The Real Story of Ah-Q (29 page)

‘I’d had no idea she’d suffered so much for a velvet flower, but as soon as Mother brought it up, I remembered the buckwheat episode, and set diligently about my task. After a fruitless search through Taiyuan, I finally – ’

A thick layer of snow slid off the camellia tree. No longer slumped under the weight, the tree stood upright once more, flaunting its broad, dark, glossy leaves and blood-red flowers even more proudly. The sky seemed darker, the twittering of birds suggesting dusk could not be far off. Since the ground – and any food it might hold – was blanketed in snow, they were returning early to their nests.

After gazing out of the window a while, he turned back to finish his latest cup of wine, then took a few more draws on his cigarette. ‘I finally found some in Jinan,’ he went on. ‘I didn’t know whether they were the sort she’d taken a fancy to, that she’d been beaten for wanting, but they were made of velvet, at least. As I didn’t know whether she had a preference for light or dark colours, I bought a red one and a pink one, and brought them both with me.

‘Today, straight after lunch, I went to see Chang Fu – I’d stayed on an extra day specially. Though he lived in the same place as he’d always done, the house somehow seemed gloomier than before – though I may have been just imagining it. His son and his younger daughter, Ah-zhao, were standing at the gate – both grown up. Ah-zhao looks a proper fright – not a bit like her sister. Seeing me approach, she fled back inside. I tried talking to the boy instead, who told me Chang Fu wasn’t at home. “What about your big sister?” I asked. Glaring at me, he asked again and again what I wanted with her. There was this savage look to him, as if he wanted to hurl himself at me, to bite me. I beat a hasty retreat, muttering something or other. I don’t like to make unnecessary trouble for myself any more.

‘You have no idea how much I hate calling on people – even more than I used to. I know what a burden I am, even to myself; why should I force my unhappiness on others? But I had to see the business through now, so I eventually decided to go over to the tinder store opposite. There I found old Mrs Fa, the owner’s mother, who recognized me and invited me in to sit down. After a bit of small talk, I explained why I was looking for Chang Fu.

‘ “Poor Ah-shun,” she sighed. “She was an unlucky one – too unlucky to wear these flowers.”

‘I then got a minutely detailed account of what had happened. “Last year, probably around New Year it was, she’d started to look pale and thin. She’d often be bursting into tears, but never tell you why. Sometimes, she’d cry all night. In the end, Chang Fu lost his temper, told her she’d turned into a crazy old maid. Then in early autumn, it must have been, she took to her bed with a slight cold and never got up. Just a few days before she died, she finally told Chang Fu she’d been spitting blood and getting night sweats for ages, just like her mother. But she hadn’t said anything – she hadn’t wanted him to worry. One night, her uncle, Chang Geng, had come by again, wanting to borrow money as usual. When she wouldn’t give him any he smirked and told her not to act so superior. Her father had arranged for her to marry a complete good-for-nothing – not even half the man
he
was. She was never the same after this: always sad, always bursting into tears – too shy to ask anything directly. As soon as Chang Fu found out, he told her what a fine fellow her fiancé was; but the damage had been done. She didn’t believe him. Just as well I haven’t long left, she said.

‘ “What sort of a man was her husband-to-be, she’d say, if he wasn’t even
half
the man her chicken-thief uncle was? But I saw him with my own eyes when he came to the funeral: he was a very decent-looking man, very respectably turned out. He’d been a boatman half his life, he told me with tears in his eyes, scraping together money for a wife – and then she went and died. He was a good man, anyone could see that; Chang Geng had lied. Such a pity she threw her life away, believing that no-good uncle of hers… Though it’s no one’s fault, really, but Ah-shun’s for being born unlucky.”

‘There it was; and my business in these parts was at an end. But what was I to do with those two velvet flowers? I asked her to pass them on to Ah-zhao. Not with a particularly good will: Ah-zhao had fled the moment she’d set eyes on me – as if I were a wolf, come to eat her up… But anyway. Now, all I had to do was tell Mother how pleased Ah-shun had been, and the job was done. Completely pointless; but the time passes, at least. And once I’ve got through New Year, I’ll go back to teaching Confucius.’

‘You’re teaching the classics?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Of course. What did you think – that I was teaching English? I started off with two students, one doing
The Book of Odes
and the other
Mencius
. I’ve just got a new one, a girl – she’s studying
Classical Maxims for Young Ladies
. I don’t even teach maths: not because I don’t want to, but because they don’t want it.’

