“It’s an elegy adapted from a crying aria in a Qin opera,” the owner replied.
“It’s truly beautiful,” Zhuang said, startling the bar owner, whose eyes expressed surprise.
“You’re a strange one,” he said, “finding a funeral melody beautiful. Even if it is, you can’t play it at home. It’s not just another popular song.”
Zhuang let the comment pass as he returned to his table. A youngster with white-rimmed glasses had replaced the old man at the other end of the table. He was engrossed in a magazine, laughing softly from time to time. These days it was rare to see someone who could be so easily captivated by a world in letters, a thought that led Zhuang to muse that every essay in the world emerges from the pen of a writer and can play on readers’ emotions. Knowing how he wrote his essays, his wife didn’t think much of them. But other people’s books could have her awash in tears.
The man smacked his lips, and Zhuang thought that one of the characters in what he was reading must be enjoying some good food. He let go of the magazine with one hand, picked up a pair of chopsticks, and plucked three pieces of smoked sausage off of Zhuang’s plate, putting them into the mouth behind the magazine. A moment later the chopsticks reached out again to pick up two more pieces, so amusing and annoying Zhuang that he banged his own chopsticks against the table. The startled young man put down his magazine, and with an “Oh!” he spat the sausage onto the floor.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I ate from the wrong plate.”
Zhuang laughed.
“What are you reading that has you so absorbed?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t know, but this is about Zhuang Zhidie. Do you know who he is? I’ve read his works in the past but had no idea he’s just like us.”
“Is that so?” Zhuang said. “What does it say?”
“It says that Zhuang was a foolish child. In elementary school he thought teachers were the greatest people in the world. Then one day he went to the toilet and saw his teacher urinating. It was an eye-opener. ‘Even teachers need to pee!’ he said, as if they never needed to relieve themselves. Naturally his teacher glared at him, but didn’t say a word, while Zhuang looked on and wondered out loud, ‘Do teachers have to shake it, too?’ Complaining that the boy had a low sense of morality, the teacher reported this to his father, who gave him a good beating.”
“That is pure rubbish,” Zhuang said.
“What do you mean, rubbish?” The young man said. “That’s what’s it says here. Don’t you think great people can be great even in childhood?”
“Let me see that.” Zhuang took the magazine and saw that it was the latest issue of Xijing Magazine, with an article titled “Stories of Zhuang Zhidie,” authored by Zhou Min. Was this the one he had spoken of? A quick read told Zhuang that it was all gossip, embellished and exaggerated to make for a lively, amusing read. I ought to see what I’m like, he told himself. So he read on and learned that Zhuang Zhidie was both generous and stingy, that he could give away a goat without a second thought, then turn around and demand that the tethering rope be returned, saying that he had only wanted to give away the goat, not the rope. Zhuang was wise and he was foolish; he was sure that Li Qingzhao was referring to the events of her wedding night when she wrote: “A gusty wind and fine rain last night / The taste of wine lingers after a deep sleep / I asked the one rolling up the screen / Only to be told that the crabapple was the same / Do you know / Do you know / The green should be growing but the red wanes.” And yet he had trouble deciphering a train timetable. Zhuang could make you happy and he could embarrass you. He could tell you how to recognize a female fly by seeing where it lands; if it alights on a mirror, it is female, for even a fly wants to be pretty. When he is dragged over in a public place to have his photo taken, he can put on a miserable look and say he was a horse in his previous life, not a warhorse or a beast of burden, but a beribboned pony at a tourist site, where it is mounted for picture-taking. The sight could bring him to tears. As he read on, Zhuang came to the part about a romance from years before with a coworker at a magazine office; with many things in common, they were deeply in love, but ultimately parted ways owing to a strange combination of circumstances. Zhuang grimaced at the passage; the outlandish stories in the previous section were of no concern, but the romance should not have been mentioned so irreverently, since it involved another person. No name was given, but the outline of the story was clearly based on his relationship with Jing Xueyin. They had been very close, something he regretted now, but he hadn’t touched her, not even a handshake, though the flame of desire had burned for years. But what was written in the magazine seemed to imply that they had done it all. Now they were both married, she with children, so how would her husband feel when he read this? How would Niu Yueqing feel? Everything in the article seemed based on real events and yet was at odds with what had really happened. Where had Zhou Min gotten his material? What bothered Zhuang most was how Jing would react after reading the article. She would likely think that he had given Zhou private information to demonstrate his allure. Would she then suppose that he was using a romantic dalliance to enhance his popularity? What would she do if her husband asked about it? Beset by worries, Zhuang put down the magazine and rushed over to the editorial office of Xijing Magazine, his desire to see Tang Wan’er gone.
. . .
Zhuang had been an editor at Xijing Magazine twelve years earlier, when Jing Xueyin, a recent college graduate, was assigned to the Culture Department. A new desk, the fifth one, was placed across from his, overcrowding the editorial office, a former meeting room that had been repurposed. The head of the editorial office was Zhong Weixian, but Zhuang was the only one with true leadership qualities. Another senior editor, who had been hired at the same time as Zhong, was also a college graduate, and thus naturally would not take orders from him. The third person was Li Hongwen, a shrewd, resourceful, and articulate man who had been a great help to Zhong in his promotion to head of the editorial office. And yet Zhong had him pegged as a petty individual. Since it is always easier to deal with broadminded people than with petty ones, particularly those to whom one owes a debt of gratitude, Zhong made a point of conceding to Li whenever he could. The fourth person, a widow named Wei, was having an affair with the deputy head of the department, making her equally impossible for Zhong to lead. As for Jing, she called the deputy head “uncle” from the moment she arrived, since he had once worked for her father. As a result, Zhuang was the only editor whom Zhong could ask to do anything, so he was told to assist farmers during the summer harvest and to join the neighborhood disaster relief team after an earthquake. Zhuang had to fetch boiled water when he came to work in the morning and close up in the evening before he left. During his five years in the office, the high-water mark of his youth, he had cried bitter tears, cursing those people for their disdain and abuse; but after leaving, he came to see those years as critical, with his fondest memories revolving around Jing Xueyin. Thinking back, he viewed them as a bottomless sack of provisions that he carried with him during his passage through the world.