Translated from the Chinese by Howard Goldblatt
Xi Xi (1938–). Zhang Yan was born in Shanghai and moved with her family to Hong Kong at the age of twelve. She worked for many years as a primary school teacher, and was an outspoken advocated for teachers’ rights. She edited a number of literary magazines, including “Plain Leaf Literature”. Under the penname Xi Xi, she is an accomplished poet, novelist, and essayist, but is perhaps most famous in her native country as a screenwriter, and one of the pioneers of experimental film in Hong Kong. Xi Xi is an ardent soccer fan – in part because her father is a ticket checker at a bus station, who also worked as a team coach and referee.
A woman like me is actually unsuitable for any man’s love. So the fact that the emotional involvement between Xia and me has reached this point fills even me with wonder. I feel that the blame for my having fallen into this trap, from which there is no escape, rests solely with Fate, which has played a cruel trick on me. I am totally powerless to resist Fate. I’ve heard others say that when you truly like someone, what may be nothing more than an innocent smile directed your way as you sit quietly in a corner can cause your very soul to take wing. That’s exactly how I feel about Xia. So when he asked me: Do you like me? I expressed my feelings toward him without holding back a thing. I’m a person who has no concept of self-protection, and my words and deeds will always conspire to make me a laughingstock in the eyes of others. Sitting in a coffee shop with Xia, I had the appearance of a happy person, but my heart was filled with a hidden sorrow; I was so terribly unhappy because I knew where Fate was about to take me, and now the fault would be mine alone. I made a mistake at the very beginning by agreeing to accompany Xia on a trip to visit a schoolmate he hadn’t seen for a long time, then later on, by not declining any of his invitations to go to the movies. It’s too late for regret now, and, besides, the difference between regretting and not regretting is too slight to be important, since at this very moment I am sitting in the corner of a coffee shop waiting for him. I agreed to show him where I work, and that will be the final chapter. I had already been out of school for a long time when I first met Xia, so when he asked me if I had a job, I told him that I had been working for several years.
What sort of job do you have?
He asked.
I’m a cosmetician.
I said.
Oh, a cosmetician.
He remarked.
But your face is so natural.
He said.
He said that he didn’t like women who used cosmetics and preferred the natural look. I think that the reason his attention had been drawn to my face, on which I never use makeup, was not my response to his question but because my face is paler than most people’s. My hands too. Both my hands and my face are paler than most people’s because of my job. I knew that as soon as I divulged my occupation to him, he would jump to the same erroneous conclusion that all my former friends had. He has already assumed that my job is to beautify the appearance of girls in general, such as adding just the right touch of color to the face of a bride-to-be on her wedding day. And so when I told him that there were no days off in my job, that I was often busy Sundays, he was more convinced than ever that his assumption was correct. There were always so many brides on Sundays and holidays. But making brides-to-be beautiful is not what I do; my job is to apply the final cosmetic touches to people whose lives have already come to an end, to make them appear gentle and at peace during their final moments before leaving the world of man. In days past I had brought up the subject of my occupation to friends, and I always immediately corrected their momentary misconception, so that they would know exactly what sort of person I am. But all my honesty ever brought me was the loss of virtually all my friends. I frightened them all off; it was as though the me who was sitting across from them drinking coffee was actually the ghost of their own inner fears. And I never blamed them, for we all have an inborn, primitive timidity where the unknown mysteries of life are concerned. The main reason I didn’t give a fuller answer to Xia’s question was my concern that the truth would frighten him; I could no longer allow my unusual occupation to unsettle the friends around me, something for which I could never forgive myself. The other reason was my natural inability to express what I think and feel, which, over a long period of time, has led to my habit of being uncommunicative.
But your face is so natural.
He said.
When Xia said that, I knew that it was a bad omen for the emotional road he and I were taking; but at that moment he was so happy—happy because I was a woman who didn’t use makeup on herself. Yet my heart was filled with sadness.
I don’t know who will someday be applying makeup to my face—will it be Aunt Yifen? Aunt Yifen and I have one hope in common: that in our lifetimes we will never have to make up the face of a loved one. I don’t know why, after the appearance of this unlucky omen, I continued going on the pleasure excursions with Xia, but maybe, since I’m only human, I lack self-control and merely go where Fate takes me, one ordained step after another. I have no logical explanation for my behavior, and I think that this might just be what humans are all about: much of our behavior is inexplicable, even to ourselves.
