Unpublished Manuscripts

I WRITE SLOWLY and painstakingly. From time to time, when my editor is pressing me to finish up a piece and I still haven't anything to show him, he'll say, "If you happen to have any unpublished manuscripts lying around, you could just give me one of those, instead." After a while, I began to wonder whether I did indeed have a few old manuscripts hoarded away somewhere, resolved to mount a search, and-lo and behold-turned up quite a few. What I've done here is to provide an excerpt from each, supplemented by a brief introduction. Whoever's willing to publish them is welcome to take their pick; my only fear is that no one will ask.
The earliest manuscript is titled "The Ideal Village of My Dreams," which I probably wrote when I was twelve or thirteen. There were earlier pieces, but unfortunately they have been lost. I still remember my first story, an untitled morality tale about the tragedy of an ordinary family by the name of Yun. Mr. Yun's wife was called Moon, and his sister was named Phoenix. When Mr. Yun goes away on business, Phoenix's chance to hatch a plot to do away with Moon finally arrives. That's as far as I got before I put the story aside for good. Instead, my creative fires were suddenly stoked by the notion of writing historical fiction. The story began like this: "Our story begins as the Sui dynasty fell and the Tang empire rose." I liked that era-it seemed grand and noisy and bathed in an orange red light. I remember that I began writing the story on an empty page in an old ledger book, the pages of which were very
 short and very wide, with a red line dividing each sheet of yellow parchment paper neatly in two. I filled up a whole page with my ink brush. As I wrote, one of my nephews, whose nickname was "Queue," sidled over to take a look. (I was only seven, but I had a lot of paternal nephews who were already in their twenties.) He said, "Oooh! You're writing a new Romance of the SuiTang!"1 I was extremely proud of myself, but all I ever wrote in the end was that single page; somehow I lacked the determination to continue.
(It seems that I began my assaults on editors at the age of nine, but after several attempts to submit manuscripts to the local supplement of the News met with resounding silence, I brought the experiment to a halt. It was not until two years ago that I tried again.)
After a respite of a couple of years, I managed to finish my first complete novel when I was in grade school. As the heroine, Suzhen, and her lover go for a stroll in the public gardens, a pale and delicate hand reaches out from behind and taps her on the shoulder. The stranger turns out to be her cousin Fangting. Suzhen introduces Fangting to her boyfriend. A tragic menage-à-trois ensues. Suzhen eventually drowns herself in a fit of pique. The story was written with a lead pencil on the pages of a notebook. The notebook was pored over by my classmates as they lay in bed beneath their mosquito nets, smudging the pencil marks as they turned the pages. The boyfriend in the book was called Yin Meisheng, but one of my classmates, whose last name was also Yin, said "How come he's called Yin, too?" crossed out the name, and changed it to Wang Meisheng, instead. I changed the name back later on. What with these recurrent revisions, the leaves of the notebook were torn through in a number of places.
That was what I wrote in private. In school, I also produced pedantic pieces in something akin to a new Chancellery style.2 I still remember one cautionary line: "That intoxicating spring breeze / has turned me into a statue by your door." "The Ideal Village of My Dreams" is also a product of this period. It is so full of precisely the sorts of clichés of the new literature I most detest that I can hardly believe that I wrote it:
There's an exquisite dancehall on the top of the hill. After dinner, the milky
white mist gradually evaporates, revealing the bright blue of southern skies.
'Chang's nephew was referring to an older work of vernacular fiction on the same historical theme.
"The Chancellery style (taige ti) flourished among court officials and literati in the Yongle and Chenghua eras of the Ming dynasty and is known for its meticulous attention to details of literary form and craftsmanship (sometimes to the detriment of expression).
 You can hear the mellifluous music descending like a peach-colored net from the heavens above, encircling the entire hill. . . . Here, there is the vitality of youth, the warmth of fiery red hearts. Here, there are no decadent young men and women, grown old before their time; only healthy and youthful souls possessed of the wisdom of age. The solitary silver moon wavers across an empty sky, seeming to shed tears on account of her loneliness. . . . There is also a swimming pool, which forever resembles a kind old grandmother, her face wreathed in smiling wrinkles. When she sees little children jumping into the water like little fish, she delightedly explodes into silver splashes. She gives forth the sound of laughter. She may be old, but her heart is forever young. The children love her and hope never to disappoint her hopes for them. They try their best to become champion swimmers. . . . Smiling wild roses flourish by the roadside. When the wind comes, they wiggle their waists and cast flirtatious glances like models at a fashion show. A clear spring bubbles musically from between some stones, flowing, flowing, flowing all the way down the hill until it forms a pool rippling with blue light. When you are intoxicated by the flower-scented breeze, you can dally there on a little boat. No need to row; let it drift lightly across the water, as if you were afraid to wake the ripples from their sweet slumber, floating, floating, in the shade of the weeping willows . . . oh what a poetic scene!
