Madam X repeatedly described her ideal man in her usual style: vulgar, inane, and pretentious. She acted as if she were fascinated by the aftertaste of real things. ‘‘When the time comes, neither can stop fondling the other, neither can stop talking. Language is also a way of hinting at feelings, because try as hard as you can to communicate your ardor and your dreams to the other, you can’t just show your feelings through action-that isn’t enough. And so you use language. At such times, language has more than just everyday meaning-if only in some simple syllables, some little sounds that have sprouted wings. I can elicit that kind of special language.’’ Madam X also sometimes sighed with feeling, ‘‘I can’t find a pair of good hands. Men’s hands should be animated, filled with warm strength. The hands represent the whole person, with a tide of feelings surging through them.’’ Almost all men’s hands are ‘‘completely dry, pale, and lifeless,’’ no better than ‘‘a tool for releasing one’s own lust.’’ She could tell those ‘‘poor, thin, neutered things at a glance.’’ These things ‘‘had never experienced the pleasure of fondling: they weren’t womanly, nor did they become real men. It’s as though they’re counterfeit goods.’’ Overjoyed, her sister was only too eager for more details. She also foolishly confided that sometimes she ‘‘jumped up and down with desire and almost couldn’t control’’ herself. Madam X, of course, wasn’t as simple and impulsive as her younger sister. She was experienced and astute. Only in vulgarity were the two sisters alike.
Madam X gave an example. She said that one day years ago, she happened to see a pair of eyes flash past her, and all at once they turned into eyes with three colors. Inwardly happy, she approached that person. At the same time, she felt two young hands, which ‘‘seemed to have some stories.’’ When she had just made contact, she realized her stupid mistake: ‘‘Those hands were shriveled, malnourished, and a little sickly. When they fondled you, they twitched.’’ She shook her head, embarrassed, and said she certainly wouldn’t make that mistake again. The world was full of these kinds of stunted hands. ‘‘With my eyes closed, I can sense this very clearly.’’ ‘‘This is a place where decrepitude and asexuality reproduce. With hands like this, a man certainly can’t create anything.’’
Sometimes, after Madam X finished, the two would just sit across from one another in silence and watch the rays of the setting sun pass across the window screen. They listened to the clock strike on the glass mantle, and the younger sister often exclaimed: ‘‘In the past, we were all as lively as wild deer!’’ Madam X would respond with an insipid, perplexed smile. Wallowing in sloppy sentiment, Madam X disclosed one of her secrets.
One noon, Madam X was lying alone on the beach at the riverside. Nobody else was there. ‘‘The sky was that kind of sentimental color, without a cloud to be seen, and the edge of the sun was filled with sharp triangles.’’ The sun ‘‘shone hot and unrestrained’’ on her body, giving her a lot of colorful hallucinations. She said, ‘‘It was just like his kisses.’’ She ‘‘felt the reality of carnal intimacy.’’ She didn’t know how it happened, but she was suddenly aroused and felt she ‘‘had to take off all her clothes.’’ And sure enough, she did. She lay there nude for a long time, and then stood up and ‘‘flew in the burning heat, running around wantonly, wildly.’’ (Luckily, at the time, no one passed by; otherwise who knows what farce would have ensued!) Afterwards, she went to the riverside a number of times, but didn’t take her clothes off. She just walked on the beach, in her words, ‘‘waiting for miracles.’’ If the weather was good, she said, ‘‘Perhaps he will walk toward me in the sunshine.’’ If it was raining, she said, ‘‘He’ll walk toward me through the rain; there will be row after row of white mushrooms on the ground.’’ But no miracles came; it was just wishful thinking. Inwardly, Madam X knew this very well. Later, after she was more experienced, she no longer played this kind of game. “You can only meet someone by chance,’’ she said. Madam X’s sister told a good friend her older sister’s secret. That good friend then told her husband, and the husband told his good friend. His good friend was a gossip. And so Madam X’s secret went the rounds of Five Spice Street until everyone knew it. Did she lose face as a result of this? Was she ashamed to show her face? Hardly. She didn’t give a damn: it seemed ‘‘an inner joy was revealed on her face.’’
After Madam X’s husband’s good friend heard this, he took the husband to his home, where they talked in whispers for two hours. He accused Madam X’s husband ‘‘of spoiling his wife this way.’’ Someday, ‘‘there would be a big problem.’’ By then, it ‘‘would be too late.’’ He pounded his knee; bitter remorse was on his face. At first, the sentimental husband was at a loss, but then he felt sorry for this friend and began consoling him. He told him not to be ‘‘too irascible,’’ for this would ‘‘be harmful to him,’’ and not knowing when to stop, he also gave an example. He said that, because of a trivial matter, a colleague in the past ‘‘had had his heart broken’’ and was left with a myocardial infarction that even now frequently caused unspeakable suffering. “You need to take it easy,’’ he said. The friend jumped out of his seat. ‘‘Hey!’’ he shouted. ‘‘Whose wife are we talking about? Are you a sadist?’’ To avoid a scene, the husband patted his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair. ‘‘Never mind,’’ he said. ‘‘Actually, there’s no need to make such a big deal about someone taking her clothes off. In fact, everyone thinks of doing this; it’s just that other people exercise self-restraint and consider forbearance glorious-just look at how much self-control I exercise, and how ascetic I am. If someone else did this, everyone would condemn it.’’ Sometimes he too wanted to strip and dance around on a public occasion, for he thought this would be great fun. But he didn’t dare: ‘‘I don’t have the guts.’’ Of course, his wife was much braver than he, although she could also actualize her idea only in a deserted place. He could only admire and respect this. He certainly wouldn’t interfere with her personal enjoyment. He wasn’t a fool! Nobody could force him to be a fool!
‘‘Then am I a fool?!’’ The good friend was furious. The husband looked at him with remorse: he couldn’t stand it. They parted on bad terms for the first time in years. As soon as he left, the good friend roared at his wife, ‘‘Throw the stool he sat on into the garbage! I have really fucking had it!’’ He sulked for several days.