In general, other people were inclined to think that ever since Mr. Q and Madam X started their illicit affair, Mr. Q’s appearance had changed greatly: it had become ‘‘filled with lust.’’ Actually, this was nonsensical speculation-a conclusion based on prior beliefs without rigorous authentication or independent analysis. What happened at the fence had overturned these simple-minded fancies. Let’s suppose something else: when Mr. Q rushed at her, the widow wasn’t able to ward him off and was tarnished by him. Though lamentable, at the same time she could tell that after contact with the flesh of a real woman who released his libido, the sex appeal in his face would have vanished. Every day and all day long, the widow was entangled by these hypotheses and deductions. Her eyes grew dull, and her face withered. It’s said that not long afterwards, Mr. Q repeated his sex attacks. Several beautiful women on Five Spice Street were ambushed in broad daylight-always near the warehouse. They said he launched his offensive with the ball and then rushed up wanting to ‘‘do it.’’ Because the women ran off, there ‘‘was no doing it.’’ But if they hadn’t run off, very likely there would have been ‘‘doing it.’’
After learning that the adorable widow had been so traumatized by Mr. Q that she fell ill, the writer-filled with sympathy-went to see her. When he arrived she was in bad shape, wrapped in a heavy quilt and with perspiration falling like rain. That frightening scream had caused her to lose her hearing, and she couldn’t converse. But when he sat by the bed, she seemed excited and talked without stopping. She spoke about the ideals of her youth and the pursuits, fears, agonies, and wreckage that had come from those ideals.
‘‘How do the people see me?’’ Covering her mouth with the quilt, she spoke with great effort. ‘‘This is already clear. For decades, I’ve preserved the integrity of this visualization. Tell me whether what I say is true.’’
The writer nodded his head so vigorously that his chin hit his chest. After this, the widow cried her eyes out. Her tears soaked the quilt. Shaking her shoulders and wishing to calm her, the writer made
And so it was that the writer was fortunate enough to experience the widow’s ample body. Of course, not completely, because that would have been violating principles, and the widow herself had always detested that sort of thing. The writer supposed that she was looking only for comfort and pity, nothing more. She was so fragile! Illness had flattened her like a steam-roller. This time, after completely collapsing, she felt a few steps closer to the abyss. She urgently needed a real man to give her a helping hand. As for the writer, he was honored to play a knight’s role. It was the first time in his life that he felt filled with honor and obligation. Although he was only an artist, this made him a hero.
From the moment the writer came in contact with the widow’s body, she miraculously recovered her hearing, and they began talking with one another. Under the quilt, the writer and the widow solemnly vowed that after this they would support each other forever, would help each other forever. After this vow, the widow wrapped her legs tightly around the writer’s legs and said, ‘‘Now, pull yourself together: aren’t you aware of a certain dangerous kind of temptation?’’
The writer was bewildered. She hinted again: ‘‘For example, things having to do with sex?’’
All of a sudden, the writer understood. He sat up and began quoting various proverbs and sayings, such as ‘‘serve one’s country with absolute loyalty,’’ ‘‘die for a just cause,’’ ‘‘spiritual companions,’’ ‘‘symbols of eternity,’’ and so forth. Others might have seen this as hyperbole, but the writer thought it was just right. This speech roused him, and his blood boiled. It was as though he had arrived in an uncorrupted, relaxed, and happy wonderland.
The strange thing was that the widow didn’t seem to enjoy the writer’s speech. The more stimulated he was, the cloudier her face grew. Finally, she paid almost no attention to what he was saying. She rudely interrupted him, asking if bugs were biting him under the quilt. When he finished, the widow looked somber and said, ‘‘Doesn’t it feel too warm for two of us to be under the quilt? I was really surprised just now when you crawled in.’’
Then, turning her back on him, she murmured, ‘‘If I’d known it would be like this, it would have been better… Where did the crow crawl out from? I can’t take its cawing anymore!’’
