His enjoyment ruined, my father-in-law stood up by holding the edge of the table. Staring at the green bedroom door, lost in thought, he didn’t move for the longest time. But the expression on his face kept changing, from disappointment to agony and finally to anger. The look of disappointment was accompanied by a long sigh; he recapped the bottle and sat down on a sofa by the wall, looking like the shell of a man. Suddenly feeling pity for the old man, I wanted to console him, but didn’t know what to say. Then I thought about the strange story tucked in my briefcase, which reminded me of the purpose of my visit. I took the story out and handed it to him. I’d never gotten into the habit of calling him ‘Papa,’ always addressing him as ‘Teacher.’ While this bothered my wife, fortunately he didn’t mind. He said it was easier and more natural for me to call him ‘Teacher,’ and that it was hypocritical, even sort of creepy, for a son-in-law to call his father-in-law ‘Papa.’ I poured him a cup of tea, but the water was lukewarm, and the leaves floated on the surface. I knew that tea didn’t interest him much, so it didn’t really matter whether the water was hot or not. He pressed down on the cover with his palm as a way of thanking me, then asked in a half-hearted manner:
‘Did you have another fight? Well, go on, just keep fighting!’
From that brief comment, I could sense his feelings of helplessness regarding the married lives of two generations of the family. A halo of sadness shrouded the small living room. Handing him the copy of the story, I said:
‘Teacher, I found this in the library today. It’s very interesting. Please take a look’
I could tell he was uninterested in the article and in this son-in-law who stood there in his living room. He probably wanted me to leave, so he could be free to collapse on the sofa and lose himself in the aromatic aftertaste of the Italian Widow Champagne. It was only out of courtesy that he didn’t drive me away, and also out of courtesy that he reached out a languid hand, like a sexually overindulgent man, and took the paper from me.
‘Teacher,’ I said encouragingly, ‘it’s an article about apes making alcoholic beverages. And not just any apes, but the ones on White Ape Mountain near Liquorland.’
Reluctantly, he raised the paper and lazily skimmed it, his eyes like old cicadas squirming on a willow branch. Had he stayed that way, I’d have been sorely disappointed, knowing that I didn’t understand him at all. But I did understand him, and I knew the article would pique his interest and lift his spirits. I wanted to make him happy, not to benefit myself, but because I felt that deep inside the old man’s mind hid an innocent little animal, which was neither a dog nor a cat, one with smooth, shiny fur, a short snout, big ears, a bright red nose, and squat legs. This little animal held my attention, as if it were my own twin brother. Of course, these feelings were absurd, groundless, and incomprehensible. As I figured, his eyes lit up, his languid body stirred, and excitement showed through his reddening ears and trembling fingers. I thought I saw that little animal leap out of his body, jumping and gliding in the air three feet above his head, along tracks like strings of silk. I was truly happy, I was truly delighted, I was truly ecstatic, I was truly elated.
He took another quick look at the sheets of paper, then closed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously tapping the paper in a series of tiny clicks. He opened his eyes and said:
I’m going to do it!’
‘Do what?’
‘After all the years you’ve been with me, you have to ask?’
‘Your student lacks talent and knowledge, and cannot fathom the profundity of your words.’
‘Clichés, all clichés!’ he said unhappily. ‘I’m going up to White Ape Mountain to search for Ape Liquor.’
As excited and uneasy emotions raged through my subconscious, I sensed that a long-anticipated event was about to occur. Tidal waves were about to engulf life as calm as stagnant water. A fascinating story just made for drinking parties would soon spread throughout Liquorland, and would immerse the city, the Brewer’s College, and me in an atmosphere of romance formed by the integration of elite and popular literatures. And all this would come about as a result of my accidental discovery in the Municipal Library. My father-in-law would soon depart for White Ape Mountain in search of Ape Liquor, followed by throngs of the curious. But all I said was:
‘Teacher, you know that stories like this are usually fabrications by idle literati. We should treat them as fantasies, and not take them too seriously.’
He had already risen from the sofa and was pulling himself together, like a soldier setting off for the battlefield. He said:
‘My mind’s made up, so say no more.’
‘Teacher, it’s such a momentous decision, shouldn’t you at least discuss it with my mother-in-law?’
He cast me a cold glance and said,
‘She has nothing to do with me anymore.’
