Five Spice Street

One noon in the second year of Madam X’s ‘‘dispel boredom’’ movement, there was a small get-together at the lame woman’s home. More than a dozen charming, graceful women attended. This meeting wasn’t convened by anyone but was brought about by telepathy: it was a ‘‘coincidence.’’ These women were forthright like ‘‘feminists.’’ As soon as they sat down in the room, each began cursing someone. Because they were on the same wave length, they were doubly stimulated-they shared a bitter hatred of the enemy and fought in high spirits, all of them eager and determined to throw all their energy into this.

In this charged atmosphere, the widow suggested that they ask Old Woman Jin to go out and buy some fried dough sticks in order ‘‘to lift their spirits’’ for ‘‘working energetically on this.’’ Naturally, this suggestion drew unanimous approval, and soon the whole room was filled with the sound of fried dough sticks being eaten. Some people surreptitiously wiped their greasy fingers on the lame woman’s quilt. After finishing the dough sticks, they ate some fried dough twists and then played cards. In the midst of such a good time, they nearly forgot the main point. Only when the female colleague prompted them did they start cursing someone again. This time, it wasn’t the one they had begun with-the woman they all knew-but instead an eighty-year-old ‘‘who should have been dead a long time ago.’’ After half an hour, they finally realized they had ‘‘shifted the objective of the struggle,’’ and resumed cursing the first woman.

‘‘She’s still coming up with ideas for your children!’’ The widow brought up this most sensitive and thrilling issue and then launched into a lengthy self-analysis. Her emotions were like a surging flood: ‘‘Although I have no children, I will join you in struggling against her to the end. In the first place, I had the ability to have children, but my deceased husband and I didn’t think children were important. You could say we didn’t even think about it-and so the outcome was inevitable. You must remember that in those years, the old folks said that I would have at least a dozen children; they all described me as ‘a mother hen good at laying eggs.’ Fifty-eight people said this, and some were so excited they said it repeatedly. As you all know, I was great at sex. No one could compare with me. I was like a plot of fertile land: it was only necessary to sow good seeds and I could have continually born fruit. I wasn’t like a certain person, who, even if she had sturdy seeds, either couldn’t bear fruit or just bore one monstrous one. Her soil isn’t fertile enough. You can’t figure out if she’s even a woman. Later on, I didn’t care whether or not I had children. Having children doesn’t mean anything. The important thing is a person’s moral character. This is a person’s true value. Although it’s fine to have children, if they aren’t brought up well, they can harm society. What’s the point of having a child at odds with society from the moment it’s born? Now, a lot of these destructive children have appeared in our community, and they’re directly related to a certain person’s conspiracy. How should we deal with this? Is it conceivable that we can’t think of countermeasures?’’

At this point, the widow remembered something: ‘‘The reason I didn’t have children is related to my years of keeping myself as pure as jade: I considered this to be of the utmost importance. After my husband died of his illness, have any of my relationships with men gone beyond friendship? One after another, strong young men-in the prime of life-were hot for me. But I had long ago transcended the worldly and given up the vulgar, and never again showed any interest in this kind of thing. Whether a person has children or not doesn’t matter. I’m concerned only to actualize my lofty ideals.’’ These sincere words opened up the female colleague’s sluice gate of sentimentality. Thinking of her ‘‘evil son,’’ she couldn’t keep from wailing until her face was wet with tears and snot. First she wiped her face with her sleeve and then with the lame woman’s grease-spotted quilt-leaving her face blotchy. Choking with sobs, she said she wanted to ‘‘fight a duel with’’ Madam X (she mentioned her by name; it would have been much better to be beautifully indirect, as the widow was; this showed that she lacked breeding). If she didn’t succeed, she’d kill herself and let the law punish her. Sure enough, as she talked, she rammed her skull against the side of the bed. Nobody stopped her: indeed, they all looked on with avid interest, as if they wanted to see how strong her skull was. The female colleague rammed her head more than twenty times before looking up and dashing outside with a ‘‘wild look in her eyes.’’