AS ITS NAME SUGGESTS, the Middle Village is situated in the midst of things: To the east is the Blue Lake; to the south, the Volcano Mountain; to the west, the Black Forest; and to the north, the Golden Valley. Lying in the midst of things, the land of the Middle Village has been yielding, and the Middle Villagers have been proud of themselves as a group of culture and history. They have not cared much to go beyond their dwelling place even as they have the power to do so.
In recent decades, however, a disease has been troubling the village: its residents and especially the younger generations are prone to the development of a tiny black spot in the middle of the breast. The spot will itch at irregular intervals; once it itches, the person has to keep moving, moving and moving until some herb from beyond the land calms the patient down. To cure themselves, some youngsters are deserting the village, and they especially like to fly over the Blue Lake to collect an herb called “dream flower” in the Western Hamlet. The herb can provide the patient momentary peace and contentment. Thus more people are leaving, and fewer are returning.
Dreading that the land might be losing too much of its man and brain power, the leaders in the village—a board of nine men and one woman—the chairman’s wife—have resorted to all means to prevent the disease from spreading further. At first, they launched an exorcising movement. They said that the black spot was an indication of the person having been ghosted by a foreign spirit. To drive the spirit out, one must meet with other people to read aloud the “ten commandments” set up by an earlier group of leaders. When that failed to work, and when some hot-blooded youngsters gathered around the village grindstone asking for better treatment, they resorted to force. They stoned some to death and shut others up. Nobody dared to complain about the disease any more, but it was still spreading. The leaders knew well of this. Some clever one thought of homeopathy. By importing and transplanting the dream flower on lots specially charted for experiments, the village heads were able to provide small doses to the most needed. Unfortunately by then, the herb had worn itself off as a cure.
The disease continued to spread and people tried to find local remedies. They built water centers where warm water ran in fantastic channels for all seasons, and so anyone who spied any symptom of the disease could come to the centers and get exhausted in the excitement of running in circles. They constructed all kinds of wooden houses where one could steam oneself to a state of drowsy contentment. Neon-lit cottages were also set up where pretty young girls could work on one’s feet and legs to soothe the black spot. But what seemed to be most effective was the rising of grand mansions where one could spend large sums of money to dine, shop, or sleep with anybody other than one’s spouse or usual beloved. They termed this the “Mi-Mi” cure, which seemed to work well. People were no longer afraid of the disease. When they saw the black spot developing, they felt like they were seeing acne: they were annoyed by the inconveniences it would cause but did not bother much to treat it.
The village leaders, however, started to be concerned about what they conceived of as the degradation of village morality. Relying on the wisdom of their ancestors, they believed that the good example of a good woman would provide a strong antidote. They went to search but soon discovered that a good woman was hard to find. The Chairman of the village board and the General Secretary agreed to spend another thousand days looking, and on the one thousand and the first night, they were to meet and come to an agreement.
The time came and it was a beautiful summer evening with the village wrapped up in dreamlike silvery spray from a large moon three days short of being completely full. When the General Secretary, a strong and tough man in his early fifties, arrived at the village headquarter, the Chairman, a strong and tough man in his early sixties, had already secured himself on the large black leather sofa, making fancy circles of smoke with a fancy brand of cigar someone back from beyond the Blue Lake had presented to him. From the slow motion of his mouth and the benign expression on his face, the General Secretary knew immediately that the Chairman had a solution and so felt greatly relieved at his own failure to find anything.
“Come sit down here, my dear General Secretary,” said the Chairman in a loving stern voice. To set up a good example of etiquette and propriety, the Chairman had made a point of never addressing his inferiors other than by their titles. At moments when the titles could not convey his feelings fully—the chairman was very human—he would add endearing words before or after them, and so people close enough to him like the General Secretary could tell his moods from the endearing words he used. Hearing both “dear” and “my,” the General Secretary became surer that they would come to an agreement.
“My dearest and most respected Chairman,” said the General Secretary in a most loving and most respectful tone emboldened by his superior’s endearing efforts, “you must have made it.”
