One Man Read online

  But that was not what she wanted, what she wanted was for you to really beat her. You started to hit her harder and harder so that you could hear the sound of the leather against her flesh. Her flesh convulsed and contracted, but she didn't call out to stop. You didn't know how much she could bear, and when she called out in surprise, you immediately threw down the belt and went to caress her. She swore at you for being a fool, struggled to untie her hands and sat up. You apologized. She lay on her back in the bed, and you lay over her. Then as you felt her tears wetting your face, your own tears began to flow. You said you could not rape her and that you no longer had lust.

  She said it was impossible for you to understand her suffering, the suffering of a promiscuous woman who had been raped. All you wanted was sexual enjoyment.

  You said that you loved her, and, because you loved her, you could not rape her. You said you hated violence.

  She also said she wanted you to cry, that when you cry you are more real. She became gentle and loving and kept stroking you, stroking you all over.

  A one-hundred-percent woman, you said. No, a wanton woman, she said. You said no, she was a good woman. She said no, you didn't know, after some time you would hate her. It was impossible for her to live the life of a normal woman, because she could never be satisfied. She really wanted to have a life with you, but it was impossible. Furthermore, you would have to forgive her for this psychosis of hers. She did, in fact, want a peaceful and secure life, but no one would be able to provide her with that sort of peace and contentment. And you would not marry a woman like her, you only wanted her body for the enjoyment you wanted but had not yet found.

  You said you were afraid of marriage, afraid of being controlled by a woman. You had a wife. You knew what marriage was about. For you, freedom was more precious than anything, but you couldn't help loving her. She said she could not be your lover, you obviously had a woman, and if you didn't have one you would find one. In fact, you were gentle and fairly honest-she said she had said "fairly" and that she was not exaggerating. You said she was a very lovely woman. But was she like this with all men? She said she had given much of herself to you because she liked you, and that you, too, had given her much, it was equal. She also said that she had understood men too early and already had no illusions. People were practical: she was her boss's lover, but he had to go home to his wife and children on weekends. She was his mistress and, apart from the weekends, she accompanied him on work assignments. Also, he needed her for doing business with China.

  Her deep throaty voice, her voluptuousness, her frankness, were tangible and, just like her strong body, aroused your lust, inducing memories with the aftertaste of pain, but filling those memories with a sensuousness that made them bearable. Her voice continued to excite you, and it was as if she were chatting softly right next to you, giving you her warmth and the fragrance of her body. Through her, your repressed lust was released, and recounting your memories to her brought both pain and joy. You needed to talk endlessly with her as you searched for those many memories, and, while you were talking, a profusion of small forgotten details kept surfacing with increasing clarity.

  The Bank of China Building, glass from top to bottom, reflects, like a mirror, the strands of white clouds in the blue sky. The sharp corner of the triangular building is knife-thin, and Hong Kong people say that it is like a meat cleaver cutting through the heart of the city and destroying the excellent feng shui of the island. The building of some finance group alongside has been fitted with some odd metal contraptions, futilely, to resist the baleful influences of the Bank of China Building. This is how Hong Kong people deal with the problem. The palatial Victorian mansion of the Legislative Council, located in the middle of a cluster of tall buildings, is quite insignificant and symbolizes an era that will soon end.

  Next to the Legislative Council, crowds are milling in the square with a bronze statue. There are crowds by the fountain, under the covered walkways, the pavements and even the road. You think you have come across some meeting or demonstration. But the people are talking and laughing, food is laid out on the ground, boom boxes are playing pop songs, only dancing is missing.

  Amazed at the streets of picnic groups between the tall buildings, you thread your way through them until you come to the closed doors of the Prince's Building where there is a banner with a portrait of Christ on the Cross. A priest is explaining the gospel, and the faithful are repenting in the open air. Eighty to ninety percent of the congregation are women, all with dark complexions. You suddenly realize that this is probably where the Filipino maids of rich Hong Kong families gather for recreation on Sundays. To support their families, these women work in Hong Kong so that they can send money back to the Philippines. There is a buzz of talking and laughing, but you do not understand their language and cannot hear their pain of being away from home.

  How long will this situation continue? Will new immigrants from the Mainland replace the Filipino maids? When the whole world is expelling immigrants, can this place be an exception? Of course, you need not worry yourself unnecessarily, the big buildings under the blue sky and white clouds will not crumble, and Hong Kong Island will not turn into a desert. At this instant, as you make a detour and move through the crowds, you are assailed by a profound loneliness, but this is the loneliness that has always been your salvation. In any case, you are not Christ and do not have to sacrifice yourself to enlighten the world. Moreover, there is no chance of your being resurrected, so what is important is for you to live properly in this present world.

  Once again, you are plunged into the darkness evoked by the sound of her voice. As if in a dream, with one foot heavy and one light, you stagger about in broad daylight through this noisy crowd while fresh and old memories weave together.

