Madwoman On the Bridge and Other Stories Read online

  About the Book

  The mad woman on the bridge wears a historical gown which she refuses to take off. In the height of summer, to the derision of the townspeople, she stands madly on the bridge. Until a young female doctor, bewitched by the beauty of the mad woman’s dress, plots to take it from her, with tragic consequences.

  Set during the fall-out of the Cultural Revolution, these bizarre and delicate stories capture magnificently the collision of the old China of vanished dynasties, with communism and today’s tiger economy.

  From the folklorist who becomes the victim of his own rural research, to the doctor whose infertility treatment brings about the birth of a monster child, to a young thief who steals a red train only to have it stolen from him, Su Tong’s stories are a scorching look at humanity.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Madwoman on the Bridge

  Weeping Willow

  On Saturdays

  Thieves

  How the Ceremony Ends

  The Private Banquet

  Goddess Peak

  The Diary for August

  Dance of Heartbreak

  The Water Demon

  Atmospheric Pressure

  The Q of Hearts

  Home in May

  The Giant Baby

  Endnotes

  About the Author

  Also by Su Tong

  Copyright Page

  Madwoman

  on the Bridge

  Su Tong

  TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY JOSH STENBERG

  Madwoman on the Bridge

  The madwoman was wearing a white velvet cheongsam, and in her hand she held a sandalwood fan. Standing on the bridge, she revelled in her own elegance. For those who knew her this was not at all surprising, but other passersby assumed she was an actress here to shoot some footage. She gazed around her and raised her fan to wave at the children going past, but they ignored her. The boys stuck out their tongues and grimaced, hoping to frighten her, while the girls pointed at her cheongsam and, whispering confidentially, paid no further attention to her.

  They were like lively clouds, floating one by one across the bridge, only to disperse at the slightest puff of wind. The madwoman’s constant companion was a pot of chrysanthemums, which stood watch over the bridge with her. November chrysanthemums: from a distance, they seemed still to be in bloom, but up close you could see how they dropped. Just like the madwoman. At first glance she seemed beautiful, but closer scrutiny revealed that she was as faded as her flowers.

  The madwoman on the bridge appeared very lonely, unbearably so in fact, for she kept twisting her head and body this way and that, looking from side to side. Her brow furrowed as she glanced over at Mahogany Street, on the near side of the bridge, then mumbled something which sounded like a complaint. What was she complaining about? Or whom? No one cared.

  Besides the pot of chrysanthemums, her intimacy extended only to the sandalwood fan. All those who knew her were familiar with this article: it was dark yellow, threaded with gold and had green tassels hanging from the handle. You could smell its fragrance from far away. Although the season for using sandalwood fans was already long past, the madwoman clutched hers whenever she went out. She spread the fan so it shaded her brow; golden strips of sunlight slatted her pale countenance. At times it looked like dazzling make-up, at others like terrible scars.

  Occasionally, when the figure of an acquaintance floated towards her over the bridge, the madwoman’s dim eyes would glint suddenly, and her whole body would set itself in motion to strike a seductive pose. She would wave at them with her fan, slowly undulating her svelte waist in greeting. Then she would poke playfully at their hands with her fan and say, ‘Oh, the heat. I’m just burning up.’ At this point, whoever she addressed would avert their face and glance towards the bridge. They wore impatient expressions, for they were normal people, and normal people pay no attention to madwomen. They just waved her away unfeelingly and hurried from the bridge. To be honest, there weren’t very many people on our street who embodied the warm-hearted spirit of revolutionary humanitarianism. I don’t know whether the old woman from Shaoxing was one of these or not, and it doesn’t much matter now either way, but I do know that the Shaoxing woman stayed on the bridge that afternoon to talk to the madwoman; she stayed for quite a long time.

