(‘We’re finished,’ she told the professional writer when she visited his room one night, half drunk. ‘This generation knows nothing about suffering, or isolation. Their hearts are numb.’
‘And what good does isolation bring?’ the writer asked.
‘They just don’t take life seriously.’
‘Neither did you, at their age.’
‘Writing demands complete sacrifice. You must pour your soul into the work. Every word has to be paid for in sweat and blood.’
‘But if you cut yourself off from today’s world, how can you hope to write about it?’ the writer said.
‘Writers are the products of their times. A shallow world produces shallow writers. I can’t help missing those years we spent in the re-education camps.’
‘The world has moved on,’ the writer said. ‘You’ve been left behind. Those young women understand today’s society better than you. Perhaps a purer form of literature will emerge from their numb minds. They have no prejudices, no interest in politics. Their problems are purely personal. But you … your time is already over.’)
Old Hep’s passion for the textile worker gradually waned like a poplar tree in autumn, losing more and more leaves with each gust of wind. These winds were caused, of course, by the editor’s increasing number of lovers. The textile worker put up with his neglect, and didn’t lose hope. She believed that her love would finally conquer him, so she stuck to his side and refused to let go. But he only ever agreed to meet her when there was no other prey available. He was determined to live life to the full and make use of all the opportunities his job gave him. He had gained confidence from the textile worker’s adoration, and courage from the advances of the Sichuanese short-story writer. (Although, when the Sichuanese woman had said things like ‘Unhook my bra’ or ‘I love your little bald patch’, he had trembled with fear.) He knew that in order to progress, he needed to continue having these amorous experiences.
The textile worker had been raised in a strict household. Her mother was a government functionary who stuck religiously to the Party rules, her father had died in hospital during the Cultural Revolution. She was an only child, and to support her mother, she had started work as soon as she graduated from high school. If she had gone to university, she would have had to leave town, and her mother would never have agreed to that. So she learned to content herself with what this town could offer her. She knew that if she behaved well in the textile factory, she might be promoted to an office job, and from there perhaps be transferred to a job in the People’s Cultural Centre. She longed to leave the clanking looms behind and find herself a quiet desk job. The editor became her role model. He had told her that as a factory worker he had studied creative writing in his spare time, and on the back of his first film script was promoted to his job as editor-in-chief. When she gazed at him, his short little body seemed Napoleonic, his bloated and lined face reminded her of Beethoven. Having grown up with no paternal love, she looked upon him as a father figure. She only had one aim in life, and that was to remain by his side for ever.
Unfortunately, as soon as she gained possession of him, her joyous mood caused a dramatic improvement in her appetite. The fat she acquired attached itself first to her waist and calves, then spread to her face, puffing her upper eyelids and inflating her cheeks. After two years together, the editor could no longer bring himself to look at her. She had lost all her girlish charm, and now had the body of a middle-aged woman. The other mistresses he had taken subsequently put her in the shade. He was ashamed of her, and longed to free himself from her ties. One Wednesday afternoon, he agreed to meet her behind Red Scarf Park, hoping to use this opportunity to break up with her once and for all.
(Relations between people are very curious, the writer reflects. We behave kindly, even sycophantically towards people we are afraid of, but trample like tyrants over the shy and retiring. Our roles are determined by our opponents. We all possess a dual nature. The editor was a servant to his wife, a master to the textile worker — roles he couldn’t play with any of his other women. We all jump from one role to the next. If I continue to write this story, who knows, the textile worker might become more savage even than the female novelist.)
By the time she finally turned up in the woods behind Red Scarf Park, Old Hep was seething with rage. He had never felt like this before. On the way to this rendezvous he sensed that a physical change was about to take place in him. She ran towards him, her plump body wobbling about as though she were being tossed up and down inside a rattling old car. She apologised for being late, but he continued to glare at her. Her cheeks turned red with remorse. In fact, at this point, she should have thrown herself onto his chest, as she used to in the past, and quashed the fire in his body with the weight of her womanly flesh. But the cold, heartless expression on his face sapped her confidence, and she dared not reach out to him.
Old Hep was pleased by the turn of events, however. Her lateness allowed him to keep his anger on the boil, and when he saw her cowering below him with a pathetic look on her face, he knew he was ready to explode. (Unattractive women should never stand still in front of a man if they want to win him over. They should first arch their eyebrows gracefully, amuse him with a funny anecdote, or smother him with kisses — anything to divert his attention away from their piggy eyes or pointed chin. This is admittedly very tiring, but it must be done. Everybody must learn to do the best with what they’ve got.) The rage must have been simmering inside him for years, because without a second’s hesitation, he was able to lift his hand in the air and bring it down hard on her face.
‘Stupid bitch!’ he shouted after the first blow. ‘Why are you late?’
He had learned these gestures and tone of voice from his wife. During their childless married life, she had shouted at him once in this way, when the jumper he had washed for her and hung out to dry on the balcony was blown away by the wind. She accused him of having done it on purpose, and when he replied that the jumper was so wet that he’d had no choice but to hang it up outside, she slapped him on the face. At the time, he sensed some organ in his body shift place a little. He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a ladle of cold water and emptied it into his mouth. He drank until he was dizzy. Today he returned that slap. Although he had trouble speaking at first, and his voice sounded like a shovel grating against an iron bucket, he soon loosened up. His hand had struck her right on the face. He had succeeded. His confidence rising, he punched her in the chest, and she fell to the ground at the very spot on which she had lost her virginity. The actions she took next decided her fate. Instead of hitting back, she struggled to her knees and pleaded for forgiveness.