His bedroom and that of the woman in green faced each other from opposite sides of the living room, which was filled with baskets of flowers. This put a fascinating distance of about fifteen metres between them. Mengliu left his door unlocked and stayed in his room for a while, but he did not sleep. He thought of the soldier in the photo. It must be Su Juli’s husband. Was he alive or dead? How had he died? If he was alive, where was he? After a while, he became bored with these questions, and picked up a book in English and flipped through it. His mind grew sluggish.
He lay on the bed. The sheets smelled of apples and his body felt like water spreading comfortably outwards. He listened to the fruit swelling and the shoots popping out of the earth, like someone who was pulling a string and setting off a series of vibrations. Stirred by the wind, his orchard reached the climax of its symphony of sharp, bright, low, and short notes, all alternating in a pleasing mix of sound. After a soft adagio movement, the silence resumed.
Mengliu dreamed, and in his dream he saw three people playing basketball. It was a fierce contest, and when the ball fell into Hei Chun’s hands, it turned into a pistol. Hei Chun pointed the pistol at him, forcing him all the way to the centre of the court, where there was no way out. His assailant interrogated him, ‘Why didn’t you participate in the poetry readings? Why don’t you write poetry any more? If a poet doesn’t write poetry, what meaning is there to his life?’ Bai Qiu suddenly appeared out of nowhere and blocked the pistol with his badly mangled face. His mouth was against the muzzle. He said repeatedly, ‘Poetry is no use; poetry isn’t as fast as a bullet; poetry is not as cruel as the muzzle of a gun.’ Blood and tears flowed from Bai Qiu’s empty eye sockets onto the muzzle of the gun. Blue smoke rose from the muzzle. The pistol turned into a white dove, its dark eyes looking gently at Mengliu. Seeing that the eyes were Qizi’s, Mengliu’s spirit soared. The dove circled the court a few times, and with a cry rose into the sky, shooting upward like a bullet into the glare of the sun. People crowded around, looking at him contemptuously. He was so humiliated he wanted to die. His body became so light it left the earth, hovered in mid-air, then abruptly dropped to the ground.
When he awoke, he was drenched in sweat, even though his heart was chilled.
10
It was raining in Beiping. When the sun broke onto the scene, it warmed things up, and those who braved its heat soon had patches of sweat under their arms. They stripped off their jackets, showing off their physiques — strong, scrawny, stout, or slim — giving the spring a little more flourish.
Mengliu was in a bright mood as he cycled the ten miles to the Wisdom Bureau. He hovered at the entrance to the Physics Department library, a collection of poems clasped in his hand. He glanced over a few lines, then looked around. The peach tree in full bloom above his head occasionally let a few petals flutter down. He saw reflected in the building’s glass facade his ruffled hair and finely chiselled features, and the beard he had specially trimmed for the occasion. His old black V-neck sweater was presentable enough, and his newly-washed jeans had a slightly cloying soapy smell. They were a little long, so he had turned them up at the ankles, allowing the cuffs to rest on top of his canvas boating shoes.
To tell the truth, he was quite satisfied with his image.
Qizi was especially striking in the crowd. She wore a blue shirt with a grey skirt and black flat-soled boots. Her feet clacked as she walked down the steps of the library, clutching a large book to her bosom, blocking it from view. Her chin rested on the book, and it was clear she was lost in a state of mental and physical pleasure. Her skin was even fairer than it had been on the day of the procession, her short raven-black hair flowed around her face, and her slanting fringe especially captivated Mengliu. She was always so beautiful. He only learned later that the day they had met, she had just cut her hair. The way a girl wore her hair always had something to do with what was on her mind.
He stepped towards her and took the book from her arms. It was another book about physics. She was wracking her brains over that machine of the future.
A group of young people walked by, laughing. They wore white T-shirts with the word ‘freedom’ printed across their chests in black. Seeing Qizi, someone whistled cheekily. Mengliu smiled and raised his middle finger toward them.
‘We’re meeting Shunyu. She’s got tickets to see a Chinese opera performance this afternoon at two,’ Qizi said, slapping his hand down.
‘It’s her father’s idea, again. He worries too much. He’s afraid she’ll join in the march, so he gets her tickets to the ballet one day, a concert the next. This time it’s a Chinese show.’ Mengliu shook his head, a wry smile on his face. ‘You and I won’t understand it all. It’s just a novelty, a way for us to have a good time. We’ll have to make the best we can of it.’
‘Her father has good intentions. You’re benefitting from them, but you act like it’s a hardship. Don’t you think you’re being a little unkind?’
‘Poor old man…We should hope that the unrest will go on for a while. Before it started he didn’t even invite us to a movie. Once things settle down, that will be the end of our cultured lifestyle. I don’t know if I could get used to that again!’
Qizi smiled and pinched him. ‘I’ve heard that a lot of people in Round Square have fainted from hunger. If the hunger strike costs someone their life, they’ll be paying too high a price.’
‘Are they really going without food and water? That’s playing too straight…They should sneak a bite, or is just sitting there quietly not eating or drinking supposed to be performance art?’
‘You’re talking nonsense again.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s still two or three hours before the show. Where do you want to go?’
‘Do you want to come back to the West Wing with me?’ Mengliu blurted out. ‘You’ll have to prepare yourself. It’s a mess.’
When he and Qizi appeared in the bar later, they were holding hands and kissing. Love blew on the spring breeze, and their happiness was like flowers bursting into bloom. It was as if their earlier intimacy at his place had propelled them all the way to the bar.
‘Hasn’t that plant ever known a woman’s touch?’ Qizi had been hit by bird droppings when she first stepped into the courtyard, and so had changed into one of Mengliu’s thin sweaters. She stood in the doorway, her posture open and relaxed, watching him wash the bird shit off her clothing. She turned to the half-dead rose bush on the windowsill and started to toy with it, poking it here and there with a stick she had found.
‘No. It has never flowered.’ The old acacia tree flourished in the courtyard. Mengliu hung the blouse out to dry, causing the wire to shake.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘I’m the first?’
‘You’re the first.’
Satisfied, she smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it to bloom with fiery red flowers.’
‘What makes you so sure they’ll be red?’
‘I want them to be red. It’s the colour of passion.’
‘I like white ones. They’re pure.’
‘Let’s bet on it.’
‘Bet what?’
She leaned over and whispered a private message in his ear. Her words filled him with joy — a joy that lasted many years.
He took her and carried her back into the room. They made out for a long time, which made them burn with desire, but they conquered their carnal nature, and their hearts were filled with a sacred purity. He knew she was his, and he was hers. They belonged to each other.