Can I come and see you work?
Xia asked.
That shouldn’t be a problem.
I said.
Will they mind?
He asked.
I don’t imagine any of them will.
I said.
The reason Xia asked if he could see how I worked was that every Sunday morning I have to go to my workplace, and on those days he never has anything else to do. He offered to walk me to work, and since he’d be there already, he might as well hang around and take a look. He said he wanted to look at the brides-to-be and their maids of honor and all the hustle and bustle; he also wanted to watch me as I made the pretty ones prettier or the unattractive ones plain. I agreed without a second’s thought. I knew that Fate had already led me up to the starting line and what was about to happen was a foregone conclusion. So here I am, sitting in a small coffee shop waiting for Xia, and from here we’ll go together to my workplace. As soon as we get there he’ll understand everything. Xia will know then that the perfume he thought I was wearing for him actually serves to mask the smell of formaldehyde on my body. He’ll also know then that the reason I wear white so often is not a conscious effort to produce an appearance of purity but merely as a convenience in going to and coming from work. The strange medicinal odor that clings to my body has already penetrated my bones, and all of my attempts to wash it off have failed. Eventually, I gave up trying and even got to the point where I no longer even notice the smell. Xia knows nothing of all this, and he even once commented to me: That’s a very unusual perfume you wear. But everything will soon become crystal clear. I’ve always been a technician who can fashion elegant hairdos and tie a bow tie with the very best. But so what? Look at these hands of mine; how many haircuts and trims have they completed on people who could no longer speak, and how many bow ties have they tied around the necks of totally solemn people? Would Xia allow me to cut his hair with them? Would he allow me to tie his tie carefully for him? In the eyes of others, these soft, warm hands have become cold; in the eyes of others, these hands, which were made to cradle a newborn infant, have already become the hands for touching the white bones of skeletons.
There may have been many reasons why Aunt Yifen passed her skills on to me and they can be clearly perceived through her normal daily remarks. Sure, with these skills, no one would ever have to worry about being out of work and would be assured of a good living. So how can a woman like me, with little schooling and not much knowledge, compete with others in this greed-consumed, dog-eat-dog world? Aunt Yifen was willing to pass the consummate knowledge of this life work on to me solely because I was her niece. She had never let anyone watch her when she was working until the day she took me on as her apprentice, when she kept me by her side instructing me in every detail, until I lost my fear of being alone with the cold, naked corpses. I even learned how to sew up the sundered bodies and split skulls as though they were nothing more than theatrical costumes. I lost my parents when I was very young and was reared by Aunt Yifen. The strange thing is that I began to resemble her more and more, even becoming as taciturn as she, as pale of hand and face as she, and as slow in my movements as she. There were times when I couldn’t shake my doubts that instead of being me, I had become another Aunt Yifen; the two of us were, in fact, one person—I had become a continuation of Aunt Yifen.
From today on, you’ll not have to worry about your livelihood.
Aunt Yifen had said.
And you’ll never have to rely upon anyone else to get through life, like other women do.
She had said.
I really didn’t understand what she had meant by that. I couldn’t figure out why I wouldn’t have to worry about my livelihood if I learned what she had to teach me, or why I wouldn’t have to rely upon anyone else to get through life, like other women do. Was it possible that no other profession in the world could free me from worrying about my livelihood or let me avoid having to rely upon others to get through life? But I was only a woman with little knowledge, so of course I would not be able to compete with other women. Therefore, it was strictly for my own good that Aunt Yifen had taken such pains to pass her special skills on to me. Actually, there is not a single person in this city who doesn’t need help from someone in our profession. No matter who they are—rich or poor, high or low—once Fate has brought them to us, we are their final consolation; it is we who will give them a calm, good-natured appearance and make them seem incomparably gentle. Both Aunt Yifen and I have our individual hopes, but in addition to these, we share the common hope that in our lifetimes we will never have to make up the face of a loved one. That’s why I was so sorrowful last week: I had a nagging feeling that something terrible had happened, and that it had happened to my own younger brother. From what I heard, my younger brother had met a young woman whose appearance and temperament made her the envy of all, a woman of talent and beauty. They were so happy together, and to me it was a stroke of joyous good fortune. But the happiness was all too short-lived, for I soon learned that—for no apparent reason—that delightful young woman had married a man she didn’t love. Why is it that two people who are in love cannot marry but wind up spending the rest of their lives as the bitter victims of unrequited love? My younger brother changed into a different person; he even said to me: I don’t want to live anymore. I didn’t know what to do. Would I someday be making up the face of my own younger brother?
