‘do it.’’ Because the women ran off, there ‘‘was no doing it.’’ But if they hadn’t run off, very likely there would have been ‘‘doing it.’’
After learning that the adorable widow had been so traumatized by Mr. Q that she fell ill, the writer-filled with sympathy-went to see her. When he arrived she was in bad shape, wrapped in a heavy quilt and with perspiration falling like rain. That frightening scream had caused her to lose her hearing, and she couldn’t converse. But when he sat by the bed, she seemed excited and talked without stopping. She spoke about the ideals of her youth and the pursuits, fears, agonies, and wreckage that had come from those ideals.
‘‘How do the people see me?’’ Covering her mouth with the quilt, she spoke with great effort. ‘‘This is already clear. For decades, I’ve preserved the integrity of this visualization. Tell me whether what I say is true.’’
The writer nodded his head so vigorously that his chin hit his chest. After this, the widow cried her eyes out. Her tears soaked the quilt. Shaking her shoulders and wishing to calm her, the writer made wuwuwuwu sounds like a mother nursing a baby. He didn’t imagine she’d start crying even harder. Now and then, she also gave him bitter, tear-filled looks. She curled her lip. Haggard and thin, pure and innocent as a child, she filled the writer with tenderness. She was wholly trusting. The writer couldn’t keep tears from his eyes. Who took the initiative isn’t known, but the writer burrowed into the widow’s warm quilts and they cuddled.
And so it was that the writer was fortunate enough to experience the widow’s ample body. Of course, not completely, because that would have been violating principles, and the widow herself had always detested that sort of thing. The writer supposed that she was looking only for comfort and pity, nothing more. She was so fragile! Illness had flattened her like a steam-roller. This time, after completely collapsing, she felt a few steps closer to the abyss. She urgently needed a real man to give her a helping hand. As for the writer, he was honored to play a knight’s role. It was the first time in his life that he felt filled with honor and obligation. Although he was only an artist, this made him a hero.
From the moment the writer came in contact with the widow’s body, she miraculously recovered her hearing, and they began talking with one another. Under the quilt, the writer and the widow solemnly vowed that after this they would support each other forever, would help each other forever. After this vow, the widow wrapped her legs tightly around the writer’s legs and said, ‘‘Now, pull yourself together: aren’t you aware of a certain dangerous kind of temptation?’’
The writer was bewildered. She hinted again: ‘‘For example, things having to do with sex?’’
All of a sudden, the writer understood. He sat up and began quoting various proverbs and sayings, such as ‘‘serve one’s country with absolute loyalty,’’ ‘‘die for a just cause,’’ ‘‘spiritual companions,’’ ‘‘symbols of eternity,’’ and so forth. Others might have seen this as hyperbole, but the writer thought it was just right. This speech roused him, and his blood boiled. It was as though he had arrived in an uncorrupted, relaxed, and happy wonderland.
The strange thing was that the widow didn’t seem to enjoy the writer’s speech. The more stimulated he was, the cloudier her face grew. Finally, she paid almost no attention to what he was saying. She rudely interrupted him, asking if bugs were biting him under the quilt. When he finished, the widow looked somber and said, ‘‘Doesn’t it feel too warm for two of us to be under the quilt? I was really surprised just now when you crawled in.’’
Then, turning her back on him, she murmured, ‘‘If I’d known it would be like this, it would have been better… Where did the crow crawl out from? I can’t take its cawing anymore!’’
At the height of his success, the writer felt doused with cold water and chilled from head to toe. He pitifully asked the widow for guidance. He didn’t imagine she would flare up and call him a ‘‘rat’’ and order him ‘‘to get out now.’’ She kicked him hard in the back- kicked him to the floor. The writer could do nothing but leave. This was a tragic, irreversible finale.
What was Mr. Q’s completely different nighttime character? Let’s return to the observations of the iron-willed woman we mentioned above. On a certain night, she heard weeping and wailing coming from Mr. Q’s home. To find out for sure what was going on, she skillfully entered the house and listened closely for several hours. She discovered that the couple and their two sons were asleep, yet the man kept weeping. Mr. Q’s uncontrollable grief seemed to come from his dream. Though sleeping, it seemed from his appearance that he was ‘‘struggling’’ hard. The woman stayed there until daylight; she waited until Mr. Q left the house. In the daylight, she saw Mr. Q change into a thin, shriveled old man. His gaze was unfocused. His eyes were swollen to the size of garlic bulbs. He also became paranoid, always fearful that his wife would trip and fall. Whenever he saw even a small stone on the road, he rushed ahead of his wife, kicked away the stone, and then, as if taking care of an infant, helped her walk on. As always, he did this with reverence and awe.
Another night, the woman noticed Mr. Q in the woods nearby. She considered approaching, but she heard two people’s voices and shrewdly hid behind a large tree. She listened intently until she realized the conversation was between Mr. Q and himself. It seemed he had a special skilclass="underline" he faked a voice completely different from his own and created, one might say, ‘‘a conversation partner.’’ Mr. Q seemed intoxicated and crazy. He struck his head against the trunk of a tree so hard that blood trickled to his feet. Clearly determined to let himself go, he hit his temples with a stone until he saw stars and then stuck his head into a narrow hole in the tree. He kept it there until dawn. Among other things, he gulped down leaves and buried himself in mud, all the while whimpering like a dying person. It was enough to make your hair stand on end.
Finally, Mr. Q became two bodies: ‘‘in the daytime, he was a person; at night, a ghost.’’ He appeared exhausted, near death. As for Madam X, who had long suspected this sort of malady, she-hard as nails-determined that they should part company. We’ll talk of this later. For the moment, we’ll listen to some comments from Madam X to gain a more thorough understanding of Mr. Q’s malady.
When her sister asked ‘‘about his future,’’ Madam X changed her usual manner. Her face clouded over, and after a long silence, two tears rolled slowly from her eyes. ‘‘He’s going to be finished,’’ she said, choking. ‘‘The scene is gradually unfolding. You have to know that during my nights of insomnia, I couldn’t find him. I ran around crazily on the rooftop and searched every corner. But I never turned anything up. At sunrise, I sometimes was surprised to see him groaning in clumps of dried weeds. He was emaciated and frail, his bones like slender grasses, his eyes unseeing, his eyeballs showing a lifeless white. I knew that in the afternoon, I would run into him at the intersection, this stud with the peculiar voice. But the things that happened at night were more and more mysterious, and I was less and less able to endure it. It made my whole body sway lightly. I couldn’t stand still.’’