Frog (26 page)
Sensei, Little Lion and I had a fight a couple of days ago and, in the heat of the moment, I wound up with a bloody nose. Blood even stained the paper I was writing the letter on, which I decided to continue, even with a headache. When I’m writing my play I need to choose every word and craft every sentence with care, but a letter is a different matter. Anyone who knows a few hundred characters and has something to say can write a letter. Back when my first wife, Wang Renmei, wrote to me, she used drawings when she didn’t know how to write something. Xiaopao, she’d say apologetically, I’m not an educated woman, and drawing is about all I can do. You are, too, I’d respond. Using drawings to ‘say’ what you mean is the same as creating new characters. Why don’t I create a son for you, Xiaopao? she said. We’ll create a son.
Sensei, after my conversation with the young Flathead on his raft, I nervously came to a conclusion that has troubled me a great deal: Little Lion, this woman who harbours an insane desire for a child, relieved me of my sperm and inserted it into the body of one of those deformed women. The image of countless little tadpoles encircling an egg floats into my mind, reminding me of my childhood, when we’d watch tadpoles in the shallows of the dried pond behind the village nibbling a water-soaked bun. The surrogate mother is none other than the daughter of my schoolmate Chen Bi, Chen Mei, in whose womb my child is growing.
I rushed over to the bullfrog farm, meeting a number of people on the way, some of whom waved to me, though I couldn’t tell you the name of a single one. Through a crack in the automatic gate I caught my second glimpse of the frog sculpture and shivered from a clammy, menacing feeling, though maybe it was only a trick of memory. Six girls in colourful outfits were dancing in the square in front of the squat building, waving floral wreaths to the accompaniment of a man sitting off to the side playing a squeezebox. More than likely rehearsing for some sort of performance. Days of peace, sunlight and breezes, and nothing happened, so maybe it was something I had imagined. I needed to find a place to sit down and think hard about my play.
‘Timid as a mouse when nothing is wrong, bold as a tiger when events are strong’, and ‘When your luck is good, it can’t be bad; when your luck is bad, you’ve been had’. Those were lessons my father taught me. Old folks are usually a storehouse of warnings. Thoughts of my father reminded me that I was hungry. I was fifty-five, and though I mustn’t refer to myself as old in front of my father, I was already more than halfway home and on a downward slide. There is nothing a man in the sunset of his life, someone who has retired early to return to live in his childhood hometown, needs to fear. That thought made me even hungrier.
I went into the Don Quixote, a little café next to the Fertility Goddess Temple square, a favourite haunt of mine since Little Lion went to work at the bullfrog farm. I took a seat by the window. Business was slow. This is like a reserved seat. The short, overweight waiter greeted me. Sensei, each time I sit at that table and gaze at the empty chair across from me, I dream that one day you’ll be sitting in it and talking with me about the play I’m having so much trouble writing. There was a broad smile on the waiter’s oily face, but a strange expression lay behind it. Maybe it was the look on the face of Don Quixote’s retainer, Sancho Panza, that of a prankster, slightly unscrupulous, someone who likes to taunt people and is himself taunted. Hard to tell if he’s lovable or hateful. The table is made of unvarnished Chinese linden, the grain marred by cigarette burns. It’s where I’ve done much of my writing. Someday, maybe, when the play is a success, the table will become an object of literary lore. Then, anyone who sits at it to enjoy a drink will have to pay extra. If you could sit across from me, well, that would be super! Sorry, but literary figures tend to rely upon boastful fantasies as a stimulus for writing.
Sensei, the waiter gave the impression of bowing without actually doing so. Welcome, he said. The great knight Don Quixote’s loyal retainer, Sancho Panza, here to serve you. He handed me a bill of fare in ten languages.
Thank you, I said. The usual. A margarita salad, a can of Little Widow Antonia stewed beef, and an Uncle Malik dark ale.
