‘Now we go on stage.’
‘On stage?’
‘Yes. Where I will whip you.’
Woodenly, Mengliu followed Sama out of the room. The frozen lake was smooth as a mirror, with the light of the sun reflecting off it in a surreal glare. His dazzled eyes could barely adapt to the landscape around him. He hung his head as he walked. The cracks between the stones underfoot made him dizzy. Lashing? At first he thought this was a good word, that they wanted to encourage him. When he saw the bamboo cane, he understood it to be a whipping, like they might do to animals. But that wasn’t anything very different. Once you’ve landed in the hands of people who’ll use any means to control you, it doesn’t really matter what they call it. ‘Yes, the place where you will be beaten.’ He thought the effeminate tone sounded like it was describing a place where peach blossoms were in bloom, a place full of beauty and longing. But that was true enough too, since bruises would soon blossom across his back. If the cane was equipped with metal hooks, the blossoms would mature into rotted fruit. Perhaps his innards would gush out, flowing from his body. When this came to mind, he became unusually calm. He did not intend to accept Sama’s kindness, and to emit shrill screams to fake his pain. That sort of idea insulted a dignified man greatly. He hoped he would lose consciousness in a moving and tragic way with the first stroke, leaving his body to its fate. He really wished Qizi could see the scene, a poet enduring a beating without uttering the slightest groan.
They crossed a stone bridge. A lake. A forest. During the days of confinement Mengliu had grown accustomed to talking to himself, and now he was chattering all along the way.
‘A lost decade. My fiancée. She’s alive. I know she’s been alive all this time…She couldn’t come back, couldn’t get in touch with me, couldn’t find me. She knows I’m waiting for her. You don’t think so? Why would you say that? Do you know what love is? Everyone plays around a bit, but other than that? When disaster strikes…What Jia Wan said was right. He told me not to go out that night, that something big was going down…If I’d gone to warn her instead of collapsing into a deep sleep at home…The reason I didn’t go with them to the court was not because of cowardice… it’s because I really didn’t know, and I really didn’t believe that kind of thing would happen…no one believed it. They were innocent as doves…Now they’re lost to the sky…’
He stopped Sama for a moment, wanting him to talk about the time he had found the notebook, who the dead person was, why he had died, and where he had lived, but Sama didn’t know. Curious why a small book could be of such interest to his idol, Sama said, ‘We often find dead foreigners in the forest.’
They soon reached their destination. The theatre was completely empty.
The curtain opened. The backdrop on the stage was of a dark cell, its wall painted with angry script. A spotlight fell on it, illuminating a ladder, over which was draped a rope, the props for a flogging. The spotlight swept to stage left. There was an old narrow table, on which was a pen and paper, and a vase of unopened rosebuds.
Backstage, Mengliu was changed into a white frog suit, then moved toward the ladder, under the dim sleepy dust swirling in the lighted air around him. He turned his back to the empty seats in the theatre. There was a hole in his clothing, exposing his bare back, buttocks, and hips. He was like a wooden puppet going through an out-of-body experience. Under Sama’s guidance he faced the ladder, arms straight and legs splayed, and allowed himself to be tied to the rungs. Sama patted his buttocks several times, then pinched, testing their elasticity and firmness to determine how much force to use as he swung his cane. Undoubtedly flogging was an art. The whip in hand and the interior of the mind had to work in unison to generate the right amount of pain without causing death. Sama understood what it took to create just such a masterpiece.
As he checked the bonds on his idol’s hands, Sama asked softly, ‘Does it hurt? Is it too tight?’
Mengliu moved slightly, and Sama was almost in tears, thrilled at being in such close contact with his idol. Finally, he leaned into Mengliu’s ear and said, ‘You look even more attractive than the crucified Christ. Remember to cooperate. You have to scream, okay?’
Everything was ready. Sama elegantly lashed the ground with his cane, and a resounding thwack stirred up the dust.
A band sounded from the back of the stage, an ensemble of erhu, yueqin and a three-stringed lute.
After a moment the plaintive music stopped. Sama directed all his strength to his belly and squeezed out some lines from a play in a strange tone:
‘My most loved and respected poet, before you endure the scourge of my rod would you like to change your mind?’ The last word was uttered in a heavy tone, shrill and trembling. At this moment, the erhu grew articulate in its accusing tones. Sama ran his hand along the cane, applying red pigment to it. ‘Now I ask you in the name of the spiritual leader of Swan Valley, regarding your Swan Song — will you or will you not write it?’ He pointed his finger with an actress’s hand gesture, a classic pose made on stage to show delicacy and grace.
Mengliu’s chin rested on the rung of the ladder. He was unable to move, and his eyes stared straight ahead. ‘I swear by my fiancée, you can give up…you’re all crazy!’ He matched Sama’s tone.
Turning to face the audience, Sama laughed. Not without irony, he announced, ‘He says that for the sake of a woman he will…’ He turned back again. ‘Oh? So this woman, what sort of extraordinary person is she?’
‘She…she stared at the bleeding world without flinching, a thousand times greater than your spiritual leader!’
The ladder started to rotate, turning the front of Mengliu’s body toward the audience. The light fell on him. His face was pale and sweating.
Slightly startled, Sama turned around and pulled out a thin booklet, flipping to his next lines. ‘You…you can’t elevate your fiancée so as purposely to devalue our spiritual leader. This does not suit the spirit of debate, don’t you understand?’
‘Well, let your spiritual leader face me. Count it as my dying wish. I want to look on his ugly face so I can remember it and find him in hell.’
‘What do you want to find him for?’ Suddenly, a small gong sounded twice. Sama turned to another page. ‘He selflessly serves the people, owing no one anything…’
‘He deprived me of my freedom. He’s deprived many people of their freedom, their rights, even their lives.’
Sama put the booklet away and murmured, ‘My idol, pay attention to your lines. You’re engaging in slander.’
‘What? I…I was tied to this ladder by you. What I am saying is true. I am the truth. You…don’t even distinguish between right and wrong. You’ve reversed black and white, distorted the facts, smitten the innocent, made a lie of justice!’ His words were as fierce as firecrackers. He paused, and the gong clattered three more times. ‘As a poet, I hate to use clichés. I hate it when language fails to express meaning, I fucking…’
‘Wait a minute! You said…you are a poet?’ Sama turned and faced the theatre, breaking into a laugh. ‘Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!..did you hear that? He claims he is a poet!’
The idol’s pale face had turned crimson. Now he was tongue-tied.
All six pieces of the ensemble sounded at once, hissing in disapproval.