Soul Mountain Page 30

  She silently shakes her head.

  “Are you afraid when you marry your husband will find out and also beat you?”

  She is trembling.

  “Yet you’re willing to give up so much for me?”

  I touch the lip she is biting on, she is nodding. I am filled with compassion for her and holding her head, I kiss her wet face, cheeks and neck. She is weeping silently.

  I can’t be so cruel as to enjoy myself on her because of my momentary lust and let her pay such a high price for me. I can’t help liking her and I know it’s not love, but then what is love? Her body is fresh and sensitive and, again and again, I am filled with lust and do everything except for the last boundary. But she waits, alert, does whatever I ask of her and nothing excites me more than this. I want to remember every little tremor of her body and I want to be etched indelibly, body and soul, into her memory. She is trembling all this time, weeping, and both the upper and lower parts of her body are drenched. I don’t know whether or not this is more cruel. It is not until dawn breaks on the window, outside the partially drawn mosquito net, that she calms down.

  I lean on the bed looking at her pale, unclad body lying in the faint light.

  “Don’t you like me?”

  I don’t reply, I can’t.

  She gets up, gets out of the bed and leans by the window. The shadow of her body and the silhouette of her face is heart-rending.

  “Why didn’t you take me?” The hurt in her voice shows that she is tormenting herself.

  What can I say?

  “Of course you’ve had lots of experiences.”

  “Not at all!” I sit up.

  “Don’t come near!” She indignantly stops me and puts on her clothes.

  Out on the street, there are already hurried footsteps and the sound of peasants on their way to the morning market.

  “I won’t cling onto you,” she says as she combs her hair in the mirror.

  I want to say I’m afraid of her getting a beating, afraid of bringing misfortune upon her afterwards, afraid of her becoming pregnant. I know the implications for an unmarried woman having an abortion in a small county town, I want to say, “I–”

  “Don’t say anything, you listen to me. I know what you’re afraid of, I could quickly find someone to marry me, I wouldn’t blame you.”

  She heaves a big sigh.

  “I want to . . .”

  “No! Don’t move! It’s too late.”

  “I think I should go today,” I say.

  “I know I’m not good enough for you, but you’re a good man.”

  Is this necessarily so?

  “Your mind isn’t on a woman’s body.”

  I want to say this is not at all so.

  “No! Don’t say anything.”

  I should have spoken then but don’t say anything.

  After combing her hair and getting properly dressed, she fetches water for me to wash my face, sits on the chair and quietly waits for me to finish washing and combing my hair. It is already full light.

  I go back to my room and start putting my things together. After a while she comes in. I know she is right behind me but don’t dare turn around. It is only when I have stuffed everything into the bag and pulled the zipper that I turn to her.

  Before going out the door I embrace her. She turns her head, closes her eyes, and presses her face to my chest. I try to kiss her but she breaks away.

  It is a long way to the bus stop. In the early morning there are large numbers of people coming and going on the street and it’s very noisy. She is some distance from me and walking very quickly. It is as if we are two people who don’t know each other.

  She walks with me all the way to the bus stop. There she sees quite a few people she knows and she greets and chats with each of them. She appears comfortable and relaxed but avoids looking at me. I too do not dare to make eye contact with her. I hear her introducing me, saying I am a writer who has come to collect folk songs. It is only in the instant when the bus starts that I see her eyes. Their brightness is shattering.

  She says she hates you!

  Why? Your eyes stare at the knife she is toying with.

  She says you have taken her life to the grave.

  You say she is still young.

  But you have ruined the best years of her life, she says you, yes you!

  You say she can start life anew.

  You can, she says, but for her it’s too late.

  You can’t see why it’s too late.

  It’s because she’s a woman.

  Women are the same as men.

  You make it all sound very nice. She laughs sarcastically.

  You see her raise the knife and instantly sit up.

  She can’t let you off so lightly, she says she’s going to kill you!

  There’s a death penalty for murder, you say, moving away and watching her anxiously.

  My life’s no longer worth living, she says.

  You ask if she’s been living for you, you want to placate her.

  It’s not worth living for anyone! She points the knife at you.

  Put down the knife! You warn her.

  Are you afraid of death? She laughs sarcastically again.

  Everyone’s afraid of death. You admit you’re afraid of death and try to persuade her to put down the knife.

  She’s not afraid, she says, having gone this far, she’s not afraid of anything!

  You don’t dare enrage her but must keep an aggressive edge to what you say and not let her see you’re terrified.

