Five Spice Street

The writer has brought this complicated story close to its end. This morning, he met with Madam X, who had just been elected representative. The writer found but a slight wrinkle on her forehead, the mark of past years, yet it could be ignored. Madam X had not aged; she was still ‘‘hot.’’ And the writer speculated that even Dr. A (more than ten years older) might wish to marry her if she gave up her celibacy and A’s wife died. After all, he was still in good health and had an eminent position. Not to mention the young coal worker and her husband’s good friend-if they wanted to marry, both of them would think of her first. This morning, the writer was a little indirect: after her husband left and the incident with Q was made public, did she intend to marry a handsome man of about the same age? After she served as representative, did she want to walk hand in hand toward a beautiful tomorrow with someone who could also be a career partner?

How did Madam X answer? She told the writer (looking left and right, afraid someone would overhear) that her greatest wish was that the people would ‘‘forget’’ her. This would give her the greatest happiness. She had been observed for so many years that she had come to understand that she was different from others. She wasn’t a person but only the embodiment of desire. Because it could never be actualized, this kind of desire could only upset people. The greatest thing would be if everyone could do what Dr. A suggested and see her only as a symbol and with the passage of time forget her. The inconsistency lay precisely in that no one saw her as a symbol; they all had to see her as a person. They also kept making demands and giving her trouble. All at once, they wanted her to turn somersaults; all at once, they wanted her to be photographed (at this point, she expressed again her great indignation at the photographers for failing to pay her as they had promised); now, they also wanted to entice her to get married (she threw a glance at the writer). All of this made her station very nebulous: she was neither an ordinary person nor an abstract symbol; rather, she was swinging between the two. It was like being kicked back and forth like a ball. It seemed that she was destined to this fate: she couldn’t become one of the ordinary people, nor could she become a symbol. It was damnable. However, he shouldn’t imagine that she had no way to go on living. She still had ‘‘layers of armor-plate protection,’’ so up to now had lived ‘‘better than people expected.’’ It was not necessary for anyone to worry about her marriage. She ‘‘had her own plan’’ (she gave the writer a sweet smile that made the writer’s heart skip a beat).

She said, “Yesterday, I had a fascinating date. You’ll never find out this kind of thing. So don’t waste your time.’’ The writer felt enlightened, and asked if this was P.

‘‘Or perhaps O. Anyhow, there’ll always be someone.’’

‘‘How can you be so fickle?’’ The writer was indignant. “You must know that it was only recently that we hypothesized there was a P. We haven’t seen even his shadow. Now, great, there’s also O. You’re a representative: how can you get involved in such disgraceful things?’’

The writer urged Madam X to focus on P because her status wasn’t the same now. In everything, she now had to consider the effect on the people. How could the writer explain this to the people? Madam X couldn’t take the writer’s complaints and agreed to change the person she had met to P, but her attention wandered as she talked, and she also called him O or D, while the writer tirelessly insisted it was P.

‘‘What business is it of yours?’’ she demanded, staring above the writer’s head with great disgust, as though dead fish hung over him.

The writer said that it had nothing to do with him, but had to do with the destiny of all of the people on Five Spice Street. P was the idol hypothesized by all the people. How could she smash it or replace him? This wouldn’t do. Even if she wanted to replace him, she had to give the people time to get used to it. She couldn’t do it in one fell swoop, nor could she do this every day, replacing lovers as often as she pleased. People would get the wrong idea: they’d believe in nothing. People who have lost their faith are like trees chopped down at the roots. It wasn’t right. It was dangerous. P had already become part of the crowd’s social life: as soon as he was mentioned, everyone grew excited. They talked endlessly about him, hypothesizing and making plans. Even old men (for example, Old Meng) were not exceptions. His appearance kindled everyone’s youthful spirit, so P was a good, objective entity independent of Madam X. Therefore, she should treat this entity reasonably and not look upon him as her private property, because he wasn’t. He was the creation of all the people.