I don’t want to live anymore.
My younger brother had said.
I couldn’t understand how things could have reached that stage. Neither could my younger brother. If she had merely said: I don’t like you anymore. He would have had nothing more to say. But the two of them were clearly in love. It was not to pay a debt of gratitude, nor was it due to economic hardships, so could it be that in this modern, civilized society of ours there are still parents who arrange their daughters’ marriages? A lifetime covers many long years; why must one bow to Fate? Ai, I only hope that during my lifetime I will never have to make up the face of a loved one. But who can say for sure? When Aunt Yifen formally took me on as an apprentice and began passing her consummate skills on to me, she said: You must follow my wishes in one respect before I will take you on as my apprentice. I didn’t know why she was being so solemn about it. But she continued with extreme seriousness: When it is my turn to lie down, you must personally make up my face; you are not to permit any stranger to so much as touch my body. I didn’t feel that this would present any problems, but I was surprised by her inflexibility in the matter. Take me, for example: when it is my turn to lie down, what will the body I leave behind have to do with me? But that was Aunt Yifen’s one and only personal wish, and it is up to me to help her fulfill it, if I am still around when that day comes. On this long road of life, Aunt Yifen and I are alike in that we harbor no grandiose wishes; Aunt Yifen hopes that I will be her cosmetician, and I only hope to use my talents to create the “most perfectly serene cadaver,” one that will be gentler and calmer than all others, just as though death were truly the most beautiful sleep of all. Actually, even if I am successful, it will be nothing more than a game to kill a little time amid the boredom of life; isn’t the entirety of human existence meaningless anyway? All my efforts constitute nothing more than an exercise in futility; if I someday manage to create the “most perfectly serene cadaver,” will I gain any rewards from it? The dead know nothing, and my efforts will surely go unnoticed by the family of the deceased. Clearly, I will not hold an exhibition to display to the public my cosmetic skills and innovations. Even less likely is the prospect that anyone will debate, compare, analyze, or hold a forum to discuss my cosmetic job on the deceased; and even if they did, so what? It would cause as much of a stir as the buzzing of insects. My work is purely and simply a game played for the benefit of myself in my workroom. Why then have I bothered to form this hope in the first place? More than likely to provide a stimulus for me to go on working, because mine is a lonely profession: no peers, no audience, and, naturally, no applause. When I’m working, I can only hear the faint sound of my own breathing; in a room filled with supine bodies—male and female—I alone am breathing softly. It’s gotten to the point where I imagine I can hear the sounds of my own heart grieving and sighing, and when the hearts of others cease producing sounds of lament, the sounds of my own heart intensify.
Yesterday I decided to do the cosmetic work on a young couple who had died in a love-inspired suicide pact, and as I gazed into the sleeping face of the young man, I realized that this was my chance to create the “most perfectly serene cadaver.” His eyes were closed, his lips were pressed lightly together, and there was a pale scar on his left temple. He truly looked as though he were only sleeping very peacefully. In all my years of working on thousands of faces, many of which had fretful, distressed looks on them, the majority appearing quite hideous, I had done what I felt was most appropriate to improve their looks, using needle and thread or makeup to give them an appearance of unlimited gentleness. But words cannot describe the peaceful look on the face of the boy I saw yesterday, and I wondered if his suicide should be viewed as an act of joy. But then I felt that I was being deceived by appearances, and I believed instead that his had been an act of extreme weakness; I knew that, considering my position, I should have nothing to do with anyone who lacked the courage to resist the forces of Fate. So not only did I abandon all thoughts of using him to create the “most perfectly serene cadaver,” I refused to even work on him, turning both him and the girl who had joined him in stupidly resigning themselves to Fate’s whims over to Aunt Yifen to let her carefully repair the cheeks that had been scalded by the force of the powerful poison they had ingested.
