From that day forward, this man took an absolutely preposterous view of himself and felt that he was different from everyone else: not only was he different, he was also a cut above others. He shoved all of his responsibilities to the back of his mind, stuck his hands in his overcoat pockets, and, like a playboy, stood on the corner ogling women. He would pull at a woman’s sleeve and unburden himself of his innermost thoughts. (The female colleague said he went on for nearly ten minutes.) This included words like ‘‘turkey’’ and ‘‘duck’’ and so on-words that clearly implied ‘‘going to bed.’’ He seemed desperate and could ‘‘hardly stand still.’’ Some thought he was ‘‘going to pounce.’’ He also grew fond of looking in mirrors. Every day he would close the door and look at himself in the mirror at home (Q was very sensitive about his reputation). Passing a store window on the street, he would take stock of himself. He would stand in front of the window for a long time, until the shopkeepers became nervous. As for his wife-this woman as beautiful as a god- dess-who loved him so much, he now just said ‘‘uh’’ to her soulful prattle and couldn’t wait to get back to the mirror. One day, he said to his wife that he couldn’t wear his coat any longer, because bugs were crawling on it. ‘‘I had a premonition a long time ago that this would happen. Have you heard it in the middle of the night- streams of them crawling over the coat? So many.’’ He made a face, and his wife gave him a panic-stricken look. She was really frightened. Afterwards, he seemed sorry about this and quickly explained that he had intentionally talked of bugs. ‘‘A certain evil thought made me say that.’’ Sometimes he was whimsical, but now he was okay again. His tone, however, was so melancholic and uncertain- as if he weren’t ‘‘okay again.’’ After a few days, his malady returned, and he mentioned bugs again, saying that his overcoat was ‘‘just threads’’-no good at all anymore.
‘‘As soon as I put it on, they start biting me.’’ He poured this out painfully and picked the overcoat up with a pole to show his wife. He said, ‘‘They all fly in from the window in the middle of the night.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The bugs. Can’t you see?’’ He insisted on burning the overcoat.
His wife started crying.
‘‘Please don’t cry. What I said doesn’t matter.’’ He patted his wife’s shoulder kindly to calm her down. ‘‘I’ve been hallucinating a lot recently; maybe it’s because I’m getting older. Is there anything that we can’t discredit?’’ His tone at the end was unsteady, almost as though he were asking himself a rhetorical question.
He no longer worked in his melon and vegetable gardens (and so the plants withered away quite soon), nor did he play with the cats and dogs. He just moved a cane chair outside and sat alone dozing in the sun. He smiled slightly and flexed his fingers over and over. No one knew what he was doing. If someone roused him, he answered brusquely, and then raised his hand and stared intently at the blazing sunlight for a long time before he turned around to face the visitor. It seemed as though he had just returned from another world.
‘‘Behind everyone, there are at least two shadows. Some have even more.’’ He said to his wife, ‘‘The shadows on the ground are like folding fans. Looking at them makes me dizzy. (I don’t know when he began to talk like this, as if his voice were coming from a deep grotto.) It takes a lot of strength for me to focus my eyes enough to pull the doubled shadows into one. Of course, this isn’t at all pleasurable. (His tone was now indignant and vehement.) All of you are so smug. It’s ridiculous! If I tell the truth, you’ll be furious again. You’ll think I’m a mayfly. You’ll agree with each other by exchanging understanding glances in order to set your minds at ease.’’
‘‘The bees are still flying around outside. You must have heard them.’’
‘‘Right, I did.’’ He acknowledged this despondently, and then like a shadow, he contracted himself bit by bit back inside the room.
After Mr. Q completed his metamorphosis, he went to Five Spice Street in secret and began his adultery with Madam X on a certain day in a secret place that no one knew about. This occurred another four or five times, always without anyone’s knowledge. If it hadn’t been for that hapless cat, their adultery might have gone on forever. This isn’t to say that all of us on Five Spice Street were numbskulls and didn’t know what was going on under our noses. We just kept quiet, that’s all. Our silence had far-reaching significance.