  The old Shaoxing woman had bound feet, but still undertook to deliver milk to the whole of Mahogany Street. Since feet were bound for aesthetic delight rather than practicality, the Shaoxing woman had trouble walking, and had to pause every few metres as she pushed her little cart. She shouted rhythmically as she walked to keep her spirits up. Her afternoon was devoted to collecting the empty bottles, and as she hobbled along, she groaned for people to bring them out. Today the Shaoxing woman had about thirty bottles as she tottered onto the bridge.

  As usual, the madwoman remarked, ‘Oh, the heat. I’m just burning up.’

  The Shaoxing woman took a handkerchief from her bosom to wipe away the sweat and replied nonchalantly, ‘Yes, I’m sweating like a pig.’ Suddenly she realized who she was speaking to and cried out in surprise, ‘Oh, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home like you should be? What did you come here for?’

  The madwoman opened her fan and wafted it a few times, saying, ‘It was so hot, I came to the bridge for the breeze.’

  The Shaoxing woman gave her a hard look and, sizing up the situation in an instant, said, ‘I don’t think so. It looks more like you were worried your cheongsam might go mouldy in its chest, so you thought you’d come here to show yourself off. Do you know what season this is? You must think it’s still summer, coming out here wearing your cheongsam and waving that fan around. Winter’s coming on, you know!’

  The madwoman seemed unconvinced; she looked up at the sky, then reached out one hand to pass it over the chrysanthemums. ‘Summer’s over? But the chrysanthemums are still blooming. How could summer be over?’ she mumbled to herself. Then, suddenly, her eyes lit up as she asked, ‘When will winter start? When it does, I should wear my fox-fur coat.’

  The Shaoxing woman gave a startled sound and replied, ‘How can you still bother yourself with things like that? Haven’t you been through enough already? Look at you, all dressed up and looking like a fright. That’s what made them terrorize you in the first place – and that’s what made you ill. Don’t you understand?’

  The madwoman did not, and remarked, ‘With the fox-fur coat I’d have to wear matching boots . . . What a shame they stole my lambskin boots.’

  The thought of her lost finery caused a mournful expression to appear on her face. She walked a melancholy circle around the Shaoxing woman’s cart, then another. ‘No more high-heeled shoes,’ she said with a glance at her feet. ‘No more jade bracelets,’ she said with a glance at her wrists. ‘No silk stockings either,’ she said, stroking her knees.

  The Shaoxing woman couldn’t suppress a cry of protest, ‘They’re gone, and rightly so! Otherwise you’d probably be dead by now! Don’t you understand?’

  The madwoman did not and lowered her head to study the milk bottles in the cart, or more specifically the multicoloured silk threads wound around the empty mouths of the bottles. ‘Look how pretty those threads are,’ she said. ‘Won’t you give them to me so I can weave Susu an egg cosy? At mid-autumn festival next year we can hang salted eggs in it.’

  But the Shaoxing woman protested. ‘You’re not going to make a fool of me again. Last year I washed all those threads and gave them to you, and what happened? Before you even got home, you’d given them all away. Susu didn’t get a single one, poo
r thing. What a shame such a sensible girl is saddled with a mother like you!’

  The Shaoxing woman was old and her vision fading. She hadn’t noticed at first that the madwoman was wearing a brooch. But when she bent down to put the milk bottles in order and looked up again at the madwoman, she caught sight of something on her chest: something sparkling, glistening in the sun. It was quite dazzling, and the Shaoxing woman gazed at it vacantly for a moment in disbelief. ‘Oh, no! Whatever possessed you to go out with that on? A treasure like that . . . it cost your grandmother a bar of gold. Quick, take it off!’

  It had taken a moment for the Shaoxing woman to realize what she was seeing. Now she rushed towards the madwoman and clutched her by shoulders. The madwoman raised her sandalwood fan and tried to fend her off, cheongsam rustling as she swayed this way and that to evade those grubby, gnarled hands. The fan was beautiful but impractical as a weapon, and the slippery white velvet cheongsam even less threatening. In the end the madwoman was no match for the Shaoxing woman, and she stood with her arms by her sides and suffered the brooch to be removed.