‘I never thought you’d end up teaching this sort of stuff.’

‘It’s their father who wants it – I’m just the hired help, I don’t care. What a waste of time it all is. But I get by.’

His face was now flushed with wine – though the gleam had gone out of his eyes again. I sighed gently, then let a silence fall between us. A new gang of drinkers clattered up the stairs, a short man with a round, swollen face leading the pack. Just behind him was a much taller man, his most conspicuous feature a scarlet nose. On and on they came, until the small building trembled with the stampede. Lü Weifu and I glanced at each other; then I called for the bill.

‘D’you earn enough to live on?’ I asked as we prepared to go.

‘Yes – twenty dollars a month. Actually, not quite enough.’

‘So what are your plans for the future?’

‘The future?… I’ve no idea. Have any of the dreams we once had come to anything? Right now, I don’t know what the next day or even the next minute might hold.’

The waiter brought up the bill and handed it to me. His initial reserve now gone, my companion glanced across at me, drawing on his cigarette, and let me get on with paying.

We left together but, as his hotel lay in the opposite direction to mine, we said goodbye just outside the door. Alone, I walked off towards my hotel, refreshed by the wind and snow, a fine, white net of flakes swirling around the dusk sky, and over the buildings and street below.

16 February 1924

(After Xu Qinwen
¹
)

‘… whatever he writes – or chooses not to write – is an expression of the self; a shaft of sunlight blazing out from an infinite light source, not the occasional spark struck from a flint. This – only this – is the true art, written by the true artist… while I… What does it all mean?’

He interrupted his stream of consciousness by leaping out of bed. He knew what he had to do: sell some articles to sustain life.
Happiness Monthly
was his organ of choice – because they paid well. But he needed a big idea to get them interested. The right kind of big idea… What are the youth of today thinking about?… Probably love, marriage, family life – that kind of thing… Fine: family life it is, then. But what sort of thing should it be?… No, they won’t accept that. No point in sounding negative, but… A few steps took him to his writing desk, where he sat down, pulled out a piece of green-lined paper and, resigning himself to the whole loathsome business, dashed off a title: ‘A Happy Family’.

He immediately stalled and stared up at the ceiling, considering where to place this happy family of his. ‘Beijing?’ he wondered. ‘No. It’s a morgue of a city – even the air smells dead. I suppose I could put them in a high-walled compound… but the air might still get in over the top. No… Jiangsu and Zhejiang are too unstable; Fujian’s even worse. There’s already fighting in Sichuan and Guangdong. Shandong, then, or Henan? Too many bandits. Someone’s bound to get kidnapped – and there goes my happy family. The foreign concessions in Shanghai and Tianjin are too expensive… I can’t have them live abroad, ridiculous idea. All I know about Yunnan and Guizhou is there’s no decent transport there…’ And on he went, unable to think of a suitable setting. He contemplated inventing somewhere and calling it A—: ‘Too risky. They say readers don’t like you using Roman letters to stand in for names any more. Best not chance it. But where am I going to put them? There’s fighting in Hunan, too, rents are too high in Dalian, yet more bandits in the north-east…’ On he went, frustrated by the search for a place, until he settled, eventually, back on ‘A—’.

‘Fine, A— it is. Now, back to the family itself: a husband and wife – a love match, naturally. Forty clauses in their prenuptial agreement, to make sure everything’s good and clear, and perfectly free and equal. They’re both exquisite specimens – physically and intellectually. Both graduates… Studying in Japan isn’t fashionable any more… the West – yes, they went to university in the West. The husband wears Western suits, his starched collars as white as snow. The wife’s hair is perfectly permed and set, her perfect white teeth permanently arranged into a perfect smile. But she dresses in the Chinese style – ’

‘No! Twenty-five pounds!’

He glanced involuntarily out of the window, following the direction of the man’s voice. The sun glared dazzlingly back at him through the drawn curtains. ‘None of my business,’ he turned back to the great work, ignoring the sound of bundles of wood scattering over the ground. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, “twenty-five pounds”?… Now, my exquisite intellectuals are great lovers of the arts. Except for Russian novels – they’ve always been too happy to like Russian novels… Russian novels devote far too much space to the lower classes; quite unsuitable for a couple of this sort. “Twenty-five pounds”? Shut him out. Focus. What kind of books
do
they read, though?… Byron? Keats? No, too risky… I know: they both have a passion for
An Ideal Husband
. Haven’t read it myself, but it’s a great favourite in academic circles, so I’m sure they’ll love it. They read everything the other reads… They each have a copy – his and hers. Which means there’s a total of two copies in the house…’ Conscious of a slight emptiness in his stomach, he set down his pen and held his head in both hands, like a globe hanging between two mighty pillars.

