‘‘Go home! You haven’t gotten what you wanted, so you go home! They’re all like this, all stamped out of the same mold. They don’t know what warmth is, what affection is, or what continuous longing is. They want just one thing, and if they don’t get it, they immediately show how cold they are inside. They just tell you loud and clear: I want to go home! They even purposely show you how tired they are, to frustrate you from head to toe. How can one bear this kind of world?’’
‘‘Just now, we were talking about X,’’ the writer nervously reminded her.
‘‘What does that have to do with me? Bah! Bah! I can’t even get a handle on my own situation-it drives me nuts-so why would I want to be concerned about X! Who is she? What’s she to me? Don’t change the subject-don’t try to pull any tricks! Is she the main point, or am I? How dare you diminish me? I’ll make you know who I am. Humph!’’
In the end, the writer couldn’t get any information from Old Woman Jin. She was really tight-mouthed. And more than that, she hurried to a meeting and made an appeal: she wanted ‘‘women to unite and fight off men’s encroachments, which are all too clearly under way-we can’t take them lightly.’’ After she finished her speech, she took out a dagger. Terrifying everyone, she sent a ‘‘flying dagger’’ to a wooden post in the back row of the hall. Everyone screamed and bedlam ensued, lasting as long as thirteen minutes.
‘‘I’m also a talented dancer,’’ she turned and said to the writer. ‘‘I’ve never had a chance to perform for you. I don’t cut a smart figure. Maybe now you want to take me seriously? Too bad it’s too late! I am many-layered: no one can see through me. If anyone thinks he can get something from me, that’s impossible-like a toad lusting after a swan. I don’t have illusions about people who claim to be artistic. What can any of you do?’’
To tie up all the threads, the writer finally described Madam X’s adultery in a few words: ‘‘It was carefully planned and calmly performed.’’ By the time he finished writing this, it was dawn. Gazing out the window, he saw the sky’s brilliant red over the hotel building: it was a day suffused with hope! A woman in blue flashed past the window: it was Madam X, the person who had brought the writer immense anguish and immense joy. The writer hurriedly stuck his head out the window to get a closer look, but then he discovered no one was there: it was only a sort of blue shadow drifting in the air. When he looked more attentively, even the shadow was gone; only some footsteps that seemed both familiar and suspicious sounded on the road. Dispirited, the writer fell onto the bed, and then all at once, his face glowed: he understood everything! He had gotten to the core of the matter! Finally, the tangles and detours of so much time could be summed up! Hallelujah! I salute you, my dear female colleague! I salute you, dear Old Woman Jin! And the sweet darkskinned lady, too! With a red pen, the writer decisively crossed out the words he had just written and wrote the following inspired words:
‘‘Madam X-this person who is both corporeal and non-existent- has left our history numerous riddles. It seems that one can’t reach a conclusion about any of her activities through logic and reason, because this person is an assumption that might not be true-like a tree with massive foliage but shaky roots which will fall to the ground if it is lightly pushed. The only true existence is the illusion, the foggy mist that aroused our enormous interest.’’