Although I didn't like Zhang Ziping, I could hardly escape employing a couple of profoundly soulful "ohs," given the tenor of the times.3 Another equally ambitious classmate of mine shared the same surname, Zhang. She liked Zhang Ziping, but I liked Zhang Henshui, and we were constantly debating who was the better writer.4
Later, I wrote an episodic novel in the manner of the Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies school called A Modern Dream of the Red Chamber. My father helped me write appropriately traditional-style chapter headings for the table of contents. The six chapters were titled:
3Zhang Ziping (1893-1959) was one of the founders, with Mao Dun and Yu Dafu, of the Creation Society. His later fictional work was renowned for its exploration of romance and sexuality. He was eventually tried and imprisoned f0r his collaboration with the Japanese occupation. 4Zhang Henshui (1895-1967) is one of the major figures in twentieth-century Chinese popular fiction. While often pigeonholed as a principal figure in the Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies school of popular fiction, Zhang's work represents an amalgamation of the romance fiction for which the school is named, new-style fiction (with its realist concern for social and political issues), and popular genres such as martial arts fiction. His best-selling 1929 novel Tixiao yinyuan (Fate in tears and laughter) is a representative example.
 r. Bao-yu and Dai-yu adapt to apartment living despite trials and tribulations; Jia Lian receives an official appointment, dignifying the undignified.
Legal entanglements stir a tempest among family; a fashion contest occasions a squabble between maidens.
A playboy recants, bidding adieu to the women's apartments; feigning sincerity, a swain attends to spiritual matters.
Drifting hearts are anchored by conjugal passion; a couple is driven by cold fate down the road to the netherworld.
Awaiting news that never comes, intimate friends shed tears in vain; charmed by light playing across the waves, a pair of lovers enjoys the pleasures of spring.
6. Braving traps laid across the road, a tenderfoot steps into dangerous territory; embarking on a journey with a song, a wanderer is saddened upon waking from a dream.
The beginning of the novel describes how Bao-yu receives a photograph sent to him by Fu Qiufang:
Bao-yu grinned: "Aroma, perhaps you should have a look and decide for yourself. Is she prettier, or . . . is Cousin Lin prettier?"
Aroma fixed him with a withering glare, "Hmmph! I'm going to go tell Miss Lin. How could you possibly compare her with random girls from outside the family. . . . And don't forget. Yesterday the mistress said that your father is coming in on the express train from Nanjing tonight and that you must at all costs go to meet him so that he isn't provoked again."
On Jia Lian receiving an official appointment:
The room was packed full of people, and even the concubines, Aunt Zhao and Aunt Zhou, had hurried over from the other residence. Aunt Zhao was holding on to Xi-feng's sleeve: "Congratulations! This is truly wonderful!" . . . Xi-feng, her face wreathed in smiles, grasped hold of Bao-yu, saying, "Why don't you go over and congratulate your Cousin Lian? Your father has arranged for him to be promoted to bureau chief in the Ministry of Railways." . . . Bao-yu squeezed his way through the crowd, encountering as he did Grandmother Jia, who was sprawled across an "Empress Yang" divan, while Faithful sat beside her on a little stool, lighting her opium lamp, and Amber leaned across the cushions, massaging her legs.... Jia Lian was unusually exultant, so exultant in fact that his usual westernized manners had been left entirely by the wayside. He retreated a step, lowered his arms respectfully to his sides, made
 a deep obeisance to Jia Zhen, and cried out in ringing tones: "Thank you, Uncle, for this promotion!"
Xi-feng sets out wine to toast Jia Lian in their own rooms:
She presided over the occasion but looked over at Patience and smiled: "Why don't you join all the fun tonight? No need to observe the proper etiquette. Sit down and enjoy yourself!"
. . . The three passed the wine cup from hand to hand in celebration. . . . Jia Lian said, "We've had to tighten our belts the last two years, but it will all be fine now."
Xi-feng fixed him with a look: "They say that 'cash in hand bites its owner.' It looks like you had better start looking for a couple of fresh new concubines."
Jia Lian burst into guffaws: "Rest assured, darling. With a couple of women as lovely as you and Patience by my side, why would I need to look anywhere else?"
Xi-feng sneered, "Surely you exaggerate our beauty. You haven't been able to take your mind off that woman who lives in Drenched Blossoms Townhouse Village for one moment, so don't feed me any of your false piety! I can see right through you."
Jia Lian hurried to his own defense, "Ever since you went and kicked up a fuss at the You's place, I've heeded your warnings and never gone back again. Feng'er can attest to that."
"But how many other little whores besides her are you keeping in the brothels? Tomorrow, I'm going to make inquiries, and once I have a complete census, I'll settle my accounts with you." Patience, seeing that they were moving into dangerous territory, tried to change the subject and restore the peace.
