Diary of a Naked Official (12 page)

not long ago

to enjoy the first night of a virgin

he wrote a cheque to the amount of 1 million yuan

and the funds he had appropriated amounted to 188
million Hong Kong

dollars …

Well, to put this in the news is one thing but to write it into poetry is quite another. Is poetry a good means of exposing corruption or keeping the memory alive? No, I guess, as poetry anywhere in the world has become the least powerful of artistic expressions, fit only for an ever diminishing number of semi-idiots. And, in Beckett's words, it is ‘the pastime of licensed apes'.
¹⁰
I welcome the self-publishers only because I can sell the book numbers for higher than they should be sold. [I'll remind myself to delete this.] At least I haven't seen any Western poetry in translation do that, their poetry a vehicle of unrealities they call spiritualities; the only theme that keeps poets preoccupied seems death itself while they turn a blind eye to the physical darkness around them, thinking it's beneath their dignity to take notice. Poets are living deaths themselves but they are such a nuisance that they keep coming back to me. I hope one day I can write a permanent note of rejection with these words: Poets, die your own death as you are a dead bore and nothing you ever do will achieve anything.

7/8

I am beset by one question these days: Are we still capable of love when sex has opened the sluice gates of desires and has made love so purchasable and saleable? But what is love and love is what? After J Ro's death, whose funeral I did not attend for fear of being recognized or identified but that I had funded as an anonymous donor, it dawned on me that love is perhaps only possible in absence. When the person you think you do not love is gone you start missing her, as all the acts of love you engaged in with her appear to be more thrilling than ever, in memory. It is absurdity in the
extreme but it seems true and it is true as far as I am concerned. Once, you got her opened up sitting on the edge of the washbasin in the tiny room, entering her like an army into an unprotected city and experiencing an intense hot sensation of explosion when you came. On another occasion, you splashed her face with semen that was like white face cream and got her to suck you clean. All these would have sounded meaningless to a man without memory or imagination.

She, I now recall, would tell me story after story of how ancient emperors made love to their imperial concubines. One detail emerges in which this emperor, whose name escapes me, has a wall of flesh formed around him of half-naked women against the winter cold, and puts his hands down between any woman's breasts and his feet between any woman's legs for warmth. She also told me a contemporary story of a country yokel from a poor mountain village who could not afford to marry a decent girl. Instead, he chose a German-made inflatable doll and married her in private after he gave her a Chinese name, Mu Guiying. I chuckled at this because Mu was an ancient folk heroine.

As far as I can remember, I've only ever told her one story, of how Caligula, an ancient Roman general, sodomized the dead body of Drusilla and hoped to revive her by masturbating into her ashes after her
body was cremated. The story seemed to have a curious effect of horror and allurement. She was so overcome with the imagined scene that, perversely, her private parts were flooded and my virility, too, was so powerfully enhanced by the aphrodisiacs of the tale that I entered her from all holes, not many, just three, till I eventually came on her eyes, adding to the number. As my writing hits here, my thing goes up again, thinking of her death and how this could not have happened on her grave.

8/8

The thought of the dead woman stops me from visiting the living, leading to my abstention from sex again although another story keeps being told in her own voice, dead but alive.

A man and a woman are happily married but this other man next door has her in his sights because of her beauty. One day he goes south on business, together with this married man, also a businessman. When they are on their way back with their purchased rolls of cloth, they reach a river and have to hire a boat. In midstream, this other man pushes the married man into the river. When he tries
to get on board, he stops him by poking him with a long bamboo pole until he sinks. This other man then collects the body and buries it before he makes the return journey.

Reaching home, he tells the woman of her husband's death, how he tries to save him in a storm while crossing a river but in vain, how he buries him in such and such a place at his own expense. To show his sincerity, this other man pays for the stock the husband had bought. He pays regular visits to the woman and her family for six months without making any advances until he decides it is time to propose to the woman.

The woman, saddened by her husband's sudden and mysterious death, refuses the man at first but is gradually won over by him as he is kind towards her without being aggressive. Eventually, she gives in, agreeing to marry him.

They live a happy married life and in due course have two children. Soon, twenty springs have come and gone. One day, there is a big rain, so big their backyard turns into a pond. Many frogs jump up from the water to the steps. On seeing that, this other man picks up a bamboo pole and begins pushing the frogs back into the water one by one when the act itself reminds him of the tragic incident that happened twenty years ago. Comfortable in the security of their matrimonial home and his wealth, he thinks it's time to tell her the story. So he does.

Something extraordinary happens. As soon as she learns about what has happened, the woman begins screaming at the top of her voice, ‘Murder! Murder!', as she tears out the door, and keeps screaming as she runs all the way to the local court. In no time, the tragic death of her husband is no more secret to the whole town. When the local magistrate asks what she wants to do, she expresses that her only wish is that the man, her husband and the father of her two sons, must die no matter what, on account of what he did that day twenty years ago when he killed her former husband.

‘That is the story,' she said. That is exactly her story, of a story from the Song Dynasty. It is almost as if her life was interconnected with the spirits without the hindrance of space and time. All stories are hers such as this one involving Xuan Hua, a wonderfully beautiful imperial concubine, loved by Emperor Wendi of Sui. It so happens that Yangdi, Wendi's son, falls in love with her at first sight but his amorous advances enrage Wendi, so much so that he soon dies. With the help of Yang Su, a minister, Yangdi succeeds in becoming the next emperor. The object of his desire is still Xuan Hua, who he sets out to conquer but finds it extremely hard because she would rather die than let Wendi's son sully her. Yangdi, a strong and stubborn character, must have his own way and soon does, achieving sexual union with Xuan Hua, his father's concubine.