He removed his watch and eyeglasses, walked to the front door as if heading off to bed, opened it with determination, and slammed it shut behind him. The thin layer of wood sent the two of us into two separate worlds. The sounds of wind and rain and thunder and the cold, damp air of a rainy night that entered the house when he opened the door suddenly stopped with the sound of the door slamming shut. Dumbfounded, I stood there listening to the disappearing sounds of his slippered feet scraping against the sand and scraps of paper on the cement stairs. The sound grew weaker and weaker, then died out completely. His departure left a gaping hole in the living room. I was still standing there, big and tall, but felt somehow that I had stopped being human and was less significant than a cement pillar. It had all happened so fast it felt like an illusion; but this was no illusion, for his watch and his eyeglasses, still warm, lay on the tea table, the two sheets of paper I’d handed him were still lying on the sofa where he’d thrown them, and the bottle and the glass he’d been caressing still stood forlornly on the dining table. The filament in the fluorescent lamp was hissing; the old-fashioned clock hanging on the wall continued to mark time – tick-tock tick-toch Even though there was a door between us, I could hear my mother-in-law breathing, as, I assumed, she lay in bed, her head cradled in her arm, like a peasant woman slurping hot porridge.
After considerable thought, I decided to tell her everything. I tested the door first, then knocked loudly. In between the raps, I heard rustling noises that quickly turned into a loud sobbing intermingled with the snorts of nose-blowing. Where, I wondered, did she deposit the stuff from her nose? This highly insignificant thought bounced stubbornly in my head, like a pesky fly that wouldn’t be shooed away. It occurred to me that she must already know what had happened out here, but still I said uneasily:
…he’s gone… said he was going to White Ape Mountain for Ape Liquor…’
She blew her nose again; where did she wipe the snot? The sobbing was replaced by rustling sounds. I had a picture of her getting out of bed and staring at the door or at the wall, where their engagement picture, which I had so admired, hung. Framed in ornate black wood, it looked like a portrait of an ancestor that is passed down from generation to generation. At the moment frozen in the frame, my father-in-law was still a handsome man whose lips curled up at the corners to reveal a humorous, engaging personality. His hair was parted down the middle, a white line like a scar left by a sharp knife that divided his head in two. His neck invaded the space above my mother-in-law’s head, his pointy chin no more than three centimeters from her sleek, neatly combed hair, thus symbolizing both the authority and love of a husband. Under the oppression of the indispensable authority and love of her husband, her face was round, with bushy eyebrows, a silly little nose, and a firm, exuberant mouth. At the time, my mother-in-law looked a bit like a handsome young man dressed in women’s clothes. Her face still showed some of the rash qualities of her nest-gatherer lineage – undeterred by hardships, undaunted by any cliff – contrasting sharply with her present lazy, sensuous, pampered self, akin to the Imperial Consort Yang Guifei. Why had she turned out like this? And how had the two of them produced such an ugly daughter, one who could shame the whole Chinese nation? The mother was carved out of ivory, the daughter molded from mud. I believed that sooner or later I’d find the answer to this question. It had been so long since the glass in the frame had been cleaned that a succession of stealthy spiders had weaved their delicate webs over it. Fine dust was caught in the lattice-work. What was my mother-in-law thinking as she stared at this relic? Was she recalling bygone happy days? But I didn’t know if they’d ever had happy days. It’s my theory that any couple that has stayed married for decades must be calm people who are in complete control of their emotions. At best, the happiness experienced by this type of couple is dusk-like: slow, ambiguous, acrid, and sticky, a bland, murky happiness like sediment at the bottom of a liquor vat. Those who get divorced three days after their wedding are more akin to red-maned stallions; their emotions burn like a prairie fire, enough to light up the world around them and bake it until it oozes grease. The cruel sun at high noon, a tropical storm, a razor-sharp sword, strong liquor, a paint brush dipped in a full palette. These marriages are the spiritual wealth of the human race, while the former become gooey mud, numbing the human ability for enlightenment and slowing down the process of historical development. That is why I had second thoughts about what my mother-in-law was thinking; instead of recalling bygone happy days, it was far more likely that she was recalling my father-in-law’s unsavory behavior, which had disgusted her over the decades. The facts would soon prove that my speculation was correct.