‘You should eat,’ she said softly, eyes full of sympathy and affection, ‘and then write some poetry, the Swan Song, or a love poem, or many many poems, just like you used to do. You think you are sticking to your values, but it’s all meaningless, it’s all a cloud.’
He ducked away from her pale hand, and her red lips. Her eyes too were red, as if bloodshot.
‘Suitang, I just want you to be happy. Whatever you choose to do is fine. That is your business,’ he said weakly. He was like someone about to die, filled to the brim with tolerance and peace. ‘I was in Beiping. I was in the crowd, yet I felt more lonely than I do in this room. I am with them every day now, we talk about women, we talk about poetry, we curse whomever we want to curse. I see Qizi every day, hear her speeches, chat with her about her dreams. If Swan Valley wants to destroy my flesh in the name of poetry, then that’s just fulfilling my wish. Sometimes tainted things are good, though they make the heart uncomfortable — serious things, like ideals and beliefs, they make you ill-at-ease forever. Stifling the poetic impulse, it has been more painful than I imagined, like…don’t think I’m vulgar, but it’s like facing the woman you love and trying to control an erection, refusing to enter her body…I’ve written hundreds of poems in my mind…I don’t want to publish them. I am ashamed. Poetry has become a whore’s cry. Its dignity is in ruins. If the language of poets cannot furnish banners for the next generation…we haven’t been taught yet how to use our language in the service of freedom…’
His logic had grown muddled and incoherent.
He cried softly, reaching out into the void, his head hanging down feebly. ‘I will stay with you to the end.’
He spoke the last sentence as if from a dream, his voice so low even he could barely hear it, the rest of his words turning to wind between his teeth and lips.
‘Who will write your names in the history books martyrs? Those who write history aren’t your people…You don’t count as good citizens… Everything will be lost.’
When Mengliu rose from his quilt, he found that the room had made a miraculous recovery. The crystal chandelier was lit, the floor was carpeted, the window opened onto the sea again, and the stars in the ceiling sparkled. A pleasant fragrance had returned to the room, the toilet had been cleaned, the books restored to the shelves. For a moment he was startled, thinking he had woken in a wedding chamber. He looked down and saw he was wearing a new robe, its belt tied with a slip knot. His red underwear was new, and just the right size. He couldn’t help fumbling his hands over his face, finding it clean-shaven and his hair slightly damp, as if it had not yet dried after a recent shower. He panicked, wondering who had washed him clean. Who had undressed him without his permission? What had they done?
There were bottles on the night stand, showing that he had been on a drip. The room temperature was just right. He wasn’t hungry and his throat hurt, so he knew they had pumped food into his stomach. He angrily rang the bell. Suitang appeared in the doorway, her long hair flowing, with a cold look on her face. It extinguished his excitement. There was an invisible wall between them. A rush of emotion swirled in his heart, and inflamed his face.
‘You look good. Seems you’ve recovered well.’ She spoke casually, showing no signs that she had been under house arrest. Her eyes were like a rabbit’s, as if blood might drop from them at any moment. ‘You’re taking this too seriously. It’s a poem for the occasion, easy enough to write. Do you really think it’s worth your life…We’re down to the last three days. They will try physical torture. I suggest you eat and drink now. They will whip you, flog you. I hope you can survive the pain.’
What did she say? Whip? Flog? They wanted to use torture on a surgeon, a common citizen? His expression was full of doubt. He didn’t believe the spiritual leader of Swan Valley would be stupid enough to threaten torture. Brutal tactics should be used on important people, but he was just a powerless foreigner. He wondered whether it was really Suitang who had come. He couldn’t tell what was illusion and what was real. ‘I hope you didn’t betray yourself.’
Suitang didn’t answer, but continued with her own train of conversation. ‘You think this pettiness can make you noble and great, cleansing you of your past cowardice and indifference…It’s just wishful thinking. If you write your Swan Song poem, you can preserve yourself and leave Swan Valley. At least your poetry will save your life.’
He thought Suitang must have been put under a magic spell to make her say those words. Once her sense of justice and art and order had disappeared, she grew dim, and her beauty turned tacky. She had already returned to the vanity of material things. The people of her generation simply didn’t have ideals, and she was puzzled by his assertiveness and sense of mystery. Because she had never loved through troubled times, she would feel the deep love of an Akhmatova or a Pasternak to be ridiculous. He said goodbye to her, then calmly acknowledged that he was willing to die. He would leave no trace, nor would he need anyone to mourn for him.
26
At ten the next morning, the simian-like Sama visited. His appearance was startling. His hair was tied up with a black headband, and his face painted with Chinese opera makeup. The hook-shaped eyebrows made him look quite handsome. He wore a blood-coloured robe with a broad belt around the waist, and sleeves of the kind worn by actors in a martial role. His feet, clad in high boots, moved unsteadily. Mengliu had seen Chinese opera and thought his outfit an insult to it.
Sama pulled his expression into a smile and winked conspiratorially. Then he told Mengliu he first needed to complete a ritual, which was to recite poetry for his arms to hear, so that when they were filled with emotion they would not be too harsh. These words seemed as crazy to Mengliu as Sama’s appearance, so he interrupted the recitation, and asked Sama what was going on. Sama replied, ‘Today is the day you’ll be whipped. For a professional thug, this would be nothing special, but for a poetry-lover like myself, it is a rare honour.’ He started reading again, and it was actually a verse from ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’. He finished with a flourish, then from behind his waistband he drew out a bamboo cane and flexed it until it formed a circle. As he released it, the cane made a whooshing sound, and created a tremor in the room.
Mengliu was gripped with horror. He asked weakly, ‘Where will you strike?’
‘The whole body.’
‘How many strokes?’
Sama, casting a charming glance his way, replied, ‘It depends on your endurance.’
As he saw Mengliu’s face slowly lengthening, like one who is making a vow to die without surrendering, Sama expressed the admiration he felt deep in his heart. He thought Mengliu possessed the appropriate attitude for a poet under the threat of flogging. He believed in a poet’s moral courage, so he had decided to help the poor fellow. As if by magic, he pulled out a bottle of red pigment and whispered, ‘You’ve got to cooperate. Each time I whip you, you should scream, and you’ll need to show agony on your face too if you’re going to fool them.’ A look vaguely like love appeared on his face, and he used his shoulder to give Mengliu an intimate push as he quietly hid the paint.