Five Spice Street

‘‘Are you trying to fool us? What makes you say he’s a curtain? There’s something fishy here! A person, even if he has lost his sexual function, certainly is not a curtain! Your words are like a blow to my head! Every man, including this one, secretly adores me. I’m sympathetic toward them, just like my leader. Her description of the boy who couldn’t grow up almost made me cry from pity. But your heart is as hard as a millstone. How could you compare a living boy struggling through a painful metamorphosis to a curtain! Your accusation makes us wonder what you’re made of and how hard your heart is. We have observed you coldly all along. Ah, God, that the world still contains a woman as evil as you! Not until I heard the leader’s analysis did I understand what you’re after. All along, your actions have come from your hypoplasia. Your abnormal psychology makes you most interested in a pretty little boy whom you then turn into a cheap curtain. In fact, you want to sweep the crowd away and secretly monopolize him. I bet that if you had escaped just now, you would have immediately looked for him. You threw up a smokescreen and then meant to take to your heels, thinking you were incredibly smart. You never imagined a prophet had seen through your deception and was waiting for you at the door. Are you flustered now? Listen to me: go back and wash your hands and lie down. Stop your wishful thinking, or you’ll make an exhibition of yourself in public. There are rules for everything, and what will be, will be. Open your eyes and look at the people in this room. Who else is as obtrusive as you? You must be a little more careful. An artist here has taken responsibility for writing the history. The night that we were cooling off outside, he and I rushed together into the small dark room. After I had taught him some secrets, he became both delicate and humorous. You mustn’t bring up some curtain in front of him. That’s risky. Our artist now is almost at my level: with one glance, he can discern your inner world. My God, how hard it is to talk with you! In my whole life, I’ve never talked so long. You are really extraordinarily dim-witted.’’

The dark-skinned woman didn’t let the female colleague pass. Gazing brightly at her, she blocked the door by spreading out her arms and legs.

‘‘No, I’ve changed my mind,’’ she said. ‘‘I definitely won’t let you go home. I won’t go home tonight, either. I’ll guard this door until dawn. I feel that tonight is the key. I can’t tolerate other people spreading rumors about a serious matter. Once the nonsense about the curtain starts spreading, my social status will decline disastrously.’’

After many meetings, Madam X’s husband’s role was still ambiguous. The writer had used the diagram of the maze to solve the problem of Madam X’s image, but the diagram wasn’t suited to this man, for a particular problem needs a particular method to solve it. We have to find the right key to open this door. Our Dr. A had employed ‘‘empathy’’ to solve the problem of Q. But the writer believed that he could not also solve the issue of X’s husband. That was the responsibility of genius. After eliminating all other possibilities, the writer acted independently and called on X’s little sister.

Here we want to explain that ever since X’s sister and her lover eloped and then ‘‘settled it peacefully,’’ X’s sister had lived in a narrow loft with her present husband. The loft was close to the wharf that was used for transporting ‘‘night soil.’’ Though every day they cooked in the midst of the odor of human excrement, it seemed this couple was actually happy. Through the window facing the wharf, you could often see them hugging and kissing. Occasionally, they also stuck their heads out the window and shouted something we couldn’t make out.

The writer walked around the house several times without finding the staircase, so he stood on the wharf with his legs apart and waited. He waited about half an hour and then two startled faces were reflected on the window glass. The writer immediately began gesturing. The woman smiled a little and shrank back inside. Another ten minutes went by, and then she lowered a rope ladder from the window. The writer bravely clutched this ladder and clambered up.

‘‘This is great,’’ the woman said to the man. ‘‘The method we chose is secure. No one can climb up. Isn’t that right, darling? This young guy is an artist.’’

‘‘An artist?’’ The husband was surprised. ‘‘Excuse me, I must go to work.’’

He climbed to the window and lowered himself by the rope ladder. From the bottom, he shouted up, ‘‘Watch out for that damn guy!’’ Then, without turning his head, he disappeared.

‘‘He’s really adorable. Hey, please close the window. They’re starting to pump excrement again. You want to ask me about my sister’s husband, but I have nothing to say to you.’’

‘‘Why? You’re very close.’’