1.
Thunderous applause. Mixed in it were cries of “Encore!” “Encore!” “Bravo!”
No sooner had that four-women family moved into the empty apartment next door than it began to rock with “sound and fury” right away. As their neighbors, we, a family of five, started to live a life filled with “sound and fury,” too. It was especially bad every evening when waves of earth-shattering applause and hurrahs swept in through the window. It was like being, with my wife and our three daughters, in a concert hall where the crazed audience clapped and cheered frenziedly when a star was giving a fantastic performance. What was most annoying was the time from late afternoon toward the evening. Having worked for a whole day at school my wife and I needed to have some quiet time or do some leisure reading; our three kids needed to do their homework, too. I thought when our new neighbors’ home was exploding with applause every evening, those living above and below must be having a terrible time, too. Indeed, they would complain to each other and even cuss when they met in the elevator. Mr. Zhu, an accountant living downstairs said angrily: “I’ve called the police, but the officer said between seven and eight p.m. every resident has the right to watch TV, listen to the radio, or play majiang!”
My wife said she visited our neighbors and tried to talk them into turning off the recorder playing the thunderous applause. But that sixtyish, gray-haired mistress of the house, Wang Lan Mu-Rong, a faded singer, still in her pajamas, would continue to drowse sprawled in the rocking chair, not even saying hello to her neighbor. The woman servant came with tea. The two pretty daughters told my wife they were still in college. They apologized for the disturbance their mother’s “applause” had caused the neighbors. The elder daughter said: “I am really sorry. My mother would suffer from insomnia or get ill if she doesn’t have her daily dose of applause and cheering in the evening!” The younger daughter said: “The applause is my mother’s only entertainment. It’s her life, too! She used to be a well-known singer.”
2.
Every Sunday morning a tall, thin, gray-haired man would appear at the door of this family of four women. Dressed in a dark coat, a pipe in mouth, and a bunch of fresh flowers in hand, the man would press the doorbell again and again, but no one came to answer the door. He would stand there patiently, as if he had all the time in the world to wait, and press the button again until someone finally opened the door, the elder daughter, the younger daughter, or the woman servant. They all knew him well and were quite sympathetic. They would take the flowers but wouldn’t let him in: “She still refuses to forgive.” they said. “So you have to go.” The Old Man sighed and turned to leave.
This Sunday morning, as he walked to the elevator still sighing, I approached him deliberately, like a snooping busybody. He said to me emotionally, “I am the owner of a record company. And I’m the head of this household. That faded singer who listens to the applause every evening is my wife. I love her so much! Ever since she retired from the stage, she has been living in that tape of her last, farewell performance which excited the most enthusiastic applause and cheering. Not only did the neighbors complain. Even me, the husband, couldn’t take it anymore. So, I tried to erase the tape, and was more than half way through when she stumbled upon me. She pushed me to the ground and moved over here. It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve begged her for forgiveness, she wouldn’t listen! What crimes have I committed?”
(n.d.)