“What a miracle—en--ah! What a wonder—ah-ah! That woman of Ah San is-ah- ah! Do you still remember, ah, when was the accident that rendered his trunk and limbs plant-like, ah, ah, and left him that silly head, ah, that knew only to stare at his wife and, en-ah, beg to be fed by his stupid look?” As the Chairman was excited, he put more en-ahs into his speech than usual. Not knowing exactly what the Chairman was driving at, the General Secretary responded with a simple statement of fact:
“It was about ten years ago.”
“Yes, almost ten years now. Longer—ah--than our longest battle—ah---against the Eastern Village. And that woman—ah— has remained loyal and simple, ah! She has been patiently, ah, and assiduously, ah, feeding the pig head, ah, and bringing up his kids, ah, for ten years. Isn’t it amazing—ah-ah—amazing!”
“Amazing, amazing indeed,” responded the General Secretary. Fully knowing where the Chairman was driving, the secretary determined to hide anything he had heard about the woman that would contradict his boss.
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard that the woman has never been to any of the water centers, neon-lit cottages, wooden houses, or grand mansions. She’s not complained about anything, either. Everyday she works like a bee.” The General Secretary was quick in providing the details that he knew the Chairman wanted to hear.
“Isn’t she, ah, the perfect example we are looking for, ah. Let’s start, ah, all the machines to sing her praises, ah-ah, as soon as the day breaks, ah, tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about that, you yourself, my dearest and most respected Chairman. You have done so much for the village and need a good rest. I will see to it that everything is done properly.”
The General Secretary walked the Chairman to the Main Street, where they separated. Turning into lanes that should lead to their homes, both soon changed directions to walk into one of the grand mansions where each was to have the “good rest” they deserved and must have indeed; for each found the black spot in the breast unusually itching that night.
“GOOD MORNING, MIDDLE VILLAGE!” When the well-known hostess from the village radio greeted as usual all the residents the following day, many heard an unusually seductive sweetness in her voice and became expectant. Soon the hostess began to tell the story of the jewel of jewelry, the wonder of wonders: Ah San’s wife as a perfect role model for all. The whole village was immediately thrown into a boiling state. For many had had some intuitive understanding of how Ah San’s wife had been in communion with some mysterious force originated in a secret cave in the Black Forest. Some impudent ones had gossiped a bit; some even insinuated a little to the General Secretary, but none had formed any coherent story, and so nobody had said or even hinted anything to the Chairman. As they listened to the hostess eulogizing her as a spectacular model of loyalty, hard work and frugality, some—and especially those who were getting tired of water centers, neon cottages, wooden houses and grand mansions—felt dubious at first but soon began to see the truth as the hostess presented it; they admired as well as took pity on Ah San’s wife, sending over food and old clothes. Others remained dubious and expectant. But as the radio kept repeating her story, as all newspapers printed images of her caring for her plantlike husband, and as all production units were required to organize meetings to learn about her, more people began to believe in Ah San’s wife and feel ashamed of themselves, wanting to but wondering if they could ever become like her. People no longer talked with gusto about going to the grand mansions and other places even as they still went there. The General Secretary was happy about the change and complimented the Chairman on how he had wisely guided the village onto a new stage.
The Chairman was buoyant and brilliant in the beginning, but when the newness of the event was wearing off in about a year’s time, people started to notice some changes in his appearance. Still sturdy and strong, he would have moments when his hands shook so terribly that he did not dare to hold up the piece of paper with his speech on it. He also developed a very nervy response to the letter “M.” Whenever he caught sight of anything in a similar shape, he would immediately fall into a stroke-like state; and no medicines or medical methods could restore him, but he would miraculously get recovered on his own. The General Secretary consulted all doctors including those from afar but found no real cure. The best one could do, all doctors suggested, was to remove anything in slight similarity to “M” from his sight. The General Secretary saw to it that this was done meticulously, and yet the Chairman was by no means getting better. He fell into strokes more often and the time for him to recover was getting longer and longer.
On a beautiful summer night two years after he made the decision of using Ah San’s wife, he fell into a most severe stroke and never woke up again. Just before that happened, however, he managed to leave a will stating that the General Secretary should chair the village board after he was gone and detailing all the laws and rules under which the village should continue to be governed. He also handed the General Secretary a notebook, telling him that he must put it to fire once he finished reading it.
