Five Spice Street

Madam X acted this way toward the crowd but not with her younger sister. The two were birds of a feather. Their conversations always had to ‘‘exhaust’’ the subject. Sometimes, they closed the door and talked most of the day. Their passionate conversations generally were devoted to the composition of eyes, the differences between men and women, and astrology. Madam X always gave her opinions freely, and her sister respected her, believing that these matters consumed every minute of her day. Madam X told her that, on the contrary, she didn’t consider them, and that it was precisely for this reason that she was able ‘‘to keep a clear head’’ from start to finish. As soon as someone took the evil path of ‘‘considering,’’ he would become muddle-headed and lose his original appearance and ‘‘become a parrot.’’ If no one ‘‘considered,’’ if they were all as simple and pure as she, then everyone would be much more free and easy together. It was only because people learned from birth to ‘‘consider’’ that everything became so singularly complicated and she was thought ‘‘abnormal,’’ able only to float like a balloon in midair. Of course, her sister didn’t understand all this talk. She had always respected her big sister unconditionally and never tried to reason it through. She had just one comment: ‘‘She can fly!’’ Whether innate or influenced by her sister, her logic was just as weird. When they talked behind the closed door, now and then you could hear their husky voices drifting from the window, singing a duet, ‘‘The Little Lonely Boat.’’ They always sang the same song, but each time the sentimental meaning seemed different. If people came to visit at times like this, the husband solemnly kept them outside and told them in hushed tones, ‘‘They’re singing inside- shh!’’

Madam X repeatedly described her ideal man in her usual style: vulgar, inane, and pretentious. She acted as if she were fascinated by the aftertaste of real things. ‘‘When the time comes, neither can stop fondling the other, neither can stop talking. Language is also a way of hinting at feelings, because try as hard as you can to communicate your ardor and your dreams to the other, you can’t just show your feelings through action-that isn’t enough. And so you use language. At such times, language has more than just everyday meaning-if only in some simple syllables, some little sounds that have sprouted wings. I can elicit that kind of special language.’’ Madam X also sometimes sighed with feeling, ‘‘I can’t find a pair of good hands. Men’s hands should be animated, filled with warm strength. The hands represent the whole person, with a tide of feelings surging through them.’’ Almost all men’s hands are ‘‘completely dry, pale, and lifeless,’’ no better than ‘‘a tool for releasing one’s own lust.’’ She could tell those ‘‘poor, thin, neutered things at a glance.’’ These things ‘‘had never experienced the pleasure of fondling: they weren’t womanly, nor did they become real men. It’s as though they’re counterfeit goods.’’ Overjoyed, her sister was only too eager for more details. She also foolishly confided that sometimes she ‘‘jumped up and down with desire and almost couldn’t control’’ herself. Madam X, of course, wasn’t as simple and impulsive as her younger sister. She was experienced and astute. Only in vulgarity were the two sisters alike.

Madam X gave an example. She said that one day years ago, she happened to see a pair of eyes flash past her, and all at once they turned into eyes with three colors. Inwardly happy, she approached that person. At the same time, she felt two young hands, which ‘‘seemed to have some stories.’’ When she had just made contact, she realized her stupid mistake: ‘‘Those hands were shriveled, malnourished, and a little sickly. When they fondled you, they twitched.’’ She shook her head, embarrassed, and said she certainly wouldn’t make that mistake again. The world was full of these kinds of stunted hands. ‘‘With my eyes closed, I can sense this very clearly.’’ ‘‘This is a place where decrepitude and asexuality reproduce. With hands like this, a man certainly can’t create anything.’’

Sometimes, after Madam X finished, the two would just sit across from one another in silence and watch the rays of the setting sun pass across the window screen. They listened to the clock strike on the glass mantle, and the younger sister often exclaimed: ‘‘In the past, we were all as lively as wild deer!’’ Madam X would respond with an insipid, perplexed smile. Wallowing in sloppy sentiment, Madam X disclosed one of her secrets.