Five Spice Street

‘‘Third, this Q: we’ve all concluded that the only one he’s interested in is X. We have no doubts about this. From his actions that afternoon, I could see that he wasn’t headed straight for X’s home; first, he stopped at my window for a significant twenty-three minutes. This illuminates the issue. If I had the least little hope for all of you, I wouldn’t have been so inactive and let the bird out of the cage. You’ve disappointed me too much: my heart has been like dead ashes for a long time. I am too tired to take any action. I don’t think X is his only objective. (He hasn’t put all his eggs in one basket, as the saying goes.) If only we change a little and aren’t quite so contrary and start acting a little more open-minded, it’s completely possible that he will become interested in each one of you. He isn’t a great hero who’s all that perfect: he’s no different from your own husbands; he’s not the least bit better. It’s your impertinence and carelessness that pushed him into X’s arms. Now you regret this and for no reason come up with all kinds of romantic sentiments, even making him into an idol and worshipping him. What you’ve done has wiped out all the possibilities. This is exactly what I figured: it’s just because of this that I’ve lost hope and recognize that any efforts are all for nothing. I was the first woman Q was interested in. It wouldn’t have taken the slightest effort for me to win him over. I could have made some introductions, too, and then none of you would be as lonesome, sentimental, and frustrated as you are now. In a word, the opportunities have all slipped away. Why? Because of your stupidity! Because of your sloth! You just lay in bed moaning and daydreamed of non-existent, impossible things. You would do that even if the sky was going to collapse. If you’re awakened, you dash over and close the curtains, but go out of your way to leave the door wide open. You stare hard at the door as you inwardly beckon with all the longing you can muster. If your husband came home at this time, you’d be furious and drive him out, cursing him angrily: ‘You’ve wrecked my mood!’

‘‘Now I can tell you a story. After you’ve listened to it, perhaps you’ll understand some truths. My story is long and complicated. You need a lot of perseverance and patience to understand all the relationships in it. And still it’s very likely that you’ll fail. At most, there’s only one chance in a thousand that you’ll succeed. If you don’t change your lax attitudes, you’ll have no way-not in a million years-to enter into my story. The story I’m telling is how a woman or a man (perhaps a person who is lame as I am) gets on in life when the social system is abnormal. This story isn’t at all related to the person in the small dark room at the end of the gray wall, but it’s directly related to each of us seated here. Indeed, you could have entered the story directly and served as the protagonists. At that time, this possibility would have been completely revealed: it only waited for you to bring it into play. But you didn’t. Instead, you wielded your slack but boundless imaginations to link some isolated things together, busily wove the threads together, and then threw the whole thing aside and were content with superficial understanding. Each person would go her own way, crying and grieving for no reason. Up to now, you still haven’t figured out what’s happened. What happened? An earthquake! A flash flood! Demons visiting! Or perhaps nothing happened. It was nothing more than eating an extra dumpling at breakfast and crying later because of a stomachache.

‘‘No, I won’t tell you the story. There’d be no point. I want to keep the story to myself. These little treasures are the consolation of my life; they’re also a kind of self-defense. When I get up in the middle of the night, outside my window the sky is as unyielding as steel. The gray wall on the hill heaves and wobbles. My teeth chatter. I burrow under the quilt and wrap myself in those stories. My story is warm, focused, and a little stimulating: it belongs just to me. I must tell you again: your imaginary experiences don’t exist. They don’t have even a foreword. All the beginnings you’ve imagined are subjectively trumped up: they’ve resulted from sloppy romantic sentiments spilling over. The real beginning is lost, never to return.