Jia Zhen brings a letter from Miss You saying she has engaged a lawyer to sue Jia Lian for seducing and subsequently abandoning her. She has decided to blackmail him because he has recently "made a name for himself in officialdom and would not want his reputation besmirched." Jia Lian is unable to come up with the money. "It looks as though the only recourse is to try to touch Jia Zhen for the funds. After all, he's played his own part in all this. I'm fairly sure that he won't want to refuse me."
Because he's afraid the debt will go unpaid, Jia Zhen transfers his wife's own money to Jia Lian and invents a story that he's borrowed it from another friend.
 What comes next is a description of the First Lady Jia Yuanchun's New Life Movement fashion show, the elopement of Qin Zhong and Sapientia, how Parfumée and Lotus join a song-and-dance troupe after having been ejected from the Jia household, how they become objects of desire for Jia Zhen, his son, and Bao-yu alike, plus the kidnapping of Qiao-jie, as well as Bao-yu's demand that he be allowed to go abroad with Dai-yu. When this request is denied, he leaves home in protest, and only then do Grandmother Jia and Lady Wang finally cave in and give their consent to the arrangement:
Aroma instructed Bao-yu to go to Bao-chai's apartment to say his farewells, but Bao-yu demurred, "Lately, Auntie Xue always sees to it that I feel uncomfortable in her presence." With a twinge of regret, he asked Aroma, "Has Cousin Bao said anything? Does she blame me for what's happened?" Aroma replied, "How should I know how things stand between the two of you?" Baoyu . . . heaved a long sigh.
On the eve of their departure, Bao-yu and Dai-yu quarrel once again, this time so seriously that they sever ties with one another completely. Before they are able make amends, Bao-yu has already left for abroad, alone.
This was, of course, popular fiction. But I wrote some relatively high-minded pieces as well. Just before I graduated from middle school, I published two serious short stories in our school magazine, written in the prevailing new literary mode, and entitled "Ox" and "Farewell, My Concubine," respectively.
One might say that "Ox" is a perfect example of how your average literary youth, born and bred in the big city, attempts to write about rural areas. An admirable effort, and yet every time I reread it, I can't help losing patience with myself:
Luxing sucked on his water pipe as he stood, hands resting on his hips, by the doorway. The rain had only just cleared, and the thatched roof glistened with dripping beads of water. The muddy pond below was overflowing with greenish water. In the middle of the pond were a few sparse foxtails, moving along with the currents of the water, pale chestnut-colored fringes softly swaying. The wind blowing toward him was still cold enough to chill his nostrils but seemed more redolent of grass than it had been in the winter.
Luxing tapped the stem of pipe against the door frame, tightened the sash around his waist, and moved toward the cowshed. In the shed, the wan sunlight that had only just come out after the rain was shining through the slats
 of the walls, casting rectangles of light and shade across the muddy ground. Two timid and scrawny chickens, shaking their bedraggled wings, moved back and forth with their beaks to the ground in search of morsels to eat. Inside the shed, the water troughs, empty and coated with dust, lay silently waiting. They were covered with a thin layer of paper, atop which sat dried vegetables. In the corner, there were still some bits and pieces of straw. To one side, the slats were worn smooth and shiny. That was where the ox, after he had eaten his fill, always used to rub his neck to scratch an itch. Luxing softly laid his hand against the worn-out slats, feeling the rough wood under his fingers, as bitterness rose in his throat, tickled his nose, and the tears welled up in his eyes.
Luxing, having sold his ox, can't plow his fields when spring arrives. He wants to give his two chickens to a neighbor in return for the use of a single ox. At first, Luxing's wife opposes the plan, "Heavens! First it was the ox . . . my ox . . . led away in the prime of his life, and then the silver hairpin . . . and now it's these two chickens' turn. What kind of man are you? All you seem to know how to do is dispose of my things."
In the end, he does end up borrowing a bull, but it has a bad temper and bucks under his supervision. When Luxing bears down with the whip, the bull charges him, piercing his chest with its horn, and this is how he meets his end:
Once again it was dusk, and Luxing's woman, wearing the rough burlap of mourning, escorted a wooden coffin carried by two men out of the house. She pressed her face against the cold coffin, rubbing her disheveled hair against the lacquer, still only half dry, that had been used to seal it. Tears filled her meekly trembling big brown eyes, and she softly uttered in a quavering voice, "First . . . first it was my ox . . . my big strong ox, fit to eat and fit to work .. . led away in the prime of his life . . . then the silver hairpin . . . almost a tael of silver as my dowry . . . shiny silver hairpin . . . and then it was my chickens . . . and now . . . now they're taking you away from me, too . . . " She cried in broken sobs, for she knew that everything she had once loved or pitied had grown wings and flown away, disappearing into the damp, chilly evening wind.