  There’s no need to go to all this trouble to die, you say, there’s a better way of dying. Old age.

  You won’t live that long, she says, the knife in her hand glinting.

  You edge away and turn to watch her from the side.

  She suddenly starts laughing loudly.

  You ask if she’s gone mad.

  If she has it’s because you made her, she says.

  Made you do what? You say you can no longer live with her, that it’s best to separate. Staying together is voluntary, and so is separating. You try hard to stay calm.

  It’s not so simple.

  Then let’s go to court.

  No.

  Then let both parties separate.

  She says she can’t let you off so lightly, holds up the knife and comes up to you.

  You get out of bed and sit down facing her.

  She also gets up, exposing her bare upper body, her drooping breasts. Her eyes are dilated and she’s very agitated.

  You can’t stand her hysteria, can’t stand her tantrums. You’ve made up your mind to leave. To avoid provoking her further, you say let’s talk about something else.

  Are you trying to get away?

  Get away from what?

  Get away from death. She mocks you and flourishes the knife, unsteadily, like an inexperienced butcher. Her nipples are shaking.

  You say you hate her! Finally, this comes through your clenched teeth.

  You’ve hated her for a long time but why didn’t you say so a long time ago? She starts screaming, you’ve wounded her. Her whole body starts shaking.

  It wasn’t as bad then, you say you didn’t think she would become so disgusting, you say you thoroughly detest her and blurt out cruel harsh words.

  You should have said so earlier, you should have said so earlier, she starts weeping and the blade of the knife turns down.

  You say everything about her thoroughly disgusts you! You are determined to wound her to the core.

  She throws down the knife, shouting, you should have said earlier, it’s too late, too late for everything, why didn’t you say so earlier? She wails hysterically, pounding the floor with her fists.

  You want to comfort her but then all this effort, what you have at last resolved, will have been wasted, everything will start all over again and it will be even harder to get away.

  She starts bawling and is rolling naked on the floor with the knife lying next to her.


  You bend to take away the knife but she grabs the blade. You try to prise off her fingers but she holds onto it tighter.

  You’ll cut your hand! Shouting at her, you twist her arm until she drops it. Red blood drips from her palm. You take her wrist and press hard on the artery. She grabs the knife with her other hand. You slap her across the face, stunning her, and she drops the knife.

  She looks dumbly at you and suddenly, like a child, eyes full of despair, begins to weep soundlessly. You can’t help feeling sorry for her and, taking her injured hand, suck away the blood with your lips. At this she locks her arms around you tightly, weeping. You try to break free but her arms lock around you even more tightly, pulling you to her breasts.

  What are you doing? You are furious.

  She wants you to make love, right away! She says she wants to make love now!

  With great difficulty you pull yourself away and say, panting, you’re not an animal!

  You are! You are an animal! She screams wildly, her eyes glinting strangely.

  You try to comfort her and, at the same time, you beg her not to be like this, beg her to calm down.

  She blubbers, crying and saying she loves you. Her outburst is because she loves you, she’s frightened that you’re leaving.

  You say you can’t yield to a woman’s will, can’t live under this sort of shadow. She is suffocating you, you can’t be anyone’s slave, you won’t submit to any authority whatever tactics are used. And you refuse to submit to a woman, to be a woman’s slave.

  She says she will give you freedom as long as you love her and don’t leave, as long as you stay with her, as long as you satisfy her, as long as you want her. She wraps herself around you, kisses you wildly, wet kisses on your face, your body, and rolls around with you. She has won, you can’t resist and again sink into carnal lust, unable to free yourself.

  Walking along a road on the shady side of a mountain, no-one ahead or behind me, I get caught in a downpour. At first it’s light rain and feels good falling on my face, then it gets heavier and heavier and I have to run. My hair and clothes are drenched, and seeing a cave on the slope, I hurry to it. Just inside is a big pile of chopped firewood. The ceiling is quite high and one corner of the cave goes further inside. Light is coming from over there. A stove built of rocks with an iron pot on it stands at the top of a few roughly-hewn steps and light is streaming in through a crack in the rock running at an angle above the stove.

  I turn around. Behind me is a roughly nailed together wooden bed with the bedding rolled up. A Daoist priest is sitting there reading a book. I get a surprise but don’t dare disturb him and just look at the grey-white line of rain shivering in the crack. It is raining so heavily that I don’t want to venture back out.

  “It’s all right, you can stay awhile.” It is he who speaks first as he puts down his book.

  He has shoulder length hair and is wearing a loose grey top and grey trousers. He looks to be around thirty.

  “Are you one of the Daoists of this mountain?” I ask.

  “Not yet. I chop firewood for the Daoist temple,” he replies.

  On his bed, cover up, is a copy of Fiction Monthly.

  “Are you also interested in this?” I ask.

  “I read it to pass time,” he says frankly. “You’re all wet, dry yourself first.” Saying this he brings a basin of hot water from the pot on the stove and gives me a towel.

  I thank him, then stripping to the waist, have a wash and instantly feel much better.

  “This is really a good place to shelter!” I say as I sit down on a block of wood opposite. “Do you live in this cave?”

  He says he is from the village at the foot of the mountain but that he hates the whole lot of them, his older brother and his wife, the neighbours, and the village cadres.

  “They all put money first and only think about profit,” he says, “I no longer have anything to do with them.”

  “So you chop firewood for a living?”

  “I renounced society almost a year ago but they haven’t formally accepted me yet.”

  “Why?”

  “The old head Daoist wants to see whether I am sincere, whether my heart is constant.”

  “Will he accept you then?”

  “Yes.”

  This shows he firmly believes he is sincere of heart.

  “Don’t you feel bored living in this cave on your own all the time?” I go on to ask, casting a glance at the magazine.

  “It’s more peaceful and relaxed than in the village,” he calmly replies, unaware that I’m trying to provoke him. “I also study every day,” he adds.

  “May I ask what you are studying?”

  He pulls out a stone-block-print copy of Daily Lessons for Daoists from under his bedding.

  “I was reading some fiction because on rainy days like this I can’t work,” he explains when he sees me looking at the magazine on his bed.

  “Do these stories affect your study?” I am curious to find out.

  “Ha, they’re all about common occurrences between men and women,” he replies with a dismissive laugh. He says he went to senior high school and studied some literature and when there’s nothing to do he reads a bit. “In fact human life just amounts to this.”

  I can’t go on to ask him whether he ever had a wife and I can’t question him about the private concerns of one who has renounced the world. The pelting rain is monotonous but soothing.

  I shouldn’t disturb him any further. I sit with him for a long time in meditation, sitting in forgetfulness in the sound of the rain.

  I don’t notice the rain has stopped. But when I do, I get up, thank him, and bid him farewell.

  He says, “No need to thank me, it is fate.”

  This is on Qingcheng Mountain.

  Afterwards, at the old stone pagoda on the island in the middle of the Ou River, I encounter a monk with a shaven head wearing a crimson cassock. He presses his palms together then kneels and prostrates himself in front of the pagoda. Sightseers crowd around to watch. He unhurriedly completes his worship, removes his cassock, puts it into a black artificial leather case, picks up his umbrella, which has a curved handle and doubles as a walking stick then turns and leaves. I follow him, then, some distance from the crowd of sightseers who were watching him pray, I go up and ask, “Venerable Master, can I invite you to drink tea with me? I would like to ask your advice about some Buddhist teachings.”

  He thinks about it, then agrees.

  He has a gaunt face, is alert, and looks to be around fifty. His trouser legs are tied at the calves and he walks briskly so that I have to half run to keep up.

  “The Venerable Master seems to be leaving for a distant journey,” I say.

  “I’m going to Jiangxi first to visit a few old monks, then I have to go to a number of other places.”

  “I too am a lone traveller. However, I am not like the Venerable Master who is steadfastly sincere and has a sacred goal in his heart.” I have to find something to talk about.

  “The true traveller is without goal, it is the absence of goals which creates the ultimate traveller.”

  “Venerable Master, are you from thi s locality? Is this journey to farewell your native village? Don’t you intend coming back?”

  “For one who has renounced society all within the four seas is home, for him what is called native village does not exist.”

  This leaves me speechless. I invite him into a tea stall in the park and choose a quiet corner to sit down. I ask his Buddhist name, tell him my name and then hesitate.

  It is he who speaks first. “Just ask what you wish to know, there is nothing one who has renounced society cannot talk about.”

  I then blurt out, “If you don’t mind, I wish to ask, Venerable Master, why you renounced society.”

  He smiles, blows at the tea leaves floating in his cup and takes a sip. Then, looking at me he says, “It seems that you are not on an ordinary trip, are you on a special mission?”

  “I�
�m not carrying out any sort of investigation but wh I saw the Venerable Master’s serene person, I was filled with admiration. I don’t have a specific goal but I still can’t abandon it.”