As always is the case, happiness does not last long. One day, Xuan Hua falls ill and tells Yangdi that she has had a dream the previous night, in which Wendi comes alive and demands to know why she has had sex with Yangdi, his son. When she does not come up with an answer, Wendi smashes her head with something hard. She drops out of her bed to the ground and wakes up. Afterwards, she falls ill and becomes weaker day by day until she dies.

J Ro said something then that I cannot forget: There is no wall separating life and death. If you pass into death, it does not mean you cannot come back to life. By the simple act of dreaming, one becomes alive and elusive, despite the passage of centuries.

I remember I heard that with a shudder, as if that remark had sent chills down my spine. Although I never record my dreams I do daydream sometimes. In one, I see my own funeral being held in which all the women I have made love to appear, in mourning and in tears. In that moment, they seem united.

9/8

Another day of abstention, perhaps because of the other story she told me.

There was once an old monk living in the depth of the mountains. One day, a monkey he had kept for twenty years got rid of the chains that bound him and ran away. The old monk sighed and said: The guy will die of his obscene heart, all the years wasted in practising the art of asceticism.

Meanwhile, there was a rich merchant by the name of Fu who kept a crowd of pretty concubines, all for his own pleasure. One day, a young man, who called himself Bai, turned up in his premises and asked to be put up for the night. On seeing that Bai was a handsome young man, Fu agreed and, after nightfall, when he stole into his room he saw that the bed was bare of anything, so he offered to have bedrolls brought in. Fu then asked if Bai would like to accept him as his lover; Bai did, on the condition that Fu would keep him as one of his ‘special' concubines.

Subsequently, Bai mixed with the other concubines and made love to them all, thus becoming a great concern to Fu who found it hard to get rid of him. He sought consultation from a friend who rejected his idea of cutting off Bai's penis, the root of evil. Instead, he suggested that Snow Dog, a local prostitute well-known for her beauty, should be brought in because she had a way of melting the root.

When Snow Dog was introduced, Bai was overjoyed. He had sex with her day and night. A few days into it,
however, he found it hard to sustain the level of energy necessary to maintain the speed and intensity of sexual pleasure, so he went away for a rest. He came back again but it was obvious he had less and less to offer until he could not even come out with anything anymore. It was at that moment that Snow Dog took hold of his penis and broke it with an audible sound. Horrified with excruciating pain, Bai ran away. Snow Dog laughed to see the bloody thing in her hand that was only five inches long.

The next day, a dead monkey with rotten loins was found on a rubbish tip, much to the delight of the old monk, who was pleased with the happy result as it corresponded to his prediction.

I was struck wordless long after she finished the story. She kept saying: Why, are you afraid? It's only a story, not an element of truth in it. You don't have to believe it. But, that night, however much she warmed up to me, I remained cold and ardour-less, the thought prominent in my mind being: Will she turn into a Snow Dog?

10/8

Feeling quite down, I went online in search of something funny. Pretty soon, I was amused no end when I found
these new folk rhymes. I selected a few that I really like. This one is a new insight into the differences between the rich and the poor:

One keeps a pig when poor

But he keeps a dog when rich

One grows rice when poor

But he grows grass when rich

One wants a wife when poor

But he wants a mistress when rich

One's wife is his secretary when poor

But his secretary acts as his wife when rich

Another one goes about ‘Four Clears' and ‘Four Unclears':

One is not clear what the meetings are about

but he is clear where he should sit

One is not clear who has bribed him

but he is clear who hasn't

One is not clear who has done a good job

but he is clear who has promoted whom

One is not clear whom he has slept with

but he is clear what he does when he sleeps with them

This following one is an acerbic send-up of some ‘leaders', calling them ‘Three Five Leaders':

They are not tired playing mahjong for three or five days

They do not get drunk drinking Maotai for three or five bottles

They dance without going to bed for three or five nights

They have not learnt to do the right thing for three or five years

Part of another one adds to the acerbity of the above:

Party cadres these days are so weird they learn to behave badly in their fifties or sixties

They sing ‘Love that Arrives Late' and they hug the next generation when dancing

One line of still another rhyme concludes this on a brief, accurate note:

All they ever want is a bed to work on

Some real names are mentioned, too:

Not smoking, not drinking, living to 63 (Lin Biao)

Not smoking, only drinking, living to 73 (Zhou Enlai)

Not drinking, only smoking, living to 83 (Mao Zedong)

Smoking as well as drinking, living to 93 (Deng Xiaoping)

Eating, drinking, whoring around and gambling, living to 103 (Zhang Xueliang)

Gosh, I thought to myself: Perhaps I should pick up smoking and drinking, in order to prolong my own life.

The best of all the rhymes that ridicule the corrupt bureaucrats is one that nearly defies translation but I'll try:

An Official's Diary

Getting up in the early morning: beating fist (practicing shadow boxing)

Having a meeting in the morning: beating sleep (taking an early nap)

Eating lunch at noon: beating belch (belching)

Working in the afternoon: beating yawn (yawning)

Overtime in the evening: beating card (playing card games)

Entertainment at night: beating cannon (fucking)

Returning home at midnight: beating fight (fighting)

And, finally, there's something about love, as a butt of ridicule:

When in love with a woman, a man writes poetry

When in love with a man, a woman starts dreaming

A woman tends to think of a man day and night

A man, to think of a woman by day and of another by night

A woman is good at acting like a spoilt child

A man, at telling lies

A woman is happy with the thought: He really loves me

A man: She is worth my love