Everyone is familiar with Aunt Yifen’s past, because there are some around who personally witnessed it. Aunt Yifen was still young at the time, and she not only liked to sing as she worked but she talked to the cadavers who lay in front of her, as though they were her friends. It wasn’t until later that she became so uncommunicative. Aunt Yifen was in the habit of telling her sleeping friends everything that was in her head—she never kept a diary—letting her monologues stand as a daily record of her life. The people who slept in her presence were mankind’s finest audience: they listened to her voluble outpourings for the longest time, yet her secrets were always completely safe with them. She told them how she had met a young man and how they had shared the happiness of all young lovers whenever they were together, even though there were times when they had occasional ups and downs. In those days Aunt Yifen went to a school of cosmetics once a week, rain or shine, fifty weeks a year, to learn new techniques, until she had mastered all that the instructors could teach her. But even when the school informed her that there was nothing left for her to study, she persisted in asking if there weren’t some new techniques that they could pass on to her. Her interest in cosmetology was that keen, almost as though it were inborn, and her friends were sure that someday she would open a grand salon somewhere. But no, she merely applied this knowledge of hers to the bodies of the people who slept in front of her. Her young lover knew nothing of any of this, for he was convinced that physical beauty was a natural desire of all girls, and that this particular one was simply fonder of cosmetics than most. That is, until that fateful day when she brought him along and showed him where she worked, pointing out the bodies that lay in the room and telling him that although hers was a lonely profession, in a place like this, one encountered no worldly bickerings, and that no petty jealousies, hatreds, or disputes over personal fame or gain existed; when these people entered the world of darkness, peace and gentleness settled over each and every one of them. He was shocked beyond belief; never in his wildest dreams had he thought that she could be a woman like this, one engaged in this sort of occupation. He had loved her, had been willing to do anything for her, vowing that he would never leave her, no matter what, and that they would grow old together, their mutual love enduring until death. But his courage failed him, his nerve abandoned him there among the bodies of people who could no longer speak and who had lost the ability to breathe. He let out a loud yell, turned on his heel and ran, flinging open every door that stood in his way. Many people saw him in a state of complete shock as he fled down the street. Aunt Yifen never saw him again. People sometimes overheard her talking to her silent friends in her workroom: Didn’t he say he loved me? Didn’t he say he would never leave me? What was it that suddenly frightened him so? Later on, Aunt Yifen grew more and more uncommunicative. Maybe she had already said everything she wanted to say, or maybe since her silent friends already knew all about her, there was no need to say anything more—there truly are many things that never need to be spoken. When Aunt Yifen was teaching me her consummate skills, she told me what had happened. It was I whom she had chosen as her apprentice, not my younger brother, and although there were other factors involved, the major reason had been that I was not a timid person.
Are you afraid?
She asked.
Not at all.
I said.
Are you timid?
She asked.
Not at all.
I said.
Aunt Yifen selected me as her successor because I was not afraid. She had a premonition that my fate would be the same as hers, and neither of us could explain how we grew to be so much alike, although it may have had its origins in the fact that neither of us was afraid. There was no fear in either one of us. When Aunt Yifen was telling me about what had happened to her, she said: I will always believe that there have to be others somewhere who are like us, people who are unafraid. This was before she had become so uncommunicative; she told me to stand by her side and watch how she reddened lips that had already become rigid, and how she worked gently on a pair of long-staring eyes until she had coaxed them into restful sleep. At that time she still talked now and then to her sleeping friends: And you, why were you afraid? Why do people who are falling in love have so little faith in love? Why do they not have courage in their love? Among Aunt Yifen’s sleeping friends were many who had been timid and cowardly, and they were even quieter than the others. She knew certain things about her sleeping friends, and sometimes, as she powdered the face of a girl with bangs on her forehead, she would say to me: Ai! Ai! What a weak girl she was. She gave up the man she loved just so she could be considered a filial daughter. Aunt Yifen knew that this girl over here had placed herself into Fate’s hands, of her own accord, out of a sense of gratitude, while that one over there had done the same by meekly accepting her lot. She talked about them not as though they had been living, feeling, thinking human beings, but merely pieces of merchandise.
