Five Spice Street

The colleague reinforced this dialogue with the following information: every time they met, their talk seemed a continuation of their last conversation; it was also completely meaningless nonsense, always on the same topic. What’s more, each time, neither greeted the other, as if they were continuing their previous encounter. But when they talked, it was as if-apart from crazy talk-any- thing else (for example, greetings, introductions, remarks about the things around them) was superfluous, discordant. At this point, the colleague covered half her mouth and said in a thin voice, ‘‘Is this a sort of ‘concealed person’-‘The Invisible’?’’ With that, her hair stood on end, and she didn’t dare continue.

As for Mr. Q’s looks, although there aren’t as many opinions about it as about Madam X’s age, opinions do differ here on Five Spice Street. We need to stress a little something: our people don’t really like talking about a man’s appearance, because they embrace the proverb: There’s no such thing as an ugly man. So what does Mr. Q look like? All we have to rely on is the odd adjective and a few unintentional changes in the tone of people’s conversations.

The first to produce an impression of Mr. Q’s looks was the widow’s forty-eight-year-old friend. She thought ‘‘there was nothing remarkable’’ about Mr. Q (she curled her lip and spat). She ‘‘couldn’t even remember what he looked like,’’ ‘‘he seemed to be a big dumb guy,’’ ‘‘anyhow, he couldn’t be more ordinary.’’ After saying this, she felt she’d lost some dignity and immediately changed the subject. She began talking of the miraculous effects of qigong.

[1] As she spoke, she tossed her head, as if to rid her mind of ‘‘disturbing thoughts.’’

On the surface, the women of Five Spice Street had no interest in Mr. Q’s looks, never mind observing him in detail. If you put the question to them directly, they would answer in three words: he is ugly. Did the women of Five Spice Street never make eye contact with Mr. Q? Actually, that’s not the case. After all, those adjectives and the strange tone of voice used to describe him were almost all produced by these women. Speaking of Q, they hedged and evaded, talking lightly and indirectly. Doesn’t this show tremendous interest and sensitivity? Sometimes they affected indifference. One might raise the topic, circle all around it, and then return to sounding out a second person so that this second person would bring up what the first had wanted to say. Thus, they enjoyed a sense of satisfaction.

All of Five Spice Street’s women were masters of this conversational art. For example, the widow’s female friend, after talking at length about qigong, touched on ethnography, leading to a line from a folk song: ‘‘Southern Women and Northern Men.’’ When the other person fully understood this line, she would shift the topic from northern men to a man of big stature. Then, both would come around to the issue of Q’s looks. Through suggestive language they bounced this topic back and forth until dark, when each happily exclaimed, ‘‘I had a really good time today!’’

The second to come up with an impression of Q was a lame woman who hadn’t been able to get out of bed for years. She was twenty-eight, all bones. A kind of ray emanated from her sunken, jet- black eyes. That ray at any moment could force young men to ‘‘retreat thirty feet’’ (the widow’s words). The first day that Q came to Five Spice Street, she saw him once. At the time, she was opening the curtains next to her bed (of course, her bed was next to the window). When Q walked by, their eyes met. Summoning all her strength, the woman fixed him with her gaze for a full twenty-five seconds (her estimate). At first, Mr. Q was flustered, and with one hand warded off the ray from her eyes, but then, instead of ‘‘retreating thirty feet,’’ he reluctantly smiled and walked on. The woman opened her window with a peng and shouted shrilly at Mr. Q’s receding figure, ‘‘A wolfhound! A wolfhound! Please look out for thunder!’’ Later, feeling sentimental, the lame woman said, Mr. Q certainly wasn’t like a wolf, but rather like a catfish instead: he had a barbel-like mustache. When he shaved, he got rid of it, but if you looked carefully, you could still see it. The one who looked like a wolfhound was the scoundrel who had taken her virginity years earlier. Q merely resembled him in certain ways. Precisely because of this, as soon as she set eyes on him, she was incensed and launched an attack. That’s the only way she could express her hatred.