‘‘No, I won’t tell you the story. There’d be no point. I want to keep the story to myself. These little treasures are the consolation of my life; they’re also a kind of self-defense. When I get up in the middle of the night, outside my window the sky is as unyielding as steel. The gray wall on the hill heaves and wobbles. My teeth chatter. I burrow under the quilt and wrap myself in those stories. My story is warm, focused, and a little stimulating: it belongs just to me. I must tell you again: your imaginary experiences don’t exist. They don’t have even a foreword. All the beginnings you’ve imagined are subjectively trumped up: they’ve resulted from sloppy romantic sentiments spilling over. The real beginning is lost, never to return.
‘‘Once upon a time, there was a day, an afternoon, when a cloud drooped and the fragrance of grass sizzled in the air-it was very likely the beginning of our story. I was almost ready. If it weren’t for hard realities and if I hadn’t been swept away by decadent emotions, everything would have been realized. Now it’s completely over. You may go on making silly assumptions or-like children-put yourselves in the other’s position and taste fiery romantic emotions. Be my guest. But I’m surer than anyone about everything. I’d stand behind you and sneer in despair. Until the day that you turn back penitently and change your ways completely, no one will be able to fish the real story out of my mouth. I want to preserve my moral integrity and keep a clear head in this world of disordered manners and morals. I just want to live out the rest of my ordinary life simply and quietly. I don’t want to lose my pure essence by associating with certain people just to cut a fine figure.’’
The Report of X’s Husband’s Good Friend (the One Who Looked at the ID Card)
‘‘The beginning? My God! As soon as you mentioned the beginning, I fell back into complicated, confusing worries. Every one of Madam X’s beginnings was also mine. Her innumerable affairs had formed innumerable nested boxes in my life. As soon as you mention some new beginning, I become incredibly tense: my whole body is like a tautly drawn bow. Ever since X moved to our street, I’ve been close friends with her husband, and her main guardian. It’s been non-stop disaster. Every time it seemed the trouble had finally ended, you breathed a long sigh and sat down to rest your frazzled mind. Just then, she would create a new disturbance, and so you had to spring to your feet again, as if you’d had an electric shock. No one can imagine how much her energy can flower. Almost every minute, almost every second, she’s plotting a new beginning. Her husband’s been in deep shit because of her, and I’m on affectionate terms with him. Socializing with her has sapped every bit of my strength. I was beat. I suffered from dizziness and loss of appetite every day. My life became a living hell. For a few years now, not only have I not eaten meat, but I’ve even stopped the most important thing-making love with my wife. I’ve become as thin as a shadow. Has X been grateful for the pains I’ve taken? It hasn’t turned out the way anyone could have expected!
‘‘One day, she summoned me to her room. She stared hard at me for ten minutes with her pupil-less eyes and then fiercely shoved me away. Shaking all over, she pulled her hair hysterically with both hands and paced back and forth in the room. She’d behaved like this for half an hour (how astonishingly patient I was!) when, finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. I cleared my throat and gingerly asked if she was feeling a little better. Listen to her reply: ‘Did I call you over here? I remember there was some person who often came here without being asked. He was always around. Is it possible that I asked you here-what on earth is this all about? Are you mistaken? Did I really ask you to come? Don’t you have your own business to attend to? It really isn’t good for you to be so concerned with other people.’ What inconsiderate manners! From that day on, whenever she ran into me on the street, she crossed her eyes and didn’t look at me. If I blocked her way, she just charged across, as if I were a scarecrow. When I dropped in to reason with her, she said she simply hadn’t seen me: blocking her way was really a big mistake because she wasn’t likely to see me. It would have been better for me to stay at home and make little clay figurines: that’s much better for both mind and body. Maybe it would lead to my being artistic! And maybe I would discover the meaning of my existence from it! Why did I have to bother myself with this crazy shit?
‘‘She also told me a story of another friend of hers: This woman used to have the bad habit of always running to the public toilet and talking with people there. As soon as she started talking, she forgot the time: she stank from spending the whole day in the toilet. Her husband was absolutely disgusted with her and wouldn’t let her get into the bed. She had to sleep in the corridor. The husband couldn’t put up with her: he simply kicked her out and threatened that if she dared go into the house, he would chop her to pieces! One day, X ran into this woman on the street, squatting in a pile of garbage looking for something to eat. X went up and chatted with her and taught her how to plait locusts from palm leaves. The woman learned quickly, and in the blink of an eye she became addicted to this hobby. She gave up chatting at the public toilet. Her husband took the woman back, and the whole family enjoyed a wonderful reunion. Of course I understood why she told me this. But her husband, my woeful friend, didn’t. He stood to one side with a big smile. He nodded at each word his wife said, and then walked over and patted me affectionately on the back and stupidly assured me that everything his wife said was true. A nitwit, even an idiot whose eyeballs can’t move, needs only slight inspiration from her in order to gradually become intelligent and normal. They echoed each other: the more they talked, the happier and more intimate they were. The husband was tightly encircling Madam X’s waist with his hands, not letting go even a little. Later, X made an absurd suggestion: ‘Why don’t the two of us jump up onto the desk?’ Sitting on top of the desk, holding hands and swinging their legs, they were even whistling at me!
‘‘This shocked me greatly. For a long time, I couldn’t figure out what had happened. I just felt ill and nauseated, and didn’t want to go on living. Taking stock of this vast world with old, bleak eyes, I pondered: since people don’t need you, and even your close friend treats you like a piece of shit-asking you to come and then driving you away whenever he wants-and behind your back makes fun of all your efforts, tramples all your good intentions underfoot, and blindly takes his wife’s side, then what kind of role are you playing in a world like this? What good are all of your efforts, except to make you a laughingstock? I tossed the idea back and forth: it was really painful. I made up my mind to end my life in its prime with a knife on a fine moonlit night. I already had the knife ready and had also chosen the place-the patio behind my house.