‘They’re having lunch together,’ he thought. ‘The tablecloth is snow-white; the food – Chinese food – is sent up from the kitchen. What’s “twenty-five pounds” supposed to mean? Shut him out. Focus. Why Chinese food? Westerners are always saying how delicious and healthy and progressive Chinese food is; Chinese food it is. Here comes the first dish… what should it be…?’

‘Firewood.’

He started: looking around, he found the mistress of his own household standing behind his left shoulder, her sullen eyes fixed on his face.

‘What is it?’ he snapped, resenting this interruption to the creative process.

‘We’re out of firewood – I need to buy some more today. It’s gone up from two hundred and forty coppers for ten pounds to two hundred and sixty. Is it all right if I give him two hundred and fifty?’

‘Fine, fine, whatever.’

‘I’m sure he’s overcharging us. He claims he’s left us twenty-four and a half pounds, but I’m only going to pay him for twenty-three and a half. All right?’

‘Fine, fine, whatever.’

‘Five fives are twenty-five, three fives are fifteen…’

‘Five fives are twenty-five, three fives are fifteen…’ Faltering at the same stage of the sum, he seized his pen and scribbled a few figures out on the green-lined paper on which a single line of ‘A Happy Family’ was inscribed.

‘Five hundred and eighty coppers!’ he eventually pronounced, looking back up at his wife.

‘I’m about ten short, then.’

Pulling open the drawer of his desk, he scooped up all the coppers from inside – at least twenty or thirty in total – and deposited them in her opened palms. After watching her leave the room, he turned back towards his desk. His head now felt swollen, stuffed full of firewood. 5 × 5 = 25… Arabic numerals crowded his brain. He took a deep breath, then forcefully exhaled, as if hoping to expel both firewood and mental arithmetic. Feeling more relaxed, he resumed his vague thought-processes.

‘Now, what should they eat? Something just a little bit recherché. Sautéed tenderloin, or shrimp roe and sea slugs? Far too mainstream. It has to be the Battle of Dragon and Tiger – but what is that, exactly? I heard somewhere that it’s snake and cat – a Cantonese delicacy, served only at the best banquets. But I’ve seen it on the menu in Jiangsu restaurants, and I don’t think people eat snake and cat in Jiangsu. So it might be frog and eel – who was it who told me that? Where did I say this couple comes from?… Doesn’t matter. Everyone likes a nice bit of snake and cat, or frog and eel – wherever they’re from, it won’t stop them from being a happy family. That’s settled then: Dragon and Tiger it is.

‘After the dish is placed in the middle of the table, both take up their chopsticks at exactly the same moment, smiling, gesturing towards the food and conversing in fluent English:

‘ “
My dear, please
.”

‘ “
Please, you eat first, my dear
.”

‘ “
Oh, no, please, you!
”

‘Both reach out simultaneously with their chopsticks, and select a piece of snake meat… No, snake sounds far too exotic – eel, much better. So this particular vintage of Dragon and Tiger is frog and eel. They each take a piece of eel, of identical size, five fives are twenty-five, three fives… Shut him out. Focus… and pop it into their mouths at exactly the same moment…’ Conscious of a background commotion – the clatter of footsteps back and forth – he felt an overwhelming desire to turn back round. And yet, exercising remarkable self-restraint, he returned to his confused train of thought. ‘Though there’s something not quite natural about that. What’s wrong with me? Such a gift of a topic – why am I making a meal of it?… Maybe they don’t need to have studied abroad, maybe they went to a Chinese university. At any rate they’re both graduates, exquisite physical and intellectual specimens… The man’s a writer, and so is the woman – or at least, an admirer of writers. Or the woman’s a poet, and the man admires poets, and respects the equality of the sexes. Or…’ Unable to stand it any longer, he turned round.

Six cabbages had materialized next to the bookcase behind him, looming up – in a three-two-one formation – into a large, A-shaped mound.

