Lilac

Author: Ye Lingfeng
Author Country: China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-07-01
Features: Ye Lingfeng's return to the mainland was thanks to the three-volume Reading Notes published 14 years ago by the Sanlian Press. After that, he was regarded as an outstanding book critic. Earlier, in the 1930s Shanghai, Ye Lingfeng gained fame through his novels. Ye Lingfeng loved writing tragedies, with his early works being melancholic love stories. Later, his style shifted, and his stories became more critical of reality. After the late 1940s, Ye Lingfeng devoted himself entirely to essays and book criticism until he wrote his last short story in the late 1950s, when his style changed again. This book collects over ten of Ye Lingfeng's novels in their entirety.
Excerpt:
Dianthus is ill and staying in a sanatorium, alone and unnoticed by anyone. No one knows, and I don’t want anyone to know, except one person—except you. Can you come see me without anyone knowing? Bring a bouquet of dianthus when you come. I love that quiet, serene color like you.
V. Wells Sanatorium, 4th floor, room 427. On a cold afternoon, buried under white sheets, I gaze at the faint yellow sunlight slanting on the wall beside my bed. I recite the short message I sent yesterday. It’s already three o’clock. If she’s taking leave, she should be here soon. If not, it’ll be six. No, she must have taken leave. She must be on the bus right now. I hope she’ll wear that purple cheongsam today. A thousand years ago, the same cheongsam was worn by Jesus Christ as he entered Jerusalem on palm branches. Son of man, for my sake, shouldn’t you bear the cross again?
Representing her with X, I calculate in the air. The clever student always gets the same result: she will come. I believe in the existence of God. I accept mathematical theorems. I worship the theory of spiritual telepathy.
The door opens. The nurse who called me enters.
“Sir, a young lady is here to see you.” I quickly glance at the bedside clock: about 3:41. Round face, sword-like eyebrows, a determined smile, and those perceptive eyes that understand me. She enters. Round face with a determined smile, her perceptive eyes look at me as if they don’t understand. Oh, living dianthus!
The door closes, and the nurse leaves.
“You’re really sick?”
“The doctor said so.”
“I didn’t expect your absence was due to illness. You’ve been here for a few days?”
“It’ll be four days tomorrow. So today is the third.”
“How thoughtful!”
“No one knows, really?”
“How naive!”
“I really don’t understand you. Why won’t you let anyone know you’re sick?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“Yes, why just me?”
Her perceptive eyes look at me as if they don’t understand, with that determined smile. A cunning cat, swishing its tail!
“Because I knew you wouldn’t tell anyone else.”
“Why? I’m more confused by the more I think about it.”
She turns away. A Venus de Milo standing with her back to me.
Grey steel windows of the Stradivarius, frosted glass, triangular sunlight, white walls, bed, thermometer hanging on the bedpost, white sheets, pale green crepe. She moves at a rate slower than zero, with her heels as the center, her two eyes slowly rotating 180 degrees in the room.
Finally, the searchlights on the observation deck shine on my face, buried in a white grave.
“Are you lonely?”
“I think of my wife, who has left me for others.”
She shakes her head, her eyes meeting mine, and whispers softly, “After hearing your words, other women might be angry. But I know you. V, the past is the past. Forget her.”
I can’t help but sigh. Looking at her eyes that look at me. Round face, sword-like eyebrows. I think of my wife, who must be in someone else’s arms right now. The same woman! A tear trickles from the corner of my eye. I quickly turn my face.
“V, V! Why? Why? Close your eyes, close your eyes!”
She leans forward, pressing her fingers against my eyelids. At the same time, in the darkness, I feel two warm lips press against my mouth. Her, her, round, long, hazy, confused, heavy, warm. I feel the stage spinning.
I met her three months after my wife left me. In the first three months, a bird newly freed from a golden cage was not yet accustomed to using its freedom. I dreamed of being a loyal husband, rushing home in the streetcar, waiting for my wife’s return every day. Walking on the street, like a horse with a blindfold on, my eyes only looked ahead, feeling that every woman I met could become my wife’s rival. Three months passed, spring arrived, the leaves turned green, and then I received a letter from my wife:
“Don’t wait for me. From my conscience, I can no longer be your ‘destination.’ Find someone else, and I won’t object. Rest assured.”
Oh, freedom! Liberation! The Declaration of the Rights of Man of 1789. The Manifesto of the Communist Party of 1847. I’m free!
Thus, miraculously, instinctively, I met her in the classroom when she first arrived. The beginning of Antarctic exploration. Food, compass, weather testing, storms, long journeys. One evening in early summer, I sat beside her on a bench in the park, the air filled with the scent of fermentation.
When it’s hot, if the seeds are sown in the ground with enough water, they can sprout in three days.
“Did you receive the letter yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Do you really not understand?”
She smiled, her eyes saying, “Actually, I’ve understood all along.”
Understanding her eyes, I tightly grasped her hand. She looked up, and I lowered my head. The second kiss.
On the way back, I met a friend. He saw me and pulled me aside, asking in surprise, “Have you had a revolution? When did it happen? Are you going to admit it?” I patted his right hand with my left, which was holding my right hand: “Wait, the regime hasn’t been consolidated yet!” I smiled. But the colors of the national flag had finally changed.
The sound of planes. When I woke up, she was standing by the window, looking at the sky. Chinese planes! I licked my lips with my tongue. Sweetness, I smiled. She turned around and saw my tongue and my smile. She raised a finger to her lips and then to mine: “Don’t tell anyone when you leave.”
“About the flowers I bought for you?”
“Do you still need flowers? I brought some.”
She went to the other side of the door I couldn’t see and brought back a small package wrapped in thin purple crepe paper. She placed it beside my pillow. She pressed the paper with her left hand and pointed at me with her right: “Remember, don’t open it now. Only after I leave. Once you open it, don’t show it to anyone. Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
She said, “It’s already past four. I have to go. Remember, forget her, don’t think about her. Wait until I leave, then open it. Once you open it, don’t show it to anyone. Do you understand?”
I nodded and held out my hand. She also held out hers. I held her hand tightly, she smiled, and with her other hand, she touched her lips and then mine.
“Okay, goodbye. Remember, don’t think about her. Don’t show it to anyone.”
She pulled her hand away, smiled, and vanished in the wind, the door closing. I quickly opened the purple paper. Round face, sword-like eyebrows, perceptive eyes. It was a photo. Below it, in purple ink, was written: “Accompanying lonely V.”
Dianthus looked at her round face, sword-like eyebrows, and I began to think of my wife’s thin face, and I began to think that she might be in someone else’s arms right now.
Remember, forget her, don’t think about her.
The door opens, and I quickly hide the photo under the sheets. A nurse enters and sees it.
“Aha, you even brought a photo! You’re good friends, aren’t you?”
I want to answer, but she sticks the thermometer in my mouth.
October 15th, 1932 (originally published in Modern, Volume 2, Issue ).