  You say Margarethe-speaking to her in your mind-the story of the new people is terrifying, but you no longer need to wash your heart and change your face to cleanse your errors and misdeeds. The pristine kingdom of that brand-new society was nothing but a huge fraud. People who did not understand, were confused, could not explain their own actions-that is, living human beings-were subjected to interrogation about themselves to such an extent that they lost the very basis for their existence.

  What you want to say is that Margarethe does not need to purify herself, there is no need for her to repent, and, moreover, rebirth is impossible. She is, she is just like you!

  A woman had given you life. Heaven is a woman's womb, whether it is the womb of one's mother or a prostitute. You would prefer to sink into the dark chaos rather than have to pretend being a virtuous man, a new person, or the follower of some religion.

  You are on an overhead bridge with an endless stream of cars speeding below. On Sunday, there are few people on this normally busy thoroughfare between the tall buildings and the shops. You lean on the rail and look down on the road below. You are really tired. There are still two more performances of your play and there is more than an hour to the matinee show at two o'clock. The evening show is at seven o'clock, and after that performance there will be photo ops with the actors, and then dinner, which will go on until quite late. You should catch up on some sleep but are reluctant to go back to the hotel. She still pervades your senses, that wild frenzy before parting, the smell of her body with your semen smeared on her heaving breasts.

  You go down to the street and come to a movie theater, and, without finding out what is playing, you buy a ticket and go in. You need to be alone in the darkness, to be engrossed in your thoughts about her. It is a Hong Kong slapstick comedy. Your eyes close, you understand little Cantonese, and this is just the thing for taking a nap. The seat is soft and comfortable, and you stretch out your legs. It is your good fortune to have won the freedom to express yourself, there are no taboos, and you can say whatever you want to say and write whatever you want to write. Maybe, as she had suggested, you should write all this down for yourself as a record. You should look with transcendent eyes upon yourself, a man who is
an animal with a consciousness, an animal stranded in a human forest.

  You have nothing to complain about. To be able to enjoy life, you have paid a price, but, apart from lies and bullshit, what doesn't come at a cost? You should articulate your experiences in writing, leave traces of your life, just like the semen you ejaculate. Surely blaspheming the world will bring you joy! It has oppressed you, and you have the right to seek revenge like this.

  There is no hatred. Margarethe, do you hate? You asked her if she hated you, and she shook her head as she laid it on your belly. You stroked her tangled mass of soft hair and let her suck you. She said she was your slave and you were her master, she belonged to you. You were less generous and just kept taking.

  You should regain your equilibrium, look at the world, including yourself, with normal eyes. The world is like this, and will continue to be like this. A person is so insignificant, and one can achieve nothing more than making such a gesture.

  When you wake up, the lights are on, and people are quickly getting up and leaving. You come out of the theater, hail a cab, and return to the hotel. When the woman at reception hands you the key, there are two telephone messages for you, to return calls. They are probably for dinner appointments, but at night, you have a farewell dinner with the actors and you can't go off somewhere else.Back in your tidy room, there are no items of her clothing on the bed, floor, or desk; it is as if a woman had not stayed here with you. You can't help feeling sad, and lie down fully clothed on the bed. The freshly changed, newly laundered sheets and pillowcases smell clean, and the air conditioner is humming. Not a sign of her or a trace of her smell remains, and, unfortunately, no surveillance camera to prove she had made love with you and that you had not been hallucinating.

  Margarethe, you are calling out to a real woman, this is not just the sound of your inner mind. She has aroused your past, and it stands there before your eyes. She is already fused with your memories, and you can't help wanting to retrieve both your fresh and almost forgotten memories.

  Right now, she is on a plane, and by tomorrow, this week will have passed. And, as she said, she will again be her boss's lover, and, as she had with you, she will make love with her boss. You have already fallen in love with this sadomasochistic prostitute and can't help thinking of her, her moistness and smell, which arouse your lust. Was she telling the truth when she said she had been raped at thirteen, or was that a strategy of seduction? Should you just treat her as a slut? Or should you let her accompany you in your thoughts, be a companion in your heart, so that you can share with her your loneliness and suffering?

  Maybe you should make up your mind to write down the memories and experiences she has summoned up, but is it worth doing? You no longer need to waste your life doing such utterly meaningless things, but then, what is meaningful? Is that play of yours, which is banned on the Mainland but has been staged here and due to go on stage again tonight, meaningful? Was it worth the suffering it brought you? If you had not written that play, wouldn't your life have been much easier? Why, then, do you write?

  If it is only through expressing yourself that you exist, then is that the reason for your existence? Does this then mean that you are a book-writing machine, driven by vanity to squander away your life? Perhaps she is right, just sink into carnal lust so that you can savor the pain. Since it is impossible to extricate yourself from it, simply sink into it. What need is there for you to promote morality, and where, in fact, can morality be found? That you are no match for the world and can only take refuge in the written word for a little solace and joy is like Margarethe's telling you about her suffering in order to exorcise it, even though doing this is unbearable.

  You take a hot bath, then a cold shower, and feel refreshed. You must return to reality by going to see the final performance of your play. With the young actors, you will eat, drink, joke, make lofty pronouncements about human beings, then leave them with the perplexities of being human.