THIS IS WHAT THE General Secretary read from the Chairman’s notebook after he saw to it that all possible measures were being taken to ensure a grand funeral for his dearest and most respected Chairman:
I must take it down in this notebook because I could not speak it to anybody, not even to my dear General Secretary. It all happened two years ago. I remember that it was a night with a full moon. I was on the way to the Mansion to relieve myself. Suddenly there arose a strong wind—I am not sure it was a wind, though; it could be two men I could not see—that bore me up and throw me down into the reeds by the pond at the western edge of the village. Before I knew what was going on, I saw vaguely before me something like a well, a stone-paved platform with a round opening in the middle covered by a wooden board. I do not know why but I had a strong urge to turn over the board, which I did. To my surprise, it was not a well but some sort of hallway to an underground dwelling place. I wanted to go in and check it out, but my feet got stuck in the mud. For all my efforts, I could only manage to prostrate myself and peek down via a hole in the board, which had mysteriously replaced itself. Before I saw anything, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, my God.” At this, another voice, both soft and strong—I could not tell if it was a man’s or a woman’s—responded: “I will, I will, I will, my Goddess.” Meanwhile I saw a big fiery M shape swinging back and forth in front of me. And the shape kept saying, “I will, I will, my Goddess, I will until we die together.”
A chill went through me as it occurred to me that two youngsters might be committing suicide. But just as I was to shout out “stop,” a fit of sweet bemoaning rose up and rendered me speechless and motionless. There was no motion down there either for a while. Then I heard one say, “oh, my Goddess, this is beautiful, isn’t it?” The other one did not seem to respond to this other than by some bodily acts. After several minutes, the soft and strong voice sighed: “Beautiful things won’t last long, will they? I don’t know how long we can continue like this now that you have become a role model. They may kill us if they find us out.” At this, the woman’s voice rose up:
“What role model, I’ve never wanted to be any. It is their job, you know; they can say what they want. We’ve been like this before. I am not afraid of being found out. Besides, what is wrong with being together with your true love? Isn’t my hard work at day enough payment for my reward at night? They can monopolize my day but they will never be able to monopolize my night.”
I could not believe my ears. My mind was telling me that the woman must be Ah San’s wife, but how could that woman--who never spoke but responded to others in hardly audible en-ahs—how could she speak in such a sweetly fiery voice? How could she be so eloquent, so logical, so persuasive? I was confused and excited at the same time. I could not help but stayed there to listen and peek. Soon I heard the woman again:
“You know, the secret, don’t you? Anyone who has the black spot in the breast; anyone who believes in the water centers, neon villages, wooden houses and grand mansions; and anyone who makes use of the Village Barn for private purposes, they cannot come down here by any means. So we are safe, my darling. But we have to leave to get ready for the day.”
No sooner did the sweet enticing voice of the woman fall off than a movement of the board was felt, turning me over on my back and covering me up. I was just able to pull my head out when I saw two white figures flying away. The only thing I could catch was a large red “M” on the back of each shining brilliantly against the white gown. I wanted to cry out; I wanted to move, but all that I could do was allow another strong wind to bear me up and throw me down on the bottom step leading to the Mansion. I did not know if I had fallen asleep there and dreamt everything. I did not know if all that I just heard and saw was real. But all of a sudden, as the day broke, I was filled with disgust at the grand building and everything else. I was filled with disgust at myself. Meanwhile the black spot in my breast was getting terribly itching from time to time, and nothing could relieve it than the sight of a red M swinging back and forth before me. Yet because I embodied all three kinds of the people who could not “come down” there as the woman divined, I was never able to reach the well again.
My dear General Secretary, you knew the rest of the story. You were so kind to consult all doctors, and they were so wise in prescribing that all possible M shapes should be removed from my sight. But my dear General Secretary, how could you know that so long as there were three people moving ahead of me, I could always spy an M peeping out of the bottom of one of them. But it never was a red M that I desired. It was a dark black M that would throw me into a stroke immediately.