  It was a remnant of a bygone era, a butterfly-shaped brooch executed with exquisite craftsmanship. The butterfly’s wings were outlined in blue enamel and inlaid with several gemstones shaped like grains of rice. Its precious wings dominated the front of the cheongsam, secured at the back by a clasp, skilfully designed to prevent theft. No matter how hard she tried, the Shaoxing woman was unable to undo it.

  ‘Who made this? They must have made it so difficult to undo on purpose,’ she complained, then she went on to complain about the madwoman: ‘And what can I say about you? I don’t care how vain you are, or how much you love to wear your cheongsam, you mustn’t ever wear this brooch when you go out. I know just about every stick your family owns, and the only valuable thing left is this brooch. If you lose it, it’ll be too late to start wailing. Now help me take it off. I’m not going to swipe it, I’ll just take care of it for you and give it to Susu tomorrow.’

  Still the madwoman didn’t cooperate, and the Shaoxing woman practically had to force the brooch off. Finally she tore some sealing paper off a milk bottle, wrapped the brooch in it, and concealed it in her bosom. ‘There are lots of bad people about, looking to prey on people like you. Don’t you understand?’ The Shaoxing woman peered vigilantly all around and, finding no bad people in sight, gave a sigh of relief. Brusquely she nudged the madwoman towards the end of the bridge with the cart, saying, ‘On a chilly day like this, you shouldn’t stand out here and freeze. Go home now, go home.’

  But the madwoman obdurately refused, saying, ‘I’ve lost my key. I’m going to wait here for Susu and go home with her.’

  The Shaoxing woman frowned at her. ‘Even if you’re ill, how can you just forget from one day to the next how to do the simplest things? What does it matter if you don’t have the key, just go next door to Li Sannian’s, and climb in through your window from their courtyard.’

  But the madwoman shook her head, and said, ‘I won’t go to Li Sannian’s. They won’t let me. His wife says, "The troll! The troll’s coming!" as soon as she sees me, and their youngest son starts crying and throws things at me.’

  It took a moment before the Shaoxing woman understood this, but then she remarked levelly, ‘You can’t really blame them, not when you get yourself all dolled up like that. If a child ran into you in the dark, of course he’d think you were a troll. But grown-ups shouldn’t say these things; it’s wrong to bully someone like you. I’ll take you home. We’ll go through Li Sannian’s together, and see if she dares swear at you then.’

  But the madwoman persisted shaking her head, saying, ‘I won’t go through her house. I can’t climb through the window. I’m wearing my cheongsam; I can’t get through the window.’

  ‘Well, that‘s true enough. A thing like that is no good for anything but making an exhibition of yourself.’ The Shaoxing woman glared disapprovingly at the madwoman’s cheongsam. She fingered the neckline for a moment and patted the waist. Then she asked, ‘Can it be comfortable to wear it that tight? It’s really more than just ordinary vanity with you, isn’t it? I was just remembering how, when you were young, you used to wear a cheongsam even when you went to measure out the rice. Wiggling along, carrying the rice in a straw bag.’

  The madwoman objected, ‘It wasn’t a straw bag. It was a woven craft bag. They were made for export, but I got one surplus.’

  ‘A straw bag for export is still a straw bag – don’t try and impress me with your fancy foreign garbage,’ the Shaoxing woman retorted harshly, ‘The reason you’ve had such hard luck is that your thinking is rotten through and through. If you think wrong, you act wrong, you rub people up the wrong way. It’s not all your own fault that you’re ill, though, half of it is your own problem and half is other people’s. If I were your mother-in-law,’ the Shaoxing woman ran on, lifting one hand as if to hit her, ‘I would beat you. I’d beat you every day, and when I was tired I’d get my son to beat you. I might beat you half to death, but at least I’d make sure you knew how to be a good wife!’

  The madwoman reacted instinctively to the Shaoxing woman’s hostile tone and gesture, retreating and raising one hand as if to shield herself. The Shaