“Hurry, Mother. The abbess is going to assume her position,” a woman shouted shrilly.
The three of them followed along, wondering how Huiming would make her entrance. They saw a fat-faced, big-eared monk in a red cassock who was holding a jade tablet and chanting as he walked to the front. Behind him a nun carried an image of Buddha, and another was banging on a wooden fish, followed by four younger nuns in two rows with lotus lanterns. Then came Huiming, draped in a gold-foiled cassock and wearing a pair of black cloth shoes with slightly elevated heels. With a solemn expression, she looked serene with her bright eyes and white teeth in a rosy-cheeked face above a graceful neck. She walked slowly and effortlessly, seemingly floating like an immortal. Eight monks playing instruments and four nuns brought up the rear, a magnificent contingent approaching Shengmu Hall. Li Hongwen, who was with the other onlookers, ran along to keep Huiming in his field of vision. Tang whispered into Zhuang’s ear, “Look at her. Isn’t she the Miss Ma from the stele?”
“Maybe she is. The nunnery is a fantastic place.”
“I will come here one day,” she said.
“You think you could live in a place like this?” He slyly poked her.
When the contingent entered the hall, the onlookers crowded against the entrance, blocking Zhuang and the others, who could only hear the music and chants.
“I’ll go find someone to let us in.” Meng headed toward the entrance, just as the crowd parted to open a passage. The contingent was inside paying respects to Shengmu; the actual ceremony would be held at Daxiong Hall. The contingent went to both pavilions, where they burned incense and knelt to worship, then moved to the front to pay respect to the various Bodhisattvas before heading to the main hall. The officeholders had been taken ahead of time to the main hall, where they sat against the wall to watch. Meng tried to get Zhuang to join them, but he refused. The contingent entered the hall. Once again, the crowd surged around the entrance, and no one could see a thing with all the heads bobbing in front of them.
“Forget it. We won’t see much even if we’re in there,” Zhuang said.
“Then where do we go? There’s no place to sit,” Meng said.
“Let’s go out back and have a drink.”
“Good idea,” Meng said, clapping his hands. He called the others together and led them out through the gate. They turned down a lane to reach the building, and went up to number 13.
On the way up to the fifth floor, Meng gave everyone a description of the room, while trying to come up with a name for the place. When he opened the door, he saw that Zhuang had already hung two large characters framed in glass facing the living room walclass="underline" Seeking Imperfection. To fit the circumstances, he announced, “This is our salon, which we will call the House of Imperfection Seekers.” The name was unanimously approved, for the notion of seeking imperfection seemed both elegant and meaningful.
“We can let the magazine’s writers revise their work here,” Li said.
“No, this is for our activities only,” Zhuang said. “And we won’t accept outsiders during our weekly get-togethers. I brought you here today because you’re all tired, but please don’t go around telling people about it, or we’ll lose a quiet place to work.”
He brought out the bottle of liquor and two packets of peanuts he had bought at the shop downstairs, telling them to sit wherever they wanted and make themselves at home.
“You can bring food and drink here, but once you’re here, you must talk about literature and the arts,” Meng said. “Let’s begin.”
“Literature isn’t like business,” Gou Dahai said. “You can’t just start talking. Why don’t we drink and chat for now, and maybe at some point the topic will emerge?” He opened the bottle and, because there were no cups, poured its contents into the bottle cap to pass around. Wan’er, who was sitting by herself on the bed, said, “I don’t drink.”
“Why not? Are you having your period?” Meng asked.
“Nonsense. I’m not a writer or an editor, so I can’t talk about literature or art,” she said as she fluffed up the bed pillows. She found a long hair and quickly picked it up.
“Well, you don’t want to talk about literature or art, but you are a work of art, so we’ll talk about you.”
“Your mouth stinks the moment you open it. I won’t call you laoshi anymore.”
“How’s this?” Zhuang cut in. “Let’s each tell a story and then rate them at the end. Those who tell good stories will be safe; those with terrible stories will be fined three drinks.”
“I know what you’re up to,” Meng said. “You want to hear our stories and then use them as material for your novels.”
“So what?” Gou said. “Didn’t Pu Songling have a studio for idle chat?”
“Pu Songling didn’t work as fast as Zhuang Zhidie,” Meng said. “About a third of his writing material comes from me, and I’ve never been paid. But I will tell another story today, with a price tag attached. Zhidie, will you pay for it?”
“After this, I’ll treat everyone to a bowl of noodles.”
“All right,” Meng said. “This is a true story. Do you know the low-lying area near Gongde Gate? The residents there are mostly from Henan. The Yellow River flooded often before Liberation, so the people from Henan who had fled to Xijing threw up tents and sheds and never moved back home. More and more people from Henan settled there, which is why the area is called the Henan Special District. There aren’t many sheds anymore; they’ve been replaced by single-story houses, but space is so limited that an entire family lives in a single room, with a window to the left and a door to the right. And that’s how our story takes place. One day a new couple moved in. The woman was so pretty, so tender you could draw water if you tapped her skin, and naturally the man could not get enough of her. They had sex several times that night, and he wanted to do it again in the morning, making their neighbor uneasy over the noise. You see, the neighbor was a bachelor. The couple naturally repeated the activity the second night, after which the woman needed to pee. Women like to pee at such times.”
“You need to wash your mouth out before telling stories,” Tang Wan’er said.
“All right, then. I’ll try a more refined story,” Meng said. “A hospital admitted a patient with appendicitis and needed to have his pubic hair shaved. An old nurse started shaving, but then a call came for her, so a young nurse took over. When it was done, the two nurses went to wash their hands at the sink, and the old nurse said, ‘The youngsters these days all love tattoos, but this one is weird. He has a tattoo on his thing that says “spring up.’” The young nurse said, ‘No, it says “spring water in the river flows up.’””
No one caught the joke at first, but then Tang punched Meng. Dai Shangtian was totally lost. “What does that mean? Why did one see two words and the other see seven?”
“You’re so dense,” Meng said. “Tang Wan’er knew right off. If it were you and me, there would always be only two words, but if she were there, there would be seven.”
They all laughed. “Now back to the first story,” Zhuang said.
“The added story was free, of course,” Meng continued. “So the woman went to pee and walked back to her place, but it was dark, and all the buildings looked the same, so she opened the door and went straight to bed. But guess what? She had entered the bachelor’s room instead. The bachelor, who was already having trouble sleeping, got worked up when he heard the woman peeing outside. When she climbed into his bed, he knew she was in the wrong house. But he said to himself, Why pass up something good that drops right in your lap. He put his arms around her and began humping. ‘You’re amazing,’ she said. ‘You just did it, and now you can do it again.’ The bachelor said nothing, but was breathing as hard as an old cow, arousing her suspicion. She reached out to touch his head. He was bald. She let out a cry, got out of bed, and walked back to her own place. Her husband asked her if she’d peed a riverful. She sobbed, saying she had done something terrible. He was outraged when he heard her explanation and stormed out of the house. But he walked into the room on the left. Oh, I forgot to tell you that they left their doors open in the summer for ventilation. The occupant of the room to the left was an old man, whom the husband beat the hell out of. End of story.”