A yellow moon slanted against the chimneys, blackened by the haze of kitchen smoke, morning glory flowers put forth their purple trumpetlike blossoms atop disorderly grave mounds, and foxtails rustled as their chestnut brown fringes swayed in the wind. The road of life that lay before Luxing's wife was a long night, a long night without the sound of the chickens clucking and the sway of Luxing's giant shadow in the flickering lamplight. What a long and lonely night it would be!
When I saw Li Shifang perform the play Farewell, My Concubine (Bawang bieji) last year, I was quite struck by it and felt that I should rewrite it as a short story 6 But I wasn't able to do it, because I had already written a story on the same theme in the past and was haunted by sentences from the original that I had once found quite moving and later realized were bloodcurdlingly bad. That first "Farewell, My Concubine" had very little Chinese flavor. It was in that sense much like one of our contemporary costume dramas. Xiang Yu was the treasonous king and general of the domains to the east of the river. Concubine Yu was a faithful but altogether pallid presence who was loyal to the king. Once the king had conquered the world, even if he did in fact make her his consort, her future would by no means be assured. For the moment, he was her sun and she his moon, reflecting his light. Yet if he were to establish a grand imperial palace, there would be countless shooting stars orbiting around him. And this is why she secretly hoped that the war would go on forever. One night when the army was trapped at Hai, just as the night sentries were making their final patrol, she heard the sound of an anthem of Chu called "Lamenting the Great Wall" coming from the enemy camp. She hurried back to the tent to report what she had heard to the king but could not bear to wake him from his slumber.
He was one of those rare mortals who was forever young: although there were gray strands among the locks of hair dangling from his forehead and the knife of time had carved deep furrows in his brow, his slumbering face still possessed something of the candor and stubbornness of a child.
The king soon hears himself surrounded on all sides by the enemy's song and realizes that Liu Bang has already won the kingdom of Chu for himself:
Concubine Yu's heart ached when she saw King Xiang's stubbornly set lips turn white. His eyes put forth a cold, glassy light. The expression of those eyes as they stared into the foreground was so frightening that she covered them with the wide expanse of her sleeve. She could feel the rapid flickering of his eyelashes on the palm of her hand, and she also felt a string of cold teardrops
6Li Shifang is known as one of the four great female impersonators of modern Peking opera and was a disciple of Mei Lanfang.
 roll from her palm down to the crook of her arm. This was the first time she knew that this heroic traitor was indeed capable of shedding tears.
He brushed away her hand and, with heavy steps, staggered back toward the tent. She followed him inside. He sat bent at the waist, head buried in his hands. The candle had burnt down almost completely and the soft light of dawn had already begun to steal in through the curtains of the tent.
"Give me some wine." He raised his eyes toward her.
As he lifted the glowing amber goblet in one hand, he placed the palm of his other hand on his knee and smiled. "Yu, we're finished. It looks like we will be caught like beasts in a trap. But we don't want to be the hunted. No, it's far better to be the hunters. Today! Today will be our very last hunting trip. I want to carve a path of blood through the armor of the Han army! Ha! That Liu Bang! Does he really think that he's got me trapped forever inside his cage? I've been given one last chance to enjoy the thrill of the hunt, and my arrows just may pierce his heart before I'm through, just as they would skewer a rare purple sable. Concubine Yu, put on your Persian armor. You must follow me to the very last. We shall die astride our horses."
But Concubine Yu does not want to go, for she fears that his concentration will waver because of her presence. He says:
"Oh? Then I will leave you in the rear, and when you are discovered by the Han army, you will be given as a battle prize to Liu Bang."
Concubine Yu smiled. She rapidly removed a little dagger from its sheath and plunged it deeply into her own chest with a single motion. Xiang Yu rushed to support her by her waist. Her hand was wrapped tightly around the gilt handle of the dagger. Xiang Yu lowered his large eyes, which burned with light and brimmed with tears as they gazed toward her. Her eyes widened and-as if unable to bear the intensity of the sun-closed once more. Xiang Yu pressed his ear to her trembling lips and listened as she uttered something he could not understand:
"I like this ending better."
After her body had gradually gone cold, King Xiang pulled the dagger from her heart and wiped the bloodstains on his armor. Then, gritting his teeth, he shouted with the hoarse cries of a wild boar, "Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Blow the horn! Ready the cavalry! We're charging down the hill!"
This last scene is perhaps a bit too much like a Hollywood movie.
Later on, I went to Hong Kong for college and didn't write anything in Chinese for three whole years. I even wrote all my correspondence in
 English so that I could practice, which was indeed quite helpful. Now I am writing in Chinese again, without any restraint or limitation whatsoever. It's certainly a good thing to stop writing in Chinese for a while. Picking up a pen to write after three or five years, I may feel as though I've made some little progress-one never knows.