He gave a sharp intake of breath, as a rush of hot blood flushed his face. A forest of tiny pins and needles seemed to be pricking his spine. ‘This happy family’s home must be spacious,’ he thought, banishing the needles with a long sigh. ‘There will be a dedicated storage room, for items like cabbages. The husband will have his own study, lined with bookshelves, and naturally devoid of cabbages. The shelves will be lined with books both foreign and Chinese – two copies of
An Ideal Husband
among them, of course. There’ll be a separate bedroom, with a brass bed. Or something simpler, perhaps: an elmwood bed made by reformed convicts in the factory of Number One Prison, say. Nothing will be stored beneath the bed…’ At this exact point in his thoughts, he glanced under his own bed: where the firewood had once been, a piece of rope now stretched over the floor like a dead snake.

‘Twenty-three and a half pounds…’ The sticks were back in his head again. Anticipating invasion by firewood, he got up to shut the door. But as he reached for the handle, he began to worry about seeming irritable and pulled down the dusty door-curtain instead. What a happy compromise, he thought to himself, congratulating himself on his fluent application of the celebrated Confucian Doctrine of the Mean: neither the hasty isolationism of shutting the door, nor the insecurity of leaving it open.

‘The husband always keeps the door to his study shut,’ he thought, returning to his desk. ‘In the case of queries arising, the petitioner first knocks on the door, then enters only on receiving permission from the room’s occupant – now that’s how things should be done. Even the wife knocks – even if she wants to come and discuss the arts with her husband… He’s no need to worry, she’s not the kind of person who barges in with an armful of cabbages.

‘ “
Come in, please, my dear
,” he welcomes her – in English, of course.

‘But what about the times when the husband is too busy to talk about the arts? Does he just ignore her, while she stands outside, hammering at the door? I don’t think that would do. Maybe
An Ideal Husband
has some light to shed on the question – I really must read it, I’m sure it’s excellent. I’ll buy myself a copy the moment I get paid for this article – ’

Wham!

He sat bolt upright: past experience told him this was the sound of his own dear wife’s hand on the head of their two-year-old daughter.

‘
My
happy family…’ he thought on, still sitting upright, hearing his daughter wailing in the background, ‘put off having children. Or maybe don’t have any. Life is so much tidier when it’s just the two of you… or maybe I should have them live in a hotel, where everything gets taken care of for you, where a person can get on with…’ After the wailing increased in volume, he stood up and made his way through the door-curtain. ‘Marx wrote
Das Kapital
as his children screamed about him,’ he thought to himself. ‘The mark of a great man…’ Going through to the kitchen, he opened the storm-door and smelt kerosene. Just to the right of the door, his daughter was lying face-down on the ground. The moment she saw him, she began sobbing again.

‘There, there, don’t cry.’ He bent down to pick her up. ‘Don’t cry, there’s a good girl.’

Turning round, he saw his wife standing to the left of the door, bolt upright, hands planted furiously on her hips, as if she were about to throw herself into some painful keep-fit routine.

‘Why does everyone in this family want to make my life difficult? All you do is make more work for me… Why on earth did you push the lamp over? What are we going to do for light this evening?’

‘There, there, don’t cry,’ he soothed the child, pushing that querulous voice to the back of his head. ‘There’s a good girl.’ He carried her into his room, stroking her head. Setting her down, he pulled out his chair, sat on it, and stood her between his two legs. ‘Don’t cry, there’s a good girl. Daddy’ll play washing the cat’s face.’ He stretched his neck forward and stuck his tongue out towards his palms, then pretended to lick one and rub it in circles around his own face.

‘Patch!’ she began to giggle.

‘Yes, just like Patch.’ After making a few more circles with his palms, he let them drop. But then he saw she was still looking at him: tears still hanging in her eyes, above her smile. He was suddenly reminded, in miniature, of his wife, five years ago: that innocent face, those bright red lips. It was on another crisp winter’s day, all those years ago, that he’d declared himself – told her he’d do anything for her, put up with any difficulty or sacrifice. She’d had the same smile on her face, the same tears clinging to her eyes. He sat, staring blankly, as if drunk.

‘Those wonderful lips…’ he thought.

Up went the door-curtain: the firewood was being delivered.

He snapped out of his daze and realized his daughter was still staring at him, tears in her eyes, lips slightly parted. ‘Lips…’ He glanced across at the firewood. ‘Soon enough, I’ll be getting five fives are twenty-five, nine nines are eighty-one from her, too!… The same sullen eyes…’ He seized up the sheet of green-lined paper – with its single line of text and swarm of numerals – scrunched it into a ball, then opened it back out to wipe her eyes and nose. ‘There’s a good girl, off you go and play, then,’ he said, pushing her off his knee and throwing the ball of paper, hard, into the wastepaper basket.