He couldn’t answer. He felt that his privacy had been invaded, and he had been stripped naked in public. Looking around for an excuse he glanced at the ceiling and saw that a certain star up there was emitting a weak red light. He knew there were eyes on him.
‘Never mind if you don’t answer Mr Yuan, there are pen and paper on the desk. You can start composing your Swan Song any time you like.’
‘Surely it’s not just machines? Is anyone here?’ he asked aloud. ‘I want to talk to someone. Where is Suitang? I need to see her.’
‘She is fine. After you have finished writing, you will meet.’
‘Goodness is the highest virtue in Swan Valley, but you illegally place a citizen under house arrest. It won’t be good for you if this is made public.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that. We’re being very hospitable to you. We’ve given you the finest food Swan Valley has to offer, and the most comfortable lodgings,’ the spiritual leader said in a tepid tone. ‘Look how quiet it is here, much more conducive to writing than your West Wing. As long as you don’t ring the bell no one will disturb you.’
A sudden apprehension rose in Mengliu. Testing just how much the spiritual leader actually knew, he said, ‘What West Wing?’
‘You wouldn’t have forgotten that. There was an acacia tree in the courtyard, and you kept a pot with a rose that refused to bloom.’
‘No! You’re wrong. It did bloom! It bloomed!’ Unable to bear the slanderous remarks against the rose, he interrupted without thinking. ‘It bloomed, and it was…’
‘Bloomed?’ The spiritual leader sounded surprised, as if it were hearing something impossible. ‘What colour was it?’
Mengliu had retreated into his own memories, and saw nothing but the rose before his eyes. ‘She said open, and it opened. She said it would be red, and it was red.’ His tone was almost that of a dream. ‘It bloomed six times in all, always with four blossoms, which remained open until the frost came. The scarlet petals would drop around the flower pot, then dry and harden. I collected them and laid them into a collage forming one word.’
‘Was it “Qizi?”’
‘No. It was “Freedom!”’ He was like an old friend pouring his heart out. ‘I was free. I got rid of her. No one would care about me anymore. Oh. I’m glad you know everything. I have nothing to hide, and nothing to talk about. I hope you understand my feelings. I have not told this to anyone before. Now I can really let go.’
The spiritual leader was silent for quite a while, then said, ‘Too bad your fiancée did not see the flowers. That is to her credit.’
‘Later, I left the Wisdom Bureau and studied medicine for five years. As if to affirm my choice, my hands took naturally to the scalpel.’ He reached out his soft thin hand in a moment of appreciation. ‘The language of exile has no motherland. Writing poetry is just misguided.’
‘These excuses make it obvious that your problem is one of self-esteem, Mr Yuan. Your talent is beyond doubt…but since the rose bloomed — and moreover, it was red — you should at least honour your promise — never to give up writing poetry.’
‘It’s too late, useless. I have lost my imagination. Who can make a butterfly with broken wings fly? Poetry abandoned me, choosing of its own free will to fall short.’ Mengliu felt as if he had returned to himself after being put into a trance. He faced the red flashing star and said, ‘See, we can carry on an agreeable conversation. You might as well tell me about yourself now. Perhaps talking face to face. That would be better.’
‘As Swan Valley’s spiritual leader I solemnly promise you, as soon as you finish your Swan Song, it will be your choice whether you stay or go.’
‘I recommend Darae. He’s the most outstanding local poet. And he has a much better understanding of Swan Valley than I ca—’
‘You have a month. I wish you well.’
The red star suddenly went blank. The stars on the blue ceiling continued to glitter.
25
Over the next two days Mengliu passed the time with The Golden Lotus, though secretly he was considering all sorts of counter-measures to employ against his captors. His days were not too difficult, spent idly reading the erotic passages. On the third morning, two robots entered uninvited, took down the paintings decorating the walls, and the crystal chandelier, leaving only a dim bulb for light, casting shadows on the four uneven concrete walls of the room. At four o’clock in the afternoon, they also took his bed and mattress, removed the carpet, and left him only a pile of tattered quilts. On the fourth day, the room was completely emptied, revealing a rugged cell with a cracked toilet and no water coming out of the faucet. His food too was stripped bare, to cabbage and tofu accompanied by a cup of cold water once a day. The bell was completely disregarded. He looked angrily at the pen and paper on the table, then threw them at the wall. Then the radiator was switched off, and even with all of his clothes on he was cold. He wrapped a quilt around him. On the seventh day he started counting the stars on the ceiling, and used his footsteps to measure the room. He picked up the pen and paper, placed them on the small table, and stared at them for a long time. He had no water to wash himself with, nor clothes to change into, and the toilet smelled of urine and shit. He scratched his itchy body until the dry skin bled. He felt he had become an animal. Before long, he would grow fur all over his body and lose the ability to understand human speech. He would begin to howl.
On that seventh day someone new served his food, a young person. He was strong and good-looking, his skin and hair as black as a gorilla’s, his waist flexible, his lips thin and wide. His eyes were those of an actor, his expression soft and tender, his face youthful and yet tainted with age. He was a quiet creature. He set the dishes down as if he was serving a meal to a king, with his eyes humbly lowered and his hands clasped. He bowed as if waiting for orders, and didn’t seem to mind the pungent odour in the room. Mengliu tried to strike up a conversation with him. He didn’t speak, just bowed at the waist in response. Mengliu thought perhaps he did not understand English. He scratched his head in distress. Not to speak with someone would surely drive the prisoner mad. Taking a few phrases of Swanese he had learned from Yuyue, he asked the simian fellow in tortured language if it understood English, suggesting that perhaps they could chat a while, he had a belly full of stories to share for free. He sincerely hoped the ape-like creature would look up at him, even if it really was an ape. If all it did was watch him as he spoke, that would be enough.
Actually, his expectations had been too low. Using charming eyes to look askance at him a couple of times, the fellow began to speak. In an effeminate tone, he answered in perfect American English, looking on Mengliu with devotion the whole time. He said, ‘I’m your ardent fan. I know you’re an awesome poet. I really admire you…you established your status in literary circles when you were only in your twenties. You’re really amazing! The poems the Three Musketeers wrote, I read them all when I was ten, and yours are the ones I like the best. I always dreamed of getting a chance to meet and talk to you, but I never really believed this day would come. And…you’re still so young! You have the grace of a poet, just like I imagined you would have.’