This time, the writer reacted promptly: he stood up from the floor and bowed in a refined and humble way. He took the female colleague’s soft hand, brought it to his nose and smelled it, and in a gentle voice asked her what she thought of him. Did she like what he had written? As he talked, he stroked her face with his other hand. This moved her greatly, and she gradually calmed down and told the writer that she liked what he wrote. She just wanted to add something important. This was of the utmost importance: without it, history would be an expanse of darkness. If she hadn’t dashed over here with her strong sense of social responsibility, well, it would be impossible to imagine the losses. She very much believed in the writer’s artistic talent. Ever since he had adjusted his attitude and become endearing, she’d furtively observed everything he did. She believed wholeheartedly that now, with a fine artist as stenographer for the people, everybody would feel that ‘‘life had become rosy.’’ She cheered the writer on, hoping his talent would ‘‘blaze with brilliance.’’ She would be eternally grateful for his success. Their chaste friendship was incomparably lofty: was there anything more beautiful than the pursuit of spiritual communion? Her good friend Madam X had never experienced this sublime ardor; she was interested only in ‘‘going to bed.’’ Thinking back on it now, that kind of person was too pedestrian! Too infuriating! As the female colleague talked, she shed tears. The writer took out a handkerchief and gently wiped them away. He gave her a hand and helped her sit on the edge of the bed, where she rested for a long time. The two sank into a sorrow from which they couldn’t extricate themselves. Finally, filled with melancholy, the writer sent her on her way.
X: It’s bright out today-are you aware of that? Every time you and I stand and talk in such bright light, I feel dissatisfied with you. Sometimes I have wicked thoughts: I think you’re shrinking day by day. This change was unconscious; it couldn’t be helped. I yearn for the cobblestones in the sunlight (she stretches out her hands as if grasping something in the air). Come closer to me. I’m going to cry. (Pretending to wipe away tears, she took the opportunity to lean against Q.)
Q (gently): Ah, don’t cry. I’m here. There are two guys-one loafing around on the main street, and the other in a dark house. The one on the street is black and supple. He’s about to melt into air in the daylight. The one in the house is white-a solid glaring white light. He would be well groomed even in a coffin. Listen:
X (looking ecstatic): I didn’t bring any mirrors today. I feel very stimulated by you today. Please repeat the last sentence: it was wonderful.
Q:
X (talking to herself): Let the miracle come! Let the miracle come!
Hiding behind a power pole, the female colleague had recorded this conversation in a small notebook without missing a word, noting that it was ‘‘after the adultery occurred.’’ She furnished this conversation to the writer and exhorted him to keep her role secret because she had always felt sisterly love for this adorable, charming Madam X. (In fact, she leaked it to the writer only because she felt that she and the writer were like Damon and Pythias.) Madam X had often sought guidance from her in dealing with relationships between men and women. And because they were always together, Madam X always relied on her charms to attract crowds of men, though some might have thought that Madam X herself was also very good at this. For this reason, Madam X idealized her and babbled all her innermost thoughts to her. She held nothing back and also dragged her into anything she did. Madam X didn’t mind that she had heard this conversation; she knew the female colleague was standing behind the power pole. She even raised her voice to make sure that the wind would carry her words to her friend’s ears, even if she didn’t want to overhear.
