‘‘Shhhh! They’ll leave. It’s just vulgar curiosity. They’re just like gluttonous children-never satisfied,’’ the woman whispered to the writer.
After a while, they heard someone say in a high voice, ‘‘Probably she doesn’t have any interesting secrets. They’re probably just using this as an excuse to make out inside. The stenographer is kind of cute!’’
The people fell quiet, and then they began grumbling, complaining that they’d run over for nothing. They gradually dispersed and went far away. In the dark, the woman kept poking the writer in the ribs, and giggled as she snuggled up to his neck, so happy she couldn’t contain herself. When the writer finally really responded intimately, she jumped away and sat at the other end of the room as if disgusted. Her knees bumped together like the beating of a drum.
‘‘Impressive!’’ she said all of a sudden.
‘‘Who?!’’
‘‘Who else?! She said he was impressive, that he was an impressive man! A man out of the ordinary! Do you understand? You idiot! What are your qualifications to be a stenographer? Who chose you to come here? How do you dare assert that you’re a stenographer? As you sit here in the dark, I see that you’re simply a pile of mud! A pile of useless mud! My God! What could I have been thinking to carry this wooden pole and dash over here? How can this be? I’m finished!!’’ She sobbed, and her fists fell like hail on the writer’s back.
She said that because his conduct had tainted her image with the people, she wanted the writer to ‘‘make up for the damage.’’ She also said that she had never laid eyes on a stenographer: she had been friends with a government official! People like artists weren’t trusted by the people: nobody could take them seriously. As for their considering themselves important, that was just fishing. Who would fall for an artist? If you did, you’d better not count on holding your head up. She didn’t want to be swayed by emotions-that would just make trouble for her. The writer patiently endured this beating, not uttering a word until the woman’s sobs subsided.
‘‘X and Q also mentioned the leak in the boat,’’ she added, and then tweaked the writer’s cheek to show that they were all right again.
Eyes blurry with sleep, the writer left the little room with the dark woman, who immediately disappeared. The writer had no choice but to stagger ahead in the dark. He didn’t see anyone anywhere. All was quiet. The many houses at the side of the road were a frightening black color. What lay ahead? The writer was nervous, and beads of sweat seeped slowly from his forehead.
‘‘I can give you first-hand information.’’ He didn’t know where Old Woman Jin had come from; she was blocking his way and smacked his shoulder. ‘‘Haha,’’ she laughed out loud.
‘‘Where am I?’’ The writer was confused.
