‘My father just told me that he’s heard news that some people are going to be picked up. It’s best to behave ourselves, and also to avoid large gatherings.’ As Shunyu spoke, she took on the manner of a member of the Plum Party.
‘Not again!’ The tea was too hot, so Qizi sipped it carefully. ‘Don’t worry. I was picked up last time. It was nothing.’
‘You were arrested? For what?’ Hei Chun was taken aback.
Qizi stole a quick glance at Mengliu and said, ‘I was guilty of being in love.’
The stolen glimpse at Mengliu was enough to establish a tacit conspiracy between them. The halo that seemed to surround her reached right into his chest. He thought she must have learned she could trust him.
Shunyu stared at them with eyes that had grown rounder than their wine glasses. This didn’t necessarily mean that she was surprised. She wanted her lashes to seem longer, her mouth to grow smaller, and her face to appear sharp and thin, like an adorable cartoon character, in the hope that the boys would be fascinated. Specifically, it was all for Hei Chun’s benefit. It was obvious that everything she did was motivated by concern for Hei Chun’s wellbeing. Hei Chun pretended not to notice. He looked at Qizi, and after scrutinising her for a bit, stubbornly returned to the topic of her ex-boyfriend.
‘Dadong is not completely useless. The fake antiques he helped make were sold at exorbitant prices. Someone alerted the National Cultural Relics Protection Bureau, and he was almost thrown in jail for stealing and selling national treasures. If he’d put his brains to good use, he’d be fine. At the very least, he could apply it to his love life.’ Hei Chun tucked his feet in and sat in the Buddha pose as he continued, ‘Qizi, look around here carefully. Which of us can’t measure up to Dadong? You could choose any of us. I think that punk just got lucky.’
Even though it was clear that Hei Chun was joking, Mengliu cringed. He busied himself by gulping down more wine.
‘Hei Chun, are you trying to hide something?’ Bai Qiu asked. ‘Everyone in the world knows you’ve been bitten by the love bug. You hide under the covers at night writing Qizi’s name in all the languages of the planet. Now that she’s fair game, you can seize the opportunity to confess your love. You don’t need to drag all of us into it.’
They all ribbed him, growing more and more waggish in their jibes.
‘Hey! What fucking nonsense!’ Hei Chun’s eyes flashed like the fluttering of bat’s wings, but he quickly restored his bright countenance. Making an about-face, he began to expound on another topic of interest. ‘There’s a good poem on the double-tracked wall. It says, “Honest men die, while hypocrites survive; passionate men die, left to be buried by the indifferent.”…The best kind of government is the one that does not make its presence felt. The next best is the one that makes its subjects feel close to it. After that, the one that uses administrative measures. The worst is the one that resorts to violence. What do you think?’
‘Sh! Don’t let my father hear or he’ll kick all of you out. He told me so himself.’ Shunyu, really anxious now, turned her wide eyes on Hei Chun.
‘Okay, okay, okay. Let’s switch to the entertainment channel then. Mengliu, show us your unique skill. Blow us a tune to make us forget all our troubles. Make us believe all is well.’
‘I didn’t bring it,’ Mengliu replied, suddenly nervous. He didn’t feel like showing off in front of Qizi right now. Hei Chun poked a hand into Mengliu’s pocket and went right for the lady-charming chuixun. ‘Unhappy with your performance fees, you little prick? Everyone, give him a round of applause.’
A mix of applause and heckling came from the group.
‘What do you want to hear?’ Helpless, Mengliu wiped his instrument.
‘Anything. Whatever you play is best,’ said Hei Chun.
‘Then it’ll be “The Pain of Separation”.’ Mengliu took a sip of water and wet his lips. ‘This is especially for the two lovely ladies, Qizi and Shunyu.’
He fingered the flute and began to blow. Within seconds they had all been transported to hell, the music drawing out of them the great sorrow that lurked inside. It was the kind of mournful, melancholy tune that could break your heart.
When they left the bar, Shunyu’s father gave Mengliu a thumbs up. ‘You play that kazoo divinely. Even better than I do.’
7
As he pushed his way out from the dark mountains, across the thickly forested hillside, Mengliu climbed to the top of the hill to have a look. He saw a city, a real city full of mushrooming buildings, with spires sticking up like towering ancient trees. The atmosphere was solemnly quiet and mysterious, the air full of the aroma of buckwheat.
The sun was shining. A river ran down from the mountains and then through the city, stepping all the way down the slope like scales. Wild chrysanthemums swayed on the hill, dancing to their own tune. Church bells broke the silence, a ringing full of forgiveness and serenity, as if proclaiming to everyone, ‘All manner of sin and blasphemy will be forgiven. Don’t doubt, just believe.’
Mengliu raced like an escaped horse toward the city, his mane flying in the wind, eyes enlarged and nostrils puffing. He took wing, like a bird, the wind whistling in his ears, the trees falling rapidly away behind him. He shot forward like a bullet at lightning speed.
Of course, that was only in his fancy. In actual fact, he was squatting in front of a strip of engraved stone, carefully observing the text he saw there. The script looked like Hei Chun’s writing, thin and aloof, strong strokes that added a lot of character to each word.
He saw that he’d come to a city-state called ‘Swan Valley’.
Twenty minutes later he entered the city. It was extremely small, perhaps more appropriately called a town. The streets were deserted, and a mystical white smoke floated over the rooftops. The trees were low and tidy, their leaves thick and shiny. The buildings sprouting up in the midst of the trees were all of an identical style. Even the patterns on the windows, the door handles, and the stone steps were the same. None of the buildings were higher than two or three stories, constructed from beautiful granite stone. The joints were filled with plaster, and the walls topped with simple roofs resembling mushroom caps. White screens fluttered at each latticed window. The cloth on each screen was coated with a translucent oil, giving it an amber tint. The doors and windows were all wide open. The rooms inside were well-lit, and appeared clean and warm. They looked just like the sort of places where one might sit and talk of old heroic deeds and the current day’s farm chores over a cup of tea or wine.
A white porcelain dish held pig’s trotters that glistened in the room’s exquisite glow, like a lotus blossom made of meat. In a short while, all that was left was an empty plate and discarded bone fragments. Mengliu cleaned his mouth with his hand as he looked at the house’s decor. One wall was covered with a huge batik painting — the most eye-catching decoration in the room. It was a map that showed men, horses, bows and arrows and deer, all in scenes of chaos and tension.
The dining table was formed by a few round wooden blocks. The edge of the table retained the shape of the original log, its surface made smooth, and the wood grain distinct. It was covered with script written in a child’s hand, in what looked like the Latin alphabet. A cupboard held blue and white porcelain pieces, all beautifully crafted. They were covered with elegant patterns that gave them a historical feel. Rattan chairs filled the space with the smell of grass. Round baskets were hung around the room, each containing green Chinese wisteria plants dotted with blooming lavender flowers, giving one a sense of the owner’s genteel, delicate tastes. Mengliu rummaged around for more food, and ate a jarful of colourful cakes. He was not sure whether they were made from wheat or corn, or perhaps even some sort of ground soya bean.