Revenge

Abstract

Revenge Wang Zengqi (bio) Translated by Xujun Eberlein (bio) An avenger should not break his sword. A jealous man should not complain of a tile falling off the roof. —Zhaungzi (369–280 bc) A white candle; a half jar of honey. The honey is not in his view right now. The honey is in the jar; he is sitting on the low bed. But his senses are filled with honey, dense, thick. The bile does not rise into his throat. He has a good appetite. He hasn’t vomited many times in his whole life. A whole life. How long is a whole life? Have I had a whole life now? Doesn’t matter. This is a very common pet phrase. Everybody says, “In my whole life . . .” Like this monk—monks must often eat this kind of wild honey. His eyes narrow a bit, because the candlelight jumps, and a heap of shadows jumps, too. He smiles once: in his mind he has come up with a name for the monk, “the honey monk.” This is no wonder, because the words “a whole life” hide behind honey and monk. Tomorrow when I say goodbye, what would he do if I really call him that? Well, now the monk has a name, what about me? What would he call me? It wouldn’t be “the sword guest” (he noticed that the monk saw his sword at once), would it? The honey—now it comes back to him that he heard bees buzzing all the way here. Yes, bees. Lots of bees (they made the whole mountain drift with their buzzing). Even now the residual sound remains in his ears. From here I began my tonight, and my tomorrow will continue from here. Life really is hard to say. He suddenly realizes, from the sound of the bees, that it is autumn. He feels unburdened and refreshed. That’s right, at the moment one word is written in the whole world: autumn. He imagines the monk looking for bees. A big field of wildflowers. The monk stands in front of the field of flowers; it really is beautiful. The monk is picking flowers. There are flowers in the copper bowl in the hall, they bloom very nicely, drifting, as if a cloud of fog is rising from the bowl. He likes this monk. The monk is going out. He holds one hand up, walking backward a few steps, casually yet considerately. Monk, you must have saluted like this, completely at ease, numerous times by now. The monk puts down the candle and says a few words, something about the temple being too remote to offer guests better treats; the mountain is high, wind big, weather cold, and you should rest early. He hears it even if the monk does not speak. The monk has spoken, but he isn’t listening. He just looks at the monk. He rises to show politeness. The monk drifts away, his sleeves flowing, like a big butterfly. [End Page 119] He can’t draw the monk’s appearance in his mind. He thinks that, had the monk not shaved his head, he would have a head of nice white hair. A head of shining white hair flashes in his mind. A white-haired monk. He is thinking of his white-haired mother. The night comes so fast on the mountain! Once the sun sets, every moving thing rests. It is so quiet. While he was on the way here, he already felt quietness. But inside the mountains is quite different from on the road. When he entered the little village, there were sounds of children reading books in school, horse bells, and flails knocking on beanstalks. On the little trail, fresh cow dung effused warm steam. White clouds slowly moved past haystacks. A little girl with braids was dressed in a silvery red jersey . . . but all the things that would have been used for describing stillness now indicate movement. He had even thought of becoming a peddler to add a bit of sound to the village, but at this moment, amongst a thousand mountains, he mustn’t wave a peddler’s rattle-drum. A peddler’s...