Five Spice Street tells the story of a street in an unnamed city whose inhabitants speculate on the life of a mysterious Madam X. The novel interweaves their endless suppositions into a work that is at once political parable and surreal fantasia. Some think X is 50 years old; others that she is 22. Some believe she has occult powers and has thereby enslaved the young men of the street; others think she is a clever trickster playing mind games with the common people. Who is Madam X? How has she brought the good people of Five Spice Street to their knees either in worship or in exasperation? The unknown narrator takes no sides in the endless interplay of visions, arguments, and opinions. The investigation rages, as the street becomes a Walpurgisnacht of speculations, fantasies, and prejudices. Madam X is a vehicle whereby the people bare their souls, through whom they reveal themselves even as they try to penetrate the mystery of her extraordinary powers.Five Spice Street is one of the most astonishing novels of the past twenty years. Exploring the collective consciousness of this little street of ordinary people, Can Xue penetrates the deepest existential anxieties of the present day — whether in China or in the West — where the inevitable impermanence of identity struggles with the narrative within which identity must compose itself.
To Jonathan Brent
When it comes to Madam X’s age, opinions differ here on Five Spice Street. One person’s guess is as good as another’s. There are at least twenty-eight points of view. At one extreme, she’s about fifty (for now, let’s fix it at fifty); at the other, she’s twenty-two.
The one who says she’s about fifty is a much-admired forty-five- year-old widow, plump and pretty. Her husband died years ago. It’s said that she often sees Madam X making herself up in her room, applying ‘‘powder an inch thick’’ that ‘‘completely masks the wrinkles in her neck’’-a neck ‘‘almost without flesh.’’ What is the widow’s vantage point for spying? She indignantly ‘‘refuses to divulge it.’’ The writer would like to interject something about this lovely widow. She’s classy, a cut above others, and plays a pivotal role in this story. She’s influenced the writer his whole life, and he, in turn, has always paid her special respect.
The one who says Madam X is twenty-two is himself twenty-two. In his words, one foggy morning, he ‘‘chanced to meet’’ Madam X by a well; ‘‘unexpectedly, she gave him a winsome smile,’’ ‘‘revealing a mouthful of white teeth.’’ And from the ‘‘uninhibited melody’’ of her laughter, ‘‘the sturdiness’’ of her teeth, the ‘‘sexiness’’ of her appearance, and various other factors, he concluded that Madam X couldn’t be a day over twenty-two. This guy works in a factory that produces coal briquettes, and that’s what he said to a neighbor as he squatted in the public toilet after getting off work and washing away the coal dust. ‘‘Hmmm,’’ the neighbor wondered. On closer examination, why did he say precisely twenty-two, and not twenty-one or twenty-three? Neighbors see each other all the time, so why hide behind this ‘‘chance meeting’’? There must be something shameful. Not to mention words that always mean trouble, like ‘‘foggy’’ and ‘‘sexiness.’’ Clearly, we must discount much of what he said.
And then there are the twenty-six other opinions, each with some validity. One respectable middle-aged man is worth mentioning. He’s a good, loyal friend of Madam X’s husband. Whenever someone mentions his good friend’s wife, he pulls at the person’s sleeve and solemnly proclaims that Madam X is thirty-five, because he’s ‘‘seen her ID card with his own eyes’’ (X’s family were outsiders on Five Spice Street). His voice would quaver. He would grow livid, but no one appreciated his chivalry. Instead, they thought he was ‘‘poking his nose into other people’s business’’; he was a ‘‘hypocrite’’; maybe he had even ‘‘tasted the sugarplum as well.’’ The man ‘‘grew thinner by the day’’ from this vilification. Dyspepsia gave him bad breath. The one who divulged this was the widow’s good friend, a graceful and charming forty-eight-year-old woman.
Once at twilight, these longtime doubts and suspicions seemed to reach a resolution, but it was short-lived. In fact, there were two resolutions. The crowd was split into contending factions. No conclusion could be reached.
It was dusk on a sultry summer day. After dinner, everyone was sitting out on the street to enjoy the cool breeze when suddenly ‘‘two balls of white light,’’ like meteors, streamed in the air and Madam X’s white silk skirt that ‘‘shone all through with light’’ flashed in front of them. The little boy was also dressed in white, but no one could tell what the material was. When their astonishment subsided, people clamored. The faction of young and middle-aged men led by the young coal worker asserted that Madam X was about twenty-eight. And judging from her ‘‘graceful, slender’’ figure, the ‘‘smooth softness’’ of her arms and legs, and various other factors, they decided that indeed she was ‘‘even younger.’’ But the crowd of young and middle-aged women led by the much-admired widow asserted that Madam X was ‘‘more than forty-five.’’ Through close inspection, they discovered that her neck had been disguised. Indeed, in several places there were ‘‘pores as large as grains of rice’’ and ‘‘layer upon layer of flabby skin.’’ They accused the men of ‘‘shamelessly peeking under the woman’s skirt.’’ Enlightened, the men inquired with great delight into the particulars of the women’s ‘‘close inspection.’’ The commotion went on for about two hours. Madam X’s husband’s good friend constituted a faction by himself: he took on the whole crowd, and several athletic young men knocked him to the ground. He ‘‘burst into tears.’’ When it was over, the widow hopped onto a stone table and, thrusting out her full breasts, shouted that she wanted ‘‘to uphold the values of traditional aesthetics.’’