He waddled off like a duck. While I waited for my food I scrutinised the interior decorations. The walls are hung with a rusted helmet, a lance, and tattered gloves worn during a duel with a romantic rival, all symbols of celebrated battle skills, and certificates and medals for colossal achievements. Also on the wall are a remarkably lifelike deer’s head, a pair of brightly feathered pheasants and some yellowed photos. Even though the decorations are imitations of a classical European style, the layout is not without its appeal. The bronze, life-size statue of a woman stands to the right of the entrance, her breasts rubbed shiny by human hands. I’ve kept my eye on it, Sensei, and every diner, male or female, brushes one of those breasts upon entering – The Fertility Goddess Temple square is always a hub of activity, and Wang Gan’s hawking shouts are the loudest and liveliest. A new program has gotten underway recently, called Unicorns Deliver the Babies, ostensibly to return to traditions, whereas in fact it is the creation of a couple of workers at the municipal cultural centre. Though it’s a patchwork scheme, neither domestic nor foreign, it has resolved the employment problem for dozens of people, which makes it worthwhile. Beyond that, Sensei, just as you have said, tradition starts out as artistic innovation. I’ve seen any number of similar programs on TV, hodgepodges of tradition, the modern, travel and culture, bustling with activity, bright and glitzy, radiantly joyful, friendliness that brings wealth. And, in line with your worries, the flames of war leave bodies strewn across the land in some place, while singing and dancing take place in others, along with debauchery. This is the world you and I live in. If there really were a giant who was as much larger than the earth as we are to a soccer ball, I wonder what he would be thinking as he circled the planet, where peace is followed by war, overabundance by starvation, droughts by floods . . . Sorry, Sensei, I’ve let myself get sidetracked.
The phoney Sancho brought me a glass of ice water and a plate of bread with a pat of butter, plus a little dish of virgin olive oil with garlic-infused soy sauce. Their bread is beautifully baked; everyone says it is. Dipping it in the sauce is a treat in itself, but that is followed by delicious entrees and soups – Sensei, you must come have a meal here; I guarantee you’ll like everything about it – and the restaurant has a tradition, actually, more a ‘custom’ than a tradition: just before closing each night, the day’s leftover bread – in a variety of shapes, colours and thickness – is placed in a willow basket at the entrance, free for anyone. Nowhere does it say that they should take only one loaf, but that’s what everyone does instinctively. They stroll the grounds of the temple grounds with fresh loaves tucked under their arms or hugged to their chests – long or square, soft or fragrantly blackened, inhaling the fragrance of wheat, flax, almonds and yeast – their own bread. Sensei, this has always moved me deeply. I know, of course, that this may be an immoderate feeling, because I am painfully aware that the world is filled with people who lack clothes to wear and food to eat, plus some for whom survival is a constant struggle.
The margarita salad is a fresh, tasty dish with lettuce, tomato and endive. Who came up with such a romantic European name for a salad? One of my classmates, of course, and my first teacher’s son – Li Shou. As I wrote to you in another letter, he was the most talented student in our group, and he should have been the one with a literary career, but that turned out to be me. He became a skilled doctor and had a brilliant future ahead of him until he gave it up and came back home to open this restaurant, which is a cross between Chinese and Western, or better described, one that is both Chinese and Western. The influence of literature on this old classmate of ours is evident in the name of his restaurant and the dishes he serves. Opening a café called Don Quixote in a place that has traces of both local and foreign influence was in itself quixotic. He carries his success around his middle. Short to begin with, all that weight makes him seem even smaller. He sits in the far corner to watch me across the floor, and neither of us so much as waves to the other. I sometimes sprawl across the table to scribble some impressions, and he sits in a strange, leisurely pose, with his left arm over the back of the chair, resting his chin in his right, for the longest time.
The waiter brought my order – Little Widow Antonia beef and Uncle Malik dark ale – to the table. I took a drink, ate a bite, and slowly savoured both as I gazed out the window at a sombre re-enactment of a fairytale playing out in broad daylight: loud drumbeats and music leading the way, followed by flags and banners, umbrellas and fans and ostentatious outfits on extraordinary characters: a woman sitting atop the unicorn, her face like a silver plate, eyes like bright stars, holding a chubby pink infant. The Fertility Goddess always reminds me of Gugu, though in reality, Gugu dresses in a baggy black robe, her hair is like a bird’s nest, and she has a laugh like an owl’s hoot, a glassy look, and incoherent speech; that effectively kills the illusion.
After being carried around the square, the goddess’s flags lined up in formation in the centre. The musicians put down their instruments to allow an official in a high hat and crimson robe, holding a tablet in front of his chest – his stature starkly reminiscent of a eunuch in an imperial drama – to read from a yellow scroll:
Great Heaven and Sovereign Earth produce the world’s five grains; the sun, the moon and the stars nourish the multitudes. In the name of the Jade Emperor, the Fertility Goddess brings a sweet baby down to Gaomi. I hereby call the pious couple, Wang Liang and his wife, to come forward for their baby
– but before the couple playing the husband and wife received their son, a clay doll, it was snatched away by a woman eager to have one of her own.
Sensei, though I console myself with many rationalisations, I am at heart a coward, a little man who worries about nearly everything. Since coming to grips with the reality that the girl Chen Mei is carrying my child, a powerful sense of transgression has weighed me down. Gugu and Little Lion took Chen Mei in as a baby, I even helped out by preparing formula for her. She is younger than my own daughter. One day, when Chen Bi, Li Shou and Wang Gan, all childhood classmates, learn the facts of what occurred, I will no longer be able to look any of them in the eye, even if I were to cover my head with a dog’s pelt.