What a horrible job!
My friends said.
Making up the faces of dead people! My God!
My friends said.
I wasn’t the least bit afraid, but my friends were. They disliked my eyes because I often used them to look into the eyes of the dead, and they disliked my hands because I often used them to touch the hands of the dead. At first it was just dislike, but it gradually evolved into fear, pure and simple; not only that, the dislike and fear that at first involved only my eyes and hands later on included everything about me. I watched every one of them drift away from me, like wild animals before a forest fire or farmers before a swarm of locusts. Why are you afraid? I asked them. It’s a job that someone has to do. Is it that I’m not good enough at what I do, or that I’m not professional enough? But I gradually grew to accept my situation—I got used to being lonely. So many people search for jobs that promise sweetness and warmth, wanting their lives to be filled with flowers and stars. But how does a life of flowers and stars give one the chance to take firm strides in life? I have virtually no friends left today; a touch of my hands reminds them of a deep and distant land of ice and cold, while a look into my eyes produces innumerable images of silent floating spirits, and so they have become afraid. There is nothing that can make them look back, not even the possibility that there is warmth in my hands, that my eyes can shed tears, or that I am warmhearted. And so I began to be more and more like Aunt Yifen, my only remaining friends being the bodies of the deceased lying in front of me. I surprised myself by breaking the silence around me as I said to them: Have I told you that tomorrow I’m going to bring someone named Xia here to meet you? He asked me if you would object, and I told him you wouldn’t. Was I right in saying that? So tomorrow Xia will be here, and I think I know how it’s all going to end, because my fate and Aunt Yifen’s are one and the same. I expect to see Xia as his very soul will take wing the moment he steps foot in here. Ai! We cause each other’s souls to take wing, but in different ways. I will not be startled by what happens, because the outcome has already been made clear to me by a variety of omens. Xia once said to me: Your face is so natural. Yes, my face is natural, and a natural face lacks the power to remove someone else’s fear of things.
I once entertained the thought of changing my occupation; is it possible that I am incapable of doing the kinds of work that other women do? Granted that I’m not qualified to be a teacher, a nurse, or a secretary or clerk in an office building, but does that mean I can’t work as a saleswoman in a shop, or sell bakery products, or even be a maid in someone’s home? A woman like me needs only a roof over her head and three square meals a day, so there must be some place I could fit in. Honestly speaking, with my skills I could easily find work as a cosmetician for brides-to-be, but the very thought that lips I was applying color to could open to reveal a smile stops me cold. What would be going through my mind at a time like that? Too many memories keep me from working at that occupation, which is so similar to the one I have now. I wonder, if I did change jobs, would the color return to my pale face and hands? Would the smell of formaldehyde that has penetrated to my very bones completely disappear? And what about the job I have now, should I keep Xia completely in the dark about it? Hiding the past from a loved one is dishonest, even though there are countless girls in the world who will do anything to cover up their loss of chastity and the authentic number of years they have lived. But I find people like that despicable. I would have to tell Xia that for a long time I had done cosmetic work on the sleeping bodies of the deceased. Then he would know and would have to acknowledge what sort of woman I am. He’d know that the unusual odor on my body is not perfume but formaldehyde, and that the reason I wear white so often is not symbolic of purity but a means of making it more convenient for going to and coming from work. But all of this is as significant as a few drops of water in a vast ocean. Once Xia learns that my hands often touch the bodies of the deceased, will he still be willing to hold my hand as we cross a fast-flowing stream? Will he let me cut his hair for him, or tie his tie? Will he be able to bear my gazing intently at him? Will he be able to lie down in my presence without fear? I think he will be afraid, extremely afraid, and like all my friends, his initial shock will turn into dislike and then fear, and he will turn away from me. Aunt Yifen once said: There can be no fear where love is concerned. But I know that although what many people call love is unyielding and indomitable on the surface, it is actually extraordinarily fragile and pliable; puffed-up courage is really nothing but a layer of sugar-coating. Aunt Yifen said to me: Maybe Xia is not a timid person. That’s one of the reasons why I never went into detail with him about my occupation. Naturally, another reason was that I’m not very good at expressing myself, and maybe I’d botch what I wanted to say, or I’d distort what I hoped to express to him by choosing the wrong place or time or mood. My not making it clear to Xia that it is not brides-to-be whom I make up is, in actuality, a sort of test: I want to observe his reaction when he sees the subjects I work on. If he is afraid, then he’ll just have to be afraid. If he turns and flees, then I’ll just tell my sleeping friends: Nothing really ever happened at all.
