As the monkey spoke, he shyly took out a little notebook and asked his idol for an autograph.
Perhaps because of his hunger, Mengliu felt slightly dizzy. Steadying himself, he took the notebook from the monkey’s hand. The book contained autographs by many famous people. He leafed through it slowly, thinking how after so many years, in this strange place, a fan had emerged, and it made his heart churn a little. He thought of how fans had asked for the autographs of the Three Musketeers in just the same way years ago. The Three Musketeers would hide behind closed doors and practise their signatures in their free time. Hei Chun’s autograph was very artistic, written with a flair that made it impossible to read. Bai Qiu’s was clumsy and honest, belying his wisdom. But Mengliu had completely forgotten what his own signature looked like in those days. Certainly it was not the same as he had used to sign medical charts. He thought of finding a blank page to show off a little, just to satisfy the effeminate’s request. Suddenly, a few words in Dayangese jumped out from the book, stinging his eyes and making his heart tingle. Yes! It was Qizi! He recognised it as soon as he saw it. It was Qizi’s autograph! He grabbed the ape’s hairy hand excitedly, barraging him with questions. The poor fellow, shaking like an electric shock had bolted through him, shot back, ‘It’s not mine. I found it in a dead person’s pocket.’
‘Where?’ asked Mengliu.
‘Underground. Probably only the bones are left now.’
Mengliu said in an authoritative tone, ‘I don’t mean the body. I mean, where did you pick up the book?’
The simian fellow looked frightened by his idol’s expression. His thin lips were speechless for a while, then he said in a sorrowful tone, ‘It was in the woods. About five years ago.’
Mengliu flipped through the pages of the autograph book once more and, holding it tightly to his chest, looked up and let out a long sigh. The clue’s thread had been cut with a stroke, but the signature at least meant that Qizi might still be alive. The discovery made him shake uncontrollably. He seemed to smell her breath, to hear her voice on the wind, to see the shadow of her figure haunting the foliage.
The fellow placed his folded hands on his abdomen again and said shyly and cheerily, ‘If you want this book, it’s all yours. I’ve always dreamt of giving my most treasured possession to my idol. Oh God is good to me! I am so blessed! My name is Sama. If you can remember that — Sama — I will die happy.’
Mengliu did not move, not even a twitch. Confronted with his fan’s emotional expression of adoration, he offered no emotion of his own.
He ate nothing. Stimulated by the thought of Qizi, he suddenly felt it would be too shameful to eat in a stinking place like this, as if he were some barnyard animal. He had never been treated like this in his life, and he would hold his head up with dignity now. Changing tactics, he rang the bell, and asked for someone to clean the toilet, and allow him to shower and dress before writing his poem. A voice simply reminded him of the due date for the Swan Song, telling him to cherish his time and his life. If he failed to complete the task, he would be thrown in the river to feed the fish. He quietly cursed the ruthless robot. It’s unscrupulous to force a surgeon to write poetry. The arrogance of this authoritarian attitude! Well, let’s just see how you’ll make these hands write!
As time went on, each day was harder than the one before. There was less food. Sometimes he didn’t eat all day. The water was cut off again. His body was mouldy and infested with bugs. Only the lice grew fat, and fleas, who leapt out from his quilt to attack what was left of him. He remembered how well he had dressed in the past, in shirts so fresh they always looked new, and clean underwear, always paying close attention to his sideburns… At that moment, if there had been a mirror in the room, he would not have been brave enough to look at his reflection. He was constipated, and soon developed haemorrhoids. His breath was offensive, and his muscles atrophied. He knew they were trying to turn his dignity to dog shit. Then, when he had written a Valley ballad singing the praises of their goodness, they would elevate him on the poet’s pedestal, and restore the dignity he had lost.
He picked up the pen, looked at the paper and struck the pose of one lost in thought.
Write, he said to himself, one poem, one ballad, ten lines, twenty…I just want to bathe and change clothes. It’s very simple.
He started writing. The white paper was like a screen with a film flashing across it. Juli’s gold-as-wheat body and coconut breasts, and a man’s inward stirring and frustration. He kept writing. A red file, artificial insemination, Rania’s blood flowing from the ward, through the forest, to the waste disposal site. He wrote faster and more wildly. His pen and the film were in a violent firefight, facing off in the chaos. Those sounds, those colours, the shouting, the distant snow-capped wind-swept mountains, the sun like a sharp sword striking his eyes. His eyes were bleeding. He kept writing. Qizi’s coquetry in the West Wing, the sadness on the radio, in Round Square. She turned into a phoenix and soared away from the smoke, speeding from the red earth, through the blue sky and into the pristine clouds. He wrote. He wrote! He wrote of Hei Chun and Bai Qiu. He wrote of sorrow and regret. He wrote of hunger…He and Qizi were together, fainting then transfused with energy, standing up together. They held their heads high and were inseparable. They pressed forward, speaking with one voice, moving towards the same goal. She leaned against him as if he were a great tree. Oh, and he wrote! Dazed with hunger, they entered a pretty restaurant and ordered Kobe beef, platters of sashimi, grilled saury, stir-fried seafood, gingko nuts, durian cakes, wine, spirits, sake, a table overflowing with fragrant food — so exquisitely fragrant. He poured the wine and gave it to her. Suddenly there was a gunshot. Blood splattered everywhere as Qizi’s head flew off. As it flew away from her body, in her dilated pupils he saw himself. His face was dirty, unlike man or ghost.
He snapped out of his reverie. The mouth-watering cuisine disappeared. There was nothing in front of him but a stack of blank paper. Qizi was still in his mind, still her former pale beautiful self, with sharp chin and dark almond eyes.
Barely able to suffer the horror of the dream, Mengliu was covered in sweat. His limbs were lifeless.
Though he wasn’t hungry, and couldn’t eat anything, the knowledge that she must still be alive strengthened him. Everything made sense again. She was watching him, listening to him. He had to respond to her, to make up for the past, to pay a belated tribute to all that their history represented after this long period of separation. He was pleased to see that his conscience was touched, that it had not been completely silenced.
At night he was hungry and cold. The wind moaned outside his cell. He couldn’t sleep, so he sat beneath the light catching lice, listening to the crunch of their bodies as he burst them between his nails. Every time he thought of her he killed a louse. He wiped their blood on the walls, and used it to draw Round Square, the people, the slogans, the faeces, the vehicles, the police in their helmets…He looked for his place there, but couldn’t find it, and didn’t know where he should draw himself. He faced the wall, deep in thought, until daybreak. He could only feel that night had turned to day. The room was always bathed in the same dim light. Just as he was thinking this, the light went off. The stars on the ceiling flickered out.
A bell burst into the depths of his mind with a sharp ring, shattering his sleep. It sounded for two full minutes, during which he felt the floorboards tremble and shake. Thousands of feet ran through his mind, along with the roar of waves, neighing horses, and the bursting permafrost. An amputee’s shrill scream of misery. Suddenly the door opened. A light pierced the darkness and a chill wind entered in. He saw Qizi in the doorway — no, it was Suitang. She looked like she had just been to the beauty parlour. Her skin was pink and her long hair flowing. She said she had spent her days very well, and that they had taken her to visit the nursing home. It was paradise. She loved it. She wanted to stay there. He was in a semi-conscious state from hunger and sleep deprivation, but when he saw her he immediately grew clear-minded. He didn’t bother at all about what she said, he just felt embarrassment at the filthy state of his own body. Trying to hide deep in his blanket he yelled, ‘Go away! Don’t come in.’ He kept hollering until he couldn’t hear any movement. He stuck his head out from under the quilt. Suitang stood above him her hand outstretched.