I thought back to my two encounters with Chen Bi since my return.
The first was on a snowy evening last year. Little Lion hadn’t yet started work at the bullfrog farm, and we were strolling through the snow, watching snowflakes dance in the glare of golden yellow lights around the square. Firecrackers popped somewhere in the distance; it was getting to feel very much like New Year’s. We were talking to our daughter, who was off in Spain. She said she and her husband were strolling the streets of Cervantes’ hometown. I told her that by chance Little Lion and I were walking into the Don Quixote café, which evoked crisp laughter on the other end of the cell phone.
It’s a small world, Papa.
Culture is everywhere, Sensei.
At the time we didn’t know that Li Shou was the owner, but we sensed that whoever it was, he was no ordinary man. We liked the place as soon as we walked in. The simple, unadorned tables and chairs particularly impressed me. Covering the tables with clean, white, neatly starched tablecloths would have made it very European. But I agreed with Li Shou, whose later research showed that rural Spanish restaurants in Don Quixote’s day did not use tablecloths. He added the gossipy comment that women back then did not wear bras either.
Sensei, I confess that when I saw that sculpture of the naked woman whose breasts were shiny from being rubbed, I reached out in spite of myself, which shows how sordid and yet open and candid I am. Little Lion shushed to stop me. What’s that for? I asked. This is art. That’s what all cultural degenerates say, she replied. The fake Sancho walked up with a smile, gave the impression of bowing without actually doing so, and said, Welcome, sir, madam.
He took our coats, scarves, and hats, and then led us to a table in the centre on which white candles floated in a dish filled with water. We said we preferred another table by the window, where we could enjoy the sight of fluttering snow outside and observe the restaurant’s décor at the same time. There at a table in the corner – the one that would later become my favourite spot – sat a man smoking. I knew who he was by the missing ring finger on his right hand. That and the big red nose. It was the once handsome Chen Bi, now bald on top, with hair hanging around his neck at the back, the way Cervantes had worn his. His face was gaunt, the cheeks sunken, probably a sign of missing molars. That seemed to magnify the size of his nose. He held the butt end of a lit cigarette to his lips with the thumb and two fingers of his right hand. The air filled with the strange odour of a burned cigarette filter. Two streams of smoke emerged from his wide nostrils. He had a glazed look, the typical sign of dejection. I wanted not to look at him, but couldn’t help myself. My thoughts went to the sculpture of Cervantes on the Peking University campus, and I knew why Chen Bi was here. He was strangely dressed: a nondescript long coat and a white knitted, seersucker-like scarf around his neck; the only thing missing was a sword on his hip. Then I spotted one leaning against the wall, which led my eyes to chain-mail gloves, a shield, and a spear standing in the corner. I expected to see a dirty, scrawny dog at his feet, and there was one – dirty, but not scrawny. Cervantes was believed to be missing the ring finger of his right hand, but he did not go around carrying a spear and a shield – that would be Don Quixote – and yet the man had Cervantes’ face. But then, none of us had ever actually seen Cervantes or, obviously, the fictional Don Quixote, so whether Chen Bi was made up to look like Cervantes or his fictional creation was an open question. My old friend’s current situation saddened me. I’d heard of the tragedy that had befallen his two beautiful daughters, Chen Er and Chen Mei, once Northeast Gaomi Township’s loveliest sisters. Chen Bi’s ancestral background was a mystery, but it definitely included foreign blood, and they were thus spared the flat features of most Chinese. The classical description of beauty did not fit those two, who were camels in a herd of sheep, cranes in a flock of chickens. Had they been born into a rich family or in a more prosperous land, or even if they had been born into a poor family in some distant place, but had been fortunate enough to encounter a rich man, they might well have taken the world by storm. They left home and went south together, perhaps to seek such an encounter. I heard they both took jobs at the Dongli Stuffed Animal Factory, where the manager was a foreigner – whether or not he was a real foreigner was hard to say. If two beautiful, intelligent girls in an environment of luxury and dissipation had wanted to make a great deal of money and enjoy life, their bodies could have made that happen. Instead, they toiled in a factory workshop, enduring the life of common labourers, a life of brutal exploitation, and in the end, a fire that shocked the nation turned one of them to ashes and horribly disfigured the other. The younger girl survived only through the sacrifice of her sister. How sad, how tragic, how pitiful. This proved that they had not fallen into degeneracy, but had remained as pure as jade and as unspoiled as ice, a pair of good girls – I’m sorry, Sensei, I got carried away again.