My dear General Secretary, you know my secret now, but you must not reveal it. Or else there would be chaos, and the Middle Village would no longer be the Middle Village. Put this notebook to fire right now and continue the revolutionary work we have started together. You must explain to the villagers that my disease is what wise doctors beyond our land have taken to be an ordinary exhaustion. You must say to them, “The Chairman has exhausted himself working for the village.” I have full trust in you, my dear General Secretary. I know you can make them, at least a large quantity of them, drink in the story. I know you can rule the village well, following the basic rules our ancestors have set up. The example of a good woman must continue to be set up, no matter what, what, what…
The General Secretary flipped desperately through the rest of the notebook, trying to discover what other secrets the Chairman might have left for him. Nothing. Nothing else. The Chairman stopped at a “what” that the General Secretary did not quite understand. But it no longer mattered as he put the notebook down. All of a sudden, he realized what a big trick his dearest and most respected Chairman had played on him. For no sooner had the notebook touched the desk than the General Secretary felt an immense itch tingling in his breast; meanwhile a desire to see a red M overwhelmed him. He laughed out loud and said in great excitement:
“What sarcasm! What irony! My dearest and most respected Chairman! You knew perfectly well that the first stroke would strike me the moment I finished reading the notebook, didn’t you? For all your wisdom and intelligence, how could you not know that I have the same black spot in the breast, the same resort to the Mansion and everything, and the same voracious use of the Village Barn for private purposes as you did? What was the point of dictating to me the reigns of the village when you knew I would soon follow your example and fall down in public eyes? Mockery, what a great mockery this is! You must be looking at me and laughing from your dark cell now, right, my dearest and most respected Chairman? But do not laugh too loud. I am not that weak yet. I have the power to disobey you at least once in my life. I will not burn your notebook, I will not lie to the villagers about your death, and I will not follow your example and die the same death as yours. You will see what I can do.”
The General Secretary took out a fruit knife from one of the drawers of his desk in the village headquarter. Slowly and carefully, he aimed the point of the thing at his left wrist. Slowly and carefully, he pushed it deeper and deeper. When a thread of warm liquid started to drop on the desk, he picked up, with his right hand, his favorite wolftail pen, dipped it into the small puddle that had just formed under his left arm, and wrote a big M beside the Chairman’s notebook lying on the other end of the table and away from any possibility of being smeared. Still with his right hand, he slowly and carefully pulled out a white silver purse that had been hanging on his breast. Emptying all the imported pills—which were twenty times more than a normal dose he would take in secret for the black spot—onto the desk, he put his mouth to and dry swallow them all. Lowering his head down on the desk in between the puddle and the notebook, he murmured, “Why do they make them so sweet?”
When dawn came to the office the next day, it discovered a still face of no pain but illegible expressions, and it was bewildered by the large M in dark black dry flakes of blood that looked as if they would fall off the desk any moment.
THAT WAS ABOUT A decade ago. Since then the Middle Village has witnessed the rise of a fresh group of leaders and much new developments. But people—especially those who have left the land for other places—say, if you look long and carefully enough, you will see a dark black M peeping out of the bottom of one of the three people walking in front of you. In fact, there are red Ms on white figures flying through the night sky, but people cannot see them. For in the shock and chaos of handling the dead body of the General Secretary, the notebook he had carefully put at the end of desk for the world to read was incidentally pushed off and fell into the trash bucket. It has been lying with the waste ever since.
Soon after the Historic Funeral for their two greatest of great leaders, however, some Middle Villagers started to gossip. They say they saw a white bird—larger than any known fowl on their land—shoot out of the office and disappear into a dark cloud on the day when the General Secretary was found dead. Sometimes they can hear the bird flapping its giant wings against their roofs, doors, or windows in the depth of night, as if wanting to be admitted; the white creature, they say, seems to have its home in the reeds growing wilder everyday at the western edge of the village.
