Though only seven years old, it was already evident that he was replicating Madam X’s childhood. He was even more audacious- ‘‘passionate’’ in Madam X’s words-because he had never been disciplined at home. When his mother’s adultery began, he was called a ‘‘whore’s kid’’ by the other children. He didn’t bat an eyelid, as if he hadn’t understood. He inherited his mother’s inane, dream-like expression, which enabled him to recover and rapturously return to his companions. This child’s mold was already set at the age of seven; his whole body was soaked in toxins. Nothing could have shaken him. However much zealous adults tried to enlighten him (Madam X’s husband’s good friend exhausted nearly all his energy on this until, once, ‘‘the tip of his tongue was blistered’’), he didn’t change at alclass="underline" ‘‘My mama, my papa, and even Uncle Q are all wonderful people.’’ If you asked him why, he said, ‘‘Mama can see things in the sky in her mirror. At midnight, she can also fly. The peanuts that Papa fries are fragrant and crisp. No one can do this better than he does. Uncle Q can dribble a ball more than a thousand times in a row. I can do this only fifty-seven times.’’ He had an inspiration and suggested to his mother: ‘‘Ask Uncle Q to move to our home. If the four of us lived together, wouldn’t this be even more interesting?’’ These words were like a heavy slap in the husband’s good friend’s face, so much so that his face was partly purple and partly pale for a week.
When the incident ended, Madam X wrote her sister a long letter. The widow prudently tore it open and read it with other members of our elite. This letter proved that the writer’s diagram of the maze was one hundred percent correct. She had never had eyes for either Q or Y. She was simply acting. In her letter, she professed she had mistaken Q for a peddler from far away wearing a baize overcoat, when in fact Q was an eccentric who had been born and reared here. But what she had looked forward to was a peddler from afar. Reason told her that this kind of person could exist only in a mirror. Although she was capable of creating miracles, she couldn’t create a person out of thin air, so she had to find a stand-in from among the local weirdos. Every stand-in had some characteristic of her ideal peddler from afar, but she would never decide to ‘‘unite’’ with this stand-in. All she could do was continue looking and continue ‘‘changing direction.’’ Each time she might experience that greatest joy. And for that, she could ‘‘ignore everything else.’’ Even though she was now discredited in the eyes of others, she ‘‘didn’t care.’’ She had enough physical and spiritual strength ‘‘to start over again.’’ If she had this kind of opportunity again, she ‘‘wouldn’t let it go.’’ Of course, she didn’t intend to harm anyone. She hoped to be ‘‘on friendly terms with everyone.’’ If she unwittingly hurt others (for example, she always felt very kindly toward Q’s wife and couldn’t figure out why she took this dead end. In X’s view, Q’s wife could definitely have found a much better way out), she was anguished but had no choice: everything she did was involuntary.
After tearing this letter open and reading it, the writer and the widow went to the snack shop on the corner and observed X closely for an entire day. They wanted to see how she would ‘‘start all over again,’’ but their labor was futile: Madam X’s eyes had once more become sightless. She could see the counter, the roasted nuts and seeds, and the marks on the steelyard (she wasn’t off even a little), and so forth. But she couldn’t see people. When she jostled against us, we felt flustered. It seemed she was still adhering to old principles and wanted to ‘‘meet by chance.’’ ‘‘Waiting for the fish to rise to the bait’’ was written all over her face, and a lot of people on Five Spice Street wanted to be that ‘‘fish.’’ They all nosed around Madam X’s fishhook, and all of them suffered! Madam X didn’t consider them fish at all, but only ‘‘dust rags.’’ The writer assumed that if she did consider some Y or Z to be a big fish, her objective would not have changed. Her respectful expression as she weighed out peanuts and beans told you that her joy was extraordinary. Her pleasure was murder. Whoever took her bait was finished. In the beginning, that person may have thought it was a good thing (like Q-with ‘‘hot tears brimming in his eyes’’-rapturously hurrying to the rendezvous at the intersection). Only later did Q discover that he was a big fish caught in a net. Either the fish died and the net was torn, or the carp jumped out and fell heavily to the ground-and was left deformed. Meanwhile, Madam X just sat by. Nothing made her sad. She had never been accustomed to sorrow or regret. As before, she sold peanuts and quickly forgot the incident. Later, if possible, she would secretly throw out her line and wait, full of hope, for the next fish. She confided to her sister that she was destined to reenact this procedure for a lifetime. Even if she were a ‘‘discolored pearl in old age,’’ fish would still jump to her bait. ‘‘This world is very large,’’ she said, and then immediately added, ‘‘But this large, deserted world wouldn’t hold a peddler from afar. I’ll wait a lifetime in vain.’’
Our diagram of the maze is finished to this point. People will want to shout, ‘‘We’ve done so much miscellaneous work-meetings in the dark room, doodling, pasting up posters, tailing her, and so forth. We’ve worked so long, and yet everything has been fruitless from the beginning: all along, X and Q were simply acting. Was X merely toying with the crowd? Is that what you mean? Or was it that you, the gloomy stenographer, came up with this sophistry to demonstrate your own damn literary talent? If you just want to promote yourself, be my guest. But you shouldn’t turn the crowd into horse- shit while making a hero out of a whore. What you did was too-’’ Hold on, friends: the writer never said X had great talent, that she could make life into a stage and then put on a play or something.
The writer sought only to stress: X is a woman with neither conscience nor feelings. As for this fiasco, it had nothing to do with talent. She wasn’t educated (she herself said she ‘‘didn’t know even one character’’-of course, this was a little exaggerated). She had never ‘‘given much thought’’ to anything she chanced upon. How could she have great talent? ‘‘Friends, don’t worry: you didn’t work in vain.’’ There will come a day when ‘‘conditions are ripe.’’ Everything will become clear. Our meetings in the dark room and our lofty methods of expression-all were unique: they embodied the wisdom of our ordinary people as well as our elite. These have practically and realistically been entered into our glorious history, which is on the writer’s windowsill, its rays of light shooting in all directions. A thief who one night planned to steal this treasure unexpectedly couldn’t open his eyes because of the rays of light. He took a hard fall-this audacious thief! In the writer’s eyes, Madam X lived an unprofitable life. She couldn’t actualize her plot. She was lonely, too, as a result of what she did. She didn’t mix with anyone, nor did she have one friend in whom she could confide. Was this worthwhile? Would she keep fishing? After this she would probably catch fewer and fewer fish and in the end run out of patience!
The Second Diagram of the Maze
How can we predict Madam X’s future direction? Our analyses reveal Madam X to be an insignificant, eccentric person. It seems we’ve verified that, as an entity, she exists on our Five Spice Street. But just when we were about to move on to blackboard work, the second problem flashed into the writer’s mind. He shouted loudly: ‘‘Hold on!’’ And so everyone stopped what he was doing and stared at the writer with doubtful eyes. The writer began explaining: If this issue isn’t resolved, all our previous efforts were in vain. The question is: If Madam X is an entity, she is destined to advance. And if so, then there must be a direction. How could we overlook this basic question?