Five Spice Street

The woman left in a huff. Afterwards, he told his wife that he had felt a passing lightheadedness but had quickly regained his equilibrium and ‘‘had seen through’’ her.

‘‘She’s a common flirt,’’ he said to his wife (in an unduly bland manner that seemed to be glossing over something). ‘‘How can she compare with you!’’

He weaseled out of it, and the woman quickly turned to another man. He felt fortunate and proud: he hadn’t fallen for her trick; the sequel would have been unimaginable. At first glance, a woman might seem special although she actually wasn’t. Wasn’t this proof?

If a man took a risk for this kind of woman, what could he achieve except his own destruction? In general, women were loathsome. If there was another kind, he certainly hadn’t seen it, so how could he prove there was? Up to now, he hadn’t seen any relationship more perfect than his with his wife. He believed there could be nothing better. His vision was so sharp he couldn’t be fooled. He was already forty-five: was there anything he couldn’t see through?

His wife celebrated their (she did not say his, but always said their) victory as if it were a holiday. She couldn’t help but redouble her caresses. She called him ‘‘my poor boy. My poor, solitary little boy.’’ And he redoubled his response to her, ashamed of his momentary, contemptible thoughts. He vowed he would never tell her about this and would always preserve their love’s perfection and purity. Who could compare with his wife? This graceful, pure, virginal person! This soul fully loaded with love! Each time, he marveled and adored her. In their fifteen years together, they’d probably encountered that kind of ‘‘trouble’’ four or five times. Each time, Q dealt with it properly. He would never let such a vulgar thing disturb his angel-like wife’s mood (that would be the same as deliberately hurting her). If he had to, he would tell her afterwards. He would turn it into a joke. He would never let her have uneasy suspicions.

From the bottom of her heart, Q’s wife knew that Q was charming, knew the way he appeared to other women. But she wasn’t the least bit jealous. There was no room in her heart for jealousy. She was just uneasy. She thought of her husband as a charming child, skipping through the world as naked as the day he was born. All around were thorns and unseen wild animals. He could be hurt at any moment. He was her husband, her big brother, but emotionally he was also her child-a gullible, hotheaded child. She needed to guide him in the dark to a safe place. Excited about her mission, she couldn’t help smiling.

‘‘What are you so happy about?’’

‘‘Female stuff. Not for you.’’

The clouds passed, and the sky was once again blue and pure. The bean blossoms gave off their faint intoxicating scent. With one child on his knee, Mr. Q would cuddle his frail little wife in his strong arms: he was steeped in his happiness as father and husband. If this witch X hadn’t appeared, or if it had been another woman and not X, then Q and his wife could have been a model of affection, an example for everyone to emulate.