S. LI got her Ph.D. from the University of Michigan and now serves as writing director for the New York Institute of Technology’s Global Program in Nanjing, China. She writes about contemporary Chinese life as well as nineteenth-century British fashionable society. Her work has occurred in Feminist Studies, Nineteenth-Century Gender Studies, and various channels in China. She is also a correspondence editor for Today Literary Magazine housed in Hong Kong.
In recent decades, however, a disease has been troubling the village: its residents and especially the younger generations are prone to the development of a tiny black spot in the middle of the breast. The spot will itch at irregular intervals; once it itches, the person has to keep moving, moving and moving until some herb from beyond the land calms the patient down. To cure themselves, some youngsters are deserting the village, and they especially like to fly over the Blue Lake to collect an herb called “dream flower” in the Western Hamlet. The herb can provide the patient momentary peace and contentment. Thus more people are leaving, and fewer are returning.
Dreading that the land might be losing too much of its man and brain power, the leaders in the village—a board of nine men and one woman—the chairman’s wife—have resorted to all means to prevent the disease from spreading further. At first, they launched an exorcising movement. They said that the black spot was an indication of the person having been ghosted by a foreign spirit. To drive the spirit out, one must meet with other people to read aloud the “ten commandments” set up by an earlier group of leaders. When that failed to work, and when some hot-blooded youngsters gathered around the village grindstone asking for better treatment, they resorted to force. They stoned some to death and shut others up. Nobody dared to complain about the disease any more, but it was still spreading. The leaders knew well of this. Some clever one thought of homeopathy. By importing and transplanting the dream flower on lots specially charted for experiments, the village heads were able to provide small doses to the most needed. Unfortunately by then, the herb had worn itself off as a cure.
The disease continued to spread and people tried to find local remedies. They built water centers where warm water ran in fantastic channels for all seasons, and so anyone who spied any symptom of the disease could come to the centers and get exhausted in the excitement of running in circles. They constructed all kinds of wooden houses where one could steam oneself to a state of drowsy contentment. Neon-lit cottages were also set up where pretty young girls could work on one’s feet and legs to soothe the black spot. But what seemed to be most effective was the rising of grand mansions where one could spend large sums of money to dine, shop, or sleep with anybody other than one’s spouse or usual beloved. They termed this the “Mi-Mi” cure, which seemed to work well. People were no longer afraid of the disease. When they saw the black spot developing, they felt like they were seeing acne: they were annoyed by the inconveniences it would cause but did not bother much to treat it.
The village leaders, however, started to be concerned about what they conceived of as the degradation of village morality. Relying on the wisdom of their ancestors, they believed that the good example of a good woman would provide a strong antidote. They went to search but soon discovered that a good woman was hard to find. The Chairman of the village board and the General Secretary agreed to spend another thousand days looking, and on the one thousand and the first night, they were to meet and come to an agreement.
The time came and it was a beautiful summer evening with the village wrapped up in dreamlike silvery spray from a large moon three days short of being completely full. When the General Secretary, a strong and tough man in his early fifties, arrived at the village headquarter, the Chairman, a strong and tough man in his early sixties, had already secured himself on the large black leather sofa, making fancy circles of smoke with a fancy brand of cigar someone back from beyond the Blue Lake had presented to him. From the slow motion of his mouth and the benign expression on his face, the General Secretary knew immediately that the Chairman had a solution and so felt greatly relieved at his own failure to find anything.
“Come sit down here, my dear General Secretary,” said the Chairman in a loving stern voice. To set up a good example of etiquette and propriety, the Chairman had made a point of never addressing his inferiors other than by their titles. At moments when the titles could not convey his feelings fully—the chairman was very human—he would add endearing words before or after them, and so people close enough to him like the General Secretary could tell his moods from the endearing words he used. Hearing both “dear” and “my,” the General Secretary became surer that they would come to an agreement.
“My dearest and most respected Chairman,” said the General Secretary in a most loving and most respectful tone emboldened by his superior’s endearing efforts, “you must have made it.”
“What a miracle—en--ah! What a wonder—ah-ah! That woman of Ah San is-ah- ah! Do you still remember, ah, when was the accident that rendered his trunk and limbs plant-like, ah, ah, and left him that silly head, ah, that knew only to stare at his wife and, en-ah, beg to be fed by his stupid look?” As the Chairman was excited, he put more en-ahs into his speech than usual. Not knowing exactly what the Chairman was driving at, the General Secretary responded with a simple statement of fact:
“It was about ten years ago.”