Can I see how you work?
He asked.
That shouldn’t be a problem.
I said.
So here I am, sitting in the corner of a coffee shop waiting for Xia to arrive.
I spent some of this time carefully thinking things over: Maybe I’m not being fair to Xia by doing it this way. If he feels frightened by the work I do, is that his fault? Why should he be more courageous than the others? Why does there have to be any relationship between a fear of the dead and timidity where love is concerned? The two may be totally unrelated. My parents died while I was still young, and I was reared by Aunt Yifen. Both my younger brother and I were orphans. I don’t know very much about my parents, and the few things I have learned were told to me later by Aunt Yifen. I remember her telling me that my father was a cosmetician for the deceased before he married my mother. When they were making their plans to get married, he asked her: Are you afraid? No, I’m not, she said. I believe that the reason I’m not afraid is that I take after my mother—her blood flows in my veins. Aunt Yifen said to me that my mother lives on in her memory because of what she had once said: I’m not afraid, and love is the reason. Perhaps that’s why my mother lives on in my memory too, however faintly, even though I can no longer recall what she looked or sounded like. But I believe that just because she was my mother and that she said that love had kept her from being afraid does not mean that I have the right to demand the same attitude of everyone else. Maybe I ought to be hardest on myself for accepting my fate from the time I was a child and for making this occupation that others find so hard to accept my life’s work. Men everywhere like women who are gentle, warm, and sweet, and such women are expected to work at jobs that are intimate, graceful, and elegant. But my job is cold and ghostly dark, and I’m sure that my entire body has long been tainted by that sort of shadowy cast. Why would a man who exists in a world of brightness want to be friendly with a woman surrounded by darkness? When he lies down beside her, could he avoid thinking that this is a person who regularly comes into contact with cadavers, and that when her hands brush up against his skin, would that remind him that these are hands that for a long time have rubbed the hands of the dead? Ai! Ai! A woman like me is actually unsuitable for any man’s love. I think that I myself am to blame for all that has happened, so why don’t I just get up and leave and return to my workplace; I have never known anyone by the name of Xia, and he will forget that he once had such a woman for a friend, a cosmetician who made up the faces of brides-to-be. But it’s probably too late for that now. I see him there through the window, crossing the street and walking this way. What’s that in his hand? What a large bouquet of flowers! What’s the occasion? Is it someone’s birthday? I see him enter the coffee shop; he spots me sitting in this shadowy corner. The sun is shining brightly outside, and he has brought some of it in with him, for the sun’s rays are reflected off of his white shirt. He is just like his name, Xia—eternal summer.
Hey, happy Sunday!
He says.
These flowers are for you.
He says.
He is so happy. He sits down and has a cup of coffee. We have had so many happy days together. But what is happiness, after all? Happiness is fleeting. There is such sadness in my heart. From here it is only a walk of three hundred paces before we arrive at my workplace. After that the same thing will happen that happened years ago. A man will come flying through that door as though his very soul had taken leave of him, and he will be followed by the eyes of the curious until he disappears from view. Aunt Yifen said: Maybe somewhere there is a man of true courage who is unafraid. But I know that this is just an assumption, and when I saw Xia crossing the street heading this way, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand, I already knew, for this was truly a bad omen. Ai! Ai! A woman like me is actually unsuitable for any man’s love; perhaps I should say to my sleeping friends: Aren’t we all the same, you and I? The decades fly by in the blink of an eye, and no matter what the reason, there’s no need for anyone to shock anyone else out of their senses. The bouquet of flowers Xia brought into the coffee shop with him is so very, very beautiful; he is happy, but I am laden with grief. He doesn’t know that in our profession flowers symbolize eternal parting.