When he went to urinate, he discovered that the toilet bowl was a chic matte golden colour, and gave out a cool, dark gleam. He leaned his head down and inspected it, carefully running his finger over the surface of the bowl a few times. He tapped it a few times more, and gasped as he came to a tentative conclusion: the toilet bowl was wrought of gold. Taking upon himself the serious, responsible role of a scientist, he continued the exploration, squatting before the bowl and finally lying down and biting on it to test its authenticity. His sensitive fingers found the shallow tooth marks his bite had left behind.
He took the marbles the brown-eyed boy had given him from his pocket, and rotated them in the light for a while, then cradling them in his hand, he created a circle of darkness around them just so he could admire their glitter. He did not doubt that they were genuine. He only found it hard to believe that the people of Swan Valley could value precious stones and metals no more than they would a piece of shit.
He stood for a long time, feeling emotional. Faced with the golden toilet, he felt an inexpressible pressure. The urge to urinate disappeared. He couldn’t even squeeze out one drop. He dawdled as he began to bathe. Covering himself with shower gel, he thought of the hardships of the road, the strange things he’d encountered, the energy of the spiritual leader, the charm of the girls, the beauty of Swan Valley, the simplicity of the people, and he was overwhelmed with admiration.
Distracted, he finished bathing, his pores emitting the fragrance of the gel, dried his fit body, trimmed his moustache, dressed in the loose linen robe, then faced the mirror again. What he saw there was very pleasing to the eye. He felt that he had the look of one of the famed scholars of old. On his way out, he touched the toilet bowl again, rapping his knuckles against it a few times. He took a final look at the mirror and saw that he looked like a man going on a date. He wore a happy smile — the sort of expression a wife might see on the face of a husband who had been gone for a very long time and had now returned.
The meal was served, and a steaming aroma filled the air. In the centre of the dishes of bamboo shoots and salted meat, rose soup, blood tofu and vegetables was a vase of purple flowers. There were skirt-like blue and white porcelain bowls, two blue and white cups, and three pairs of chopsticks. The fragrance of the rice wine evoked a memory in Mengliu. He thought back to eating in a Chinese restaurant, where it was this same type of rice wine that had made Qizi drunk. He had taken her back to the West Wing and they had slept together on the same bed. Even in this state, she was alert enough to guard her chastity. His desire had boiled through the night.
The woman in green poured a milky substance into his cup. Placing it in front of him with both hands, she asked flatly, ‘Where does the gentleman come from?’
‘Dayang. My family name is Yuan. You can call me Mengliu. I’m a surgeon.’ The chopsticks had a pattern painted on their upper ends. He privately wondered what the meaning of the third pair of chopsticks might be. There was a stiffness to his speech. He employed a formal mode of expression, hoping that would weaken his Dayang accent and add a bit of charm to his words.
‘Oh, I guessed you were from there.’ The girl in green wore a gentle expression, but she seemed to be testing him.
Mengliu was surprised. At times like this, he did not want to waste his energy on polite matters. His heart was pounding with the sights and sounds of spring, his face radiant as if love-struck, like a bird rising confidently and joyously to greet the morning sun.
‘It’s actually a very interesting country,’ the girl continued.
‘Yes, it is vast and overflowing with resources. It has a long history. Swan Valley is…?’ Mengliu tried to hide his embarrassment as he sought to gain a little insight into her place.
‘You can call me Su Juli,’ the woman interrupted.
‘Oh…that’s a pretty name. Does it have any special significance?’
‘My favourite number is seven, because God created man on the seventh day. Our poems have lines with seven characters. There are seven treasures in the Buddhist scriptures. The human body has seven openings, seven passions…’ The woman in green hesitated, as if trying to think of what else might relate to the number seven.
‘…There’s the book Seven Epitomes, and there are seven continents on Earth. Which continent is Swan Valley on?’
‘Mr Yuan, what kind of book is the Seven Epitomes?’
‘It’s an ancient library catalogue.’
‘China is a very mystical country. Look, this blue and white porcelain, that animal carving, they are all very ancient. I don’t even know what period they come from.’
Mengliu pretended to look at them. ‘They’re pretty. But, I don’t really know much about these things.’
Unperturbed, the woman asked in a different tone about Dayang’s legal system, the standard of living of its people, who its spiritual leader was.
Mengliu was overjoyed. He felt that this woman in…no, he should think of her as Juli — that what she had asked was intriguing, and humorous, but the expression on her face as she waited for his answer showed that she was not joking. He had to employ diplomatic tactics and recite at length from passages in his textbooks in praise of the motherland. He could not find the English equivalent to some parts, but he finally managed to express himself clearly — not fluently, but clearly. At a certain level, what touched Juli might not be her opponent’s wit, but his awkwardness. Not everyone liked an eloquent person. Sometimes a person’s charm emerged at a point between a pause and a hesitation. Mengliu strove to express himself in a more careful, mature manner, hoping in this way to attract Juli.
At the end of the day, he was a poet, and not a bad one at that. He was never at a loss with women. One might even say that this was his greatest strength. His accomplishments in literature and his interest in philosophy were embedded deep within him, and women always seemed to have a way to draw it out. He would rather waste all his talent on a woman than be hailed a hero by his ruthless motherland.
With an affected dramatic accent that made it sound like he was explaining a disease, he continued, ‘…with the ups and downs and changes in life, our people are wealthy now and very particular about how they live. After dining out on the weekend, they often go and listen to the music of a mega-star, or see a play featuring some famous actor, or appreciate a world-renowned ballet. During the course of the evening they smoke Cuban cigars and sip on vintage wines. The women go for expensive beauty treatments, and their little purebred dogs visit pet salons…’
The longer he spoke the more outrageous he became. It was obvious his vanity was leading him into trouble as he took the upper echelons of society as the norm in his exposition. In fact, only about four percent of the population of his country enjoyed the lifestyle he spoke of, while eighty-four percent made up the bottom of the pyramid, mired in poverty and unemployment.
The woman in green spoke slowly, inclining her head slightly and clasping her wineglass, ‘We focus on liberal education, and our aim is a cultured people. We spend our time developing the mind, engaging in debate and the appreciation of the arts. For example, Esteban — he’s the young man you saw today, the one who has been engaged in debate for three days and three nights — he admires the ancient Chinese philosopher Mozi. He says people should pursue plain living and seek after spiritual wealth, since pleasure and luxury are evil.’
‘Esteban sounds like a wise man.’ Mengliu returned the salute politely, then drank his wine. ‘Where does he work?’
‘He has many identities. He trains future spiritual leaders, scholars and poets.’ The ring in the woman’s lip shook slightly beneath her pointed nose.