“Yes, almost ten years now. Longer—ah--than our longest battle—ah---against the Eastern Village. And that woman—ah— has remained loyal and simple, ah! She has been patiently, ah, and assiduously, ah, feeding the pig head, ah, and bringing up his kids, ah, for ten years. Isn’t it amazing—ah-ah—amazing!”
“Amazing, amazing indeed,” responded the General Secretary. Fully knowing where the Chairman was driving, the secretary determined to hide anything he had heard about the woman that would contradict his boss.
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard that the woman has never been to any of the water centers, neon-lit cottages, wooden houses, or grand mansions. She’s not complained about anything, either. Everyday she works like a bee.” The General Secretary was quick in providing the details that he knew the Chairman wanted to hear.
“Isn’t she, ah, the perfect example we are looking for, ah. Let’s start, ah, all the machines to sing her praises, ah-ah, as soon as the day breaks, ah, tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about that, you yourself, my dearest and most respected Chairman. You have done so much for the village and need a good rest. I will see to it that everything is done properly.”
The General Secretary walked the Chairman to the Main Street, where they separated. Turning into lanes that should lead to their homes, both soon changed directions to walk into one of the grand mansions where each was to have the “good rest” they deserved and must have indeed; for each found the black spot in the breast unusually itching that night.
“GOOD MORNING, MIDDLE VILLAGE!” When the well-known hostess from the village radio greeted as usual all the residents the following day, many heard an unusually seductive sweetness in her voice and became expectant. Soon the hostess began to tell the story of the jewel of jewelry, the wonder of wonders: Ah San’s wife as a perfect role model for all. The whole village was immediately thrown into a boiling state. For many had had some intuitive understanding of how Ah San’s wife had been in communion with some mysterious force originated in a secret cave in the Black Forest. Some impudent ones had gossiped a bit; some even insinuated a little to the General Secretary, but none had formed any coherent story, and so nobody had said or even hinted anything to the Chairman. As they listened to the hostess eulogizing her as a spectacular model of loyalty, hard work and frugality, some—and especially those who were getting tired of water centers, neon cottages, wooden houses and grand mansions—felt dubious at first but soon began to see the truth as the hostess presented it; they admired as well as took pity on Ah San’s wife, sending over food and old clothes. Others remained dubious and expectant. But as the radio kept repeating her story, as all newspapers printed images of her caring for her plantlike husband, and as all production units were required to organize meetings to learn about her, more people began to believe in Ah San’s wife and feel ashamed of themselves, wanting to but wondering if they could ever become like her. People no longer talked with gusto about going to the grand mansions and other places even as they still went there. The General Secretary was happy about the change and complimented the Chairman on how he had wisely guided the village onto a new stage.
The Chairman was buoyant and brilliant in the beginning, but when the newness of the event was wearing off in about a year’s time, people started to notice some changes in his appearance. Still sturdy and strong, he would have moments when his hands shook so terribly that he did not dare to hold up the piece of paper with his speech on it. He also developed a very nervy response to the letter “M.” Whenever he caught sight of anything in a similar shape, he would immediately fall into a stroke-like state; and no medicines or medical methods could restore him, but he would miraculously get recovered on his own. The General Secretary consulted all doctors including those from afar but found no real cure. The best one could do, all doctors suggested, was to remove anything in slight similarity to “M” from his sight. The General Secretary saw to it that this was done meticulously, and yet the Chairman was by no means getting better. He fell into strokes more often and the time for him to recover was getting longer and longer.
On a beautiful summer night two years after he made the decision of using Ah San’s wife, he fell into a most severe stroke and never woke up again. Just before that happened, however, he managed to leave a will stating that the General Secretary should chair the village board after he was gone and detailing all the laws and rules under which the village should continue to be governed. He also handed the General Secretary a notebook, telling him that he must put it to fire once he finished reading it.
THIS IS WHAT THE General Secretary read from the Chairman’s notebook after he saw to it that all possible measures were being taken to ensure a grand funeral for his dearest and most respected Chairman:
I must take it down in this notebook because I could not speak it to anybody, not even to my dear General Secretary. It all happened two years ago. I remember that it was a night with a full moon. I was on the way to the Mansion to relieve myself. Suddenly there arose a strong wind—I am not sure it was a wind, though; it could be two men I could not see—that bore me up and throw me down into the reeds by the pond at the western edge of the village. Before I knew what was going on, I saw vaguely before me something like a well, a stone-paved platform with a round opening in the middle covered by a wooden board. I do not know why but I had a strong urge to turn over the board, which I did. To my surprise, it was not a well but some sort of hallway to an underground dwelling place. I wanted to go in and check it out, but my feet got stuck in the mud. For all my efforts, I could only manage to prostrate myself and peek down via a hole in the board, which had mysteriously replaced itself. Before I saw anything, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, my God.” At this, another voice, both soft and strong—I could not tell if it was a man’s or a woman’s—responded: “I will, I will, I will, my Goddess.” Meanwhile I saw a big fiery M shape swinging back and forth in front of me. And the shape kept saying, “I will, I will, my Goddess, I will until we die together.”
A chill went through me as it occurred to me that two youngsters might be committing suicide. But just as I was to shout out “stop,” a fit of sweet bemoaning rose up and rendered me speechless and motionless. There was no motion down there either for a while. Then I heard one say, “oh, my Goddess, this is beautiful, isn’t it?” The other one did not seem to respond to this other than by some bodily acts. After several minutes, the soft and strong voice sighed: “Beautiful things won’t last long, will they? I don’t know how long we can continue like this now that you have become a role model. They may kill us if they find us out.” At this, the woman’s voice rose up:
“What role model, I’ve never wanted to be any. It is their job, you know; they can say what they want. We’ve been like this before. I am not afraid of being found out. Besides, what is wrong with being together with your true love? Isn’t my hard work at day enough payment for my reward at night? They can monopolize my day but they will never be able to monopolize my night.”
I could not believe my ears. My mind was telling me that the woman must be Ah San’s wife, but how could that woman--who never spoke but responded to others in hardly audible en-ahs—how could she speak in such a sweetly fiery voice? How could she be so eloquent, so logical, so persuasive? I was confused and excited at the same time. I could not help but stayed there to listen and peek. Soon I heard the woman again:
“You know, the secret, don’t you? Anyone who has the black spot in the breast; anyone who believes in the water centers, neon villages, wooden houses and grand mansions; and anyone who makes use of the Village Barn for private purposes, they cannot come down here by any means. So we are safe, my darling. But we have to leave to get ready for the day.”
No sooner did the sweet enticing voice of the woman fall off than a movement of the board was felt, turning me over on my back and covering me up. I was just able to pull my head out when I saw two white figures flying away. The only thing I could catch was a large red “M” on the back of each shining brilliantly against the white gown. I wanted to cry out; I wanted to move, but all that I could do was allow another strong wind to bear me up and throw me down on the bottom step leading to the Mansion. I did not know if I had fallen asleep there and dreamt everything. I did not know if all that I just heard and saw was real. But all of a sudden, as the day broke, I was filled with disgust at the grand building and everything else. I was filled with disgust at myself. Meanwhile the black spot in my breast was getting terribly itching from time to time, and nothing could relieve it than the sight of a red M swinging back and forth before me. Yet because I embodied all three kinds of the people who could not “come down” there as the woman divined, I was never able to reach the well again.
My dear General Secretary, you knew the rest of the story. You were so kind to consult all doctors, and they were so wise in prescribing that all possible M shapes should be removed from my sight. But my dear General Secretary, how could you know that so long as there were three people moving ahead of me, I could always spy an M peeping out of the bottom of one of them. But it never was a red M that I desired. It was a dark black M that would throw me into a stroke immediately.
