‘‘Me? How could you know about me? I’ve heard the story about you and the wild dog. It has only three legs-right? Me? You know, I’ve been paralyzed in both legs for ten years, and as I was lying there, I heard a lot of things-so many that my head nearly exploded. When I was confined to bed, I saw you and the dog. Today, all at once, I’ve walked over here: it’s really weird. The doctors say it’s dangerous for me to lose my temper; I have a pain in my chest.’’ ‘‘It’s too bad. This morning, I was thinking of weaving a crown of willow twigs to wear on my head. Beside the pond in back there are some weeping willows.’’
‘‘Go to hell!’’ The lame woman stood up and, pointing with a crutch at the melon rack, told her off. ‘‘What’s this? These ragged things hanging in front of the door: aren’t they counterfeit? You’re all nothing but walking corpses. It makes me dizzy just thinking of it!’’ She left in a rage.
Mrs. Q couldn’t understand her outrage; she thought the woman bizarre. She grew timid whenever a stranger appeared. She couldn’t make friends with anyone, for people were always bad-tempered and she didn’t dare get close. In truth, she shouldn’t have been born in this world, for there were too many threats all around. Luckily she had Q, her husband, her reliable friend who did away with the world’s dangers for her. And so, for the first time in her life, she grew worried: where was Q? Where was her passionate boy? She changed her shoes, went to the path, and looked around. She heard only the wind whimpering. She looked again and again, and suddenly was ashamed of herself: she felt she was being unfair to him. This was disgraceful. After she calmed down, she went back to the melon rack to listen to the bees. But the bees were no longer singing: they were just whirling around in a crazy circle. The woman’s head felt a little heavy, and her eyes a little blurred. Who on earth was that person? It seemed she had frequently been confronted with those blazing black eyes. When she went to the well to draw water, a lynx was squatting there. The path was always littered with wild animals’ footprints. Could it be a portent? No, so why was she pulling a long face? She remembered her trunk that held all kinds of treasures- including some the lame woman could never imagine! Well, then, sing some songs. She was hoarse.
The lame woman walked far away, her crutches still echoing…
It was really a terrifying day.
The bees didn’t sing again that day.
‘‘A fortune-teller came.’’ She braced herself to joke with her husband.
‘‘Recently, I haven’t been too interested in fortune-telling.’’ In high spirits, Q was looking at his wife. He kissed her little ears and smiled absent-mindedly.
“You’re wonderful!’’ Gasping in admiration, she threw herself into his arms. ‘‘How about paying a little more attention to our bees and getting them to sing all the time?’’
5. THE FAILURE OF REEDUCATION
One noon in the second year of Madam X’s ‘‘dispel boredom’’ movement, there was a small get-together at the lame woman’s home. More than a dozen charming, graceful women attended. This meeting wasn’t convened by anyone but was brought about by telepathy: it was a ‘‘coincidence.’’ These women were forthright like ‘‘feminists.’’ As soon as they sat down in the room, each began cursing someone. Because they were on the same wave length, they were doubly stimulated-they shared a bitter hatred of the enemy and fought in high spirits, all of them eager and determined to throw all their energy into this.
In this charged atmosphere, the widow suggested that they ask Old Woman Jin to go out and buy some fried dough sticks in order ‘‘to lift their spirits’’ for ‘‘working energetically on this.’’ Naturally, this suggestion drew unanimous approval, and soon the whole room was filled with the sound of fried dough sticks being eaten. Some people surreptitiously wiped their greasy fingers on the lame woman’s quilt. After finishing the dough sticks, they ate some fried dough twists and then played cards. In the midst of such a good time, they nearly forgot the main point. Only when the female colleague prompted them did they start cursing someone again. This time, it wasn’t the one they had begun with-the woman they all knew-but instead an eighty-year-old ‘‘who should have been dead a long time ago.’’ After half an hour, they finally realized they had ‘‘shifted the objective of the struggle,’’ and resumed cursing the first woman.
‘‘She’s still coming up with ideas for your children!’’ The widow brought up this most sensitive and thrilling issue and then launched into a lengthy self-analysis. Her emotions were like a surging flood: ‘‘Although I have no children, I will join you in struggling against her to the end. In the first place, I had the ability to have children, but my deceased husband and I didn’t think children were important. You could say we didn’t even think about it-and so the outcome was inevitable. You must remember that in those years, the old folks said that I would have at least a dozen children; they all described me as ‘a mother hen good at laying eggs.’ Fifty-eight people said this, and some were so excited they said it repeatedly. As you all know, I was great at sex. No one could compare with me. I was like a plot of fertile land: it was only necessary to sow good seeds and I could have continually born fruit. I wasn’t like a certain person, who, even if she had sturdy seeds, either couldn’t bear fruit or just bore one monstrous one. Her soil isn’t fertile enough. You can’t figure out if she’s even a woman. Later on, I didn’t care whether or not I had children. Having children doesn’t mean anything. The important thing is a person’s moral character. This is a person’s true value. Although it’s fine to have children, if they aren’t brought up well, they can harm society. What’s the point of having a child at odds with society from the moment it’s born? Now, a lot of these destructive children have appeared in our community, and they’re directly related to a certain person’s conspiracy. How should we deal with this? Is it conceivable that we can’t think of countermeasures?’’
At this point, the widow remembered something: ‘‘The reason I didn’t have children is related to my years of keeping myself as pure as jade: I considered this to be of the utmost importance. After my husband died of his illness, have any of my relationships with men gone beyond friendship? One after another, strong young men-in the prime of life-were hot for me. But I had long ago transcended the worldly and given up the vulgar, and never again showed any interest in this kind of thing. Whether a person has children or not doesn’t matter. I’m concerned only to actualize my lofty ideals.’’ These sincere words opened up the female colleague’s sluice gate of sentimentality. Thinking of her ‘‘evil son,’’ she couldn’t keep from wailing until her face was wet with tears and snot. First she wiped her face with her sleeve and then with the lame woman’s grease-spotted quilt-leaving her face blotchy. Choking with sobs, she said she wanted to ‘‘fight a duel with’’ Madam X (she mentioned her by name; it would have been much better to be beautifully indirect, as the widow was; this showed that she lacked breeding). If she didn’t succeed, she’d kill herself and let the law punish her. Sure enough, as she talked, she rammed her skull against the side of the bed. Nobody stopped her: indeed, they all looked on with avid interest, as if they wanted to see how strong her skull was. The female colleague rammed her head more than twenty times before looking up and dashing outside with a ‘‘wild look in her eyes.’’
‘‘This is precisely the calamity that children bring down on us.’’ The widow summed up calmly, ‘‘What’s worth flaunting about this kind of child? It’s just exposing one’s own inferiority to the public through one’s child. When people see her son, they can’t help but associate him with her. If she didn’t have a son, she could still pretend to be classy.’’
As soon as the widow stopped talking, the room turned quiet. After a while, the sound of intermittent sobs came from two corners of the room. Old Woman Jin and the widow’s forty-eight-year-old friend were crying. They were crying because they were in the same boat as the widow-neither had children, nor could they in the future. As they thought of Madam X’s intrigue with Five Spice Street’s young generation, they hated her guts-God knows how much. In their trance, they imagined they had no children because of this detestable Madam X. If it weren’t for Madam X, they would have been happy round-faced grannies with dozens of children and grandchildren at their knees.