  17

  It was a tailor-made new society, brand new and shiny, in which everyone was a glorious worker. People were organized into work units so that they could serve the people, even the barefoot peasants who worked in the fields and the bathhouse workers who pared the calluses from people's feet. Outstanding workers were selected as model workers and commended in the newspapers. There were no idlers, begging and prostitution were banned, and grain was allocated according to the number of mouths to be fed so that not a single bowl of rice would be wasted. The sense of personal gain was eradicated and everyone relied upon a wage or salary. Everything was the shared property of society, including the workers who were rigorously managed so that they would be perfect. There was no escape for the bad, and those not executed were sent to prison or to a farm to be reformed through labor. Red flags fluttered everywhere and, although it was only the first stage, a human ideal of a heavenly kingdom had come into being.

  New people were also created. A perfect model, an ordinary soldier called Lei Feng, who grew up as an orphan under the five-star red flag not knowing what it was to be an individual, selflessly saved others and sacrificed his own life. When this hero of few desires first learned to read, he felt boundless gratitude to the Party for being able to read the Selected Works of Mao Zedong and to write about it. Lei Feng was willing to be a bright, shiny cog in the machinery of the revolution so that citizens could model themselves on him. And everyone had to do just that. He was dubious about this type of new people, but the confession system at the university required that everyone confess their thoughts to the Party. One's own thoughts and those of others, including one's doubts, all had to be reported at special summing-up meetings. He was tricked and frivolously asked if one could be a hero without having to throw oneself on a bag of explosives and getting blown up, and wasn't the function of the engine more important than that of a cog. This instantly sent his fellow students into an uproar, the women students making the loudest protests. He was criticized, luckily only at a class discussion, so it was not too serious. However, he had been taught a sound lesson: a person had to lie. If one wanted only to tell the truth, then there was no point living. It was fundamentally impossible for a person to be pure, but it was only many years later that he was able to comprehend this. He was able to learn through other people's and his own experiences, but only after having personally verified the experiences of others and suffering as a consequence.

  You now do not need to take part in compulsory study meetings to confess your words and actions, and you no longer have to repent. You also distance yourself from any new myths that are similar to those. However, at that time he was frustrated and needed to talk about how he felt, so he arranged a get-together with some old schoolmates who were in Beijing and studying at university. They met at the Purple Bamboo Courtyard Park in the western suburbs. From different universities, luckily, they were not directly linked in an association, but only did a bit of writing when they felt deeply moved. All of them had written things like poetry, and simply wanted to come out of the intellectual shackles of the campus to relax. The park had only recently opened to the public and was fairly deserted. A teahouse by the lake sold cakes, but those poor students could not afford to go inside to sit down. However, on the grass in the shade of the trees, farther off, there were some quiet spots without any people. The fresh smell of wheat wafted on the breeze from the fields above the earth embankment, so probably it was May, because the grain was ripe.

  Big Head said he wanted to write a play like Mayakovski's Bath-house. He was nicknamed Big Head, because he had won the first prize in a mathematics competition for all middle-school students in Beijing, and also because the cap he wore in winter was two sizes bigger than that of anyone else. Big Head, fortunately, went back to his mathematics and didn't write about any bathhouses or mud baths. However, as two of his articles had been published, in English, in an international students' mathematics journal just before that anticulture Cultural Revolution broke out, he was sent for eight years to herd cattle o
n a farm. Big Head's problem was not the result of that get-together in the park but came about after he had graduated. He made a flippant comment in the dormitory of his research institute and was reported by a colleague.

  It was the reedy Mandarin Jacket Cheng, who got in trouble on that occasion. His nickname came from middle-school days, when he used to wear his father's old clothes that were several sizes too big for his skinny body. Without his knowledge, a fellow student read Cheng's diary and reported it to the secretary of the Communist Youth League. Mandarin Jacket was the only one of their group who had somehow weaseled membership into the League. The diary had a note on their get-together, but had not recorded what they had talked about. Cheng got in trouble because he had written about Women in the diary. It was said to have been pornographic and lewd, but it wasn't clear if the women were figments of his imagination or real. When people from Cheng's university arrived to question him about Cheng, he broke out in cold sweat.

  At the get-together, he had talked about Ehrenburg's memoirs, Paris at the beginning of the century, and the bar frequented by that group of surrealist poets and artists. He had also talked about Meyerhold, who was shot for his involvement with formalism. What Big Head talked about was even more frightening. They listened with bated breath as he told them about Khrushchev's secret report on Stalin, which he had read in the English edition of Moscow News. At the time, strict controls on foreign-language publications in university libraries were not yet in place. The fourth person at the get-together was studying biology and genetics, and he had raved on about Indian philosophy and said that Tagore's poetry was like a meeting with immortals. The people who came to question him didn't ask about any of this. In other words, Mandarin Jacket was indeed a good friend and had not betrayed them. What they asked was whether women students were present and whether he knew anything about Cheng's off-campus relationships with women. At this he knew they were out of danger. So ended their one and only get-together.