My dear General Secretary, you know my secret now, but you must not reveal it. Or else there would be chaos, and the Middle Village would no longer be the Middle Village. Put this notebook to fire right now and continue the revolutionary work we have started together. You must explain to the villagers that my disease is what wise doctors beyond our land have taken to be an ordinary exhaustion. You must say to them, “The Chairman has exhausted himself working for the village.” I have full trust in you, my dear General Secretary. I know you can make them, at least a large quantity of them, drink in the story. I know you can rule the village well, following the basic rules our ancestors have set up. The example of a good woman must continue to be set up, no matter what, what, what…
The General Secretary flipped desperately through the rest of the notebook, trying to discover what other secrets the Chairman might have left for him. Nothing. Nothing else. The Chairman stopped at a “what” that the General Secretary did not quite understand. But it no longer mattered as he put the notebook down. All of a sudden, he realized what a big trick his dearest and most respected Chairman had played on him. For no sooner had the notebook touched the desk than the General Secretary felt an immense itch tingling in his breast; meanwhile a desire to see a red M overwhelmed him. He laughed out loud and said in great excitement:
“What sarcasm! What irony! My dearest and most respected Chairman! You knew perfectly well that the first stroke would strike me the moment I finished reading the notebook, didn’t you? For all your wisdom and intelligence, how could you not know that I have the same black spot in the breast, the same resort to the Mansion and everything, and the same voracious use of the Village Barn for private purposes as you did? What was the point of dictating to me the reigns of the village when you knew I would soon follow your example and fall down in public eyes? Mockery, what a great mockery this is! You must be looking at me and laughing from your dark cell now, right, my dearest and most respected Chairman? But do not laugh too loud. I am not that weak yet. I have the power to disobey you at least once in my life. I will not burn your notebook, I will not lie to the villagers about your death, and I will not follow your example and die the same death as yours. You will see what I can do.”
The General Secretary took out a fruit knife from one of the drawers of his desk in the village headquarter. Slowly and carefully, he aimed the point of the thing at his left wrist. Slowly and carefully, he pushed it deeper and deeper. When a thread of warm liquid started to drop on the desk, he picked up, with his right hand, his favorite wolftail pen, dipped it into the small puddle that had just formed under his left arm, and wrote a big M beside the Chairman’s notebook lying on the other end of the table and away from any possibility of being smeared. Still with his right hand, he slowly and carefully pulled out a white silver purse that had been hanging on his breast. Emptying all the imported pills—which were twenty times more than a normal dose he would take in secret for the black spot—onto the desk, he put his mouth to and dry swallow them all. Lowering his head down on the desk in between the puddle and the notebook, he murmured, “Why do they make them so sweet?”
When dawn came to the office the next day, it discovered a still face of no pain but illegible expressions, and it was bewildered by the large M in dark black dry flakes of blood that looked as if they would fall off the desk any moment.
THAT WAS ABOUT A decade ago. Since then the Middle Village has witnessed the rise of a fresh group of leaders and much new developments. But people—especially those who have left the land for other places—say, if you look long and carefully enough, you will see a dark black M peeping out of the bottom of one of the three people walking in front of you. In fact, there are red Ms on white figures flying through the night sky, but people cannot see them. For in the shock and chaos of handling the dead body of the General Secretary, the notebook he had carefully put at the end of desk for the world to read was incidentally pushed off and fell into the trash bucket. It has been lying with the waste ever since.
Soon after the Historic Funeral for their two greatest of great leaders, however, some Middle Villagers started to gossip. They say they saw a white bird—larger than any known fowl on their land—shoot out of the office and disappear into a dark cloud on the day when the General Secretary was found dead. Sometimes they can hear the bird flapping its giant wings against their roofs, doors, or windows in the depth of night, as if wanting to be admitted; the white creature, they say, seems to have its home in the reeds growing wilder everyday at the western edge of the village.
S. LI got her Ph.D. from the University of Michigan and now serves as writing director for the New York Institute of Technology’s Global Program in Nanjing, China. She writes about contemporary Chinese life as well as nineteenth-century British fashionable society. Her work has occurred in Feminist Studies, Nineteenth-Century Gender Studies, and various channels in China. She is also a correspondence editor for Today Literary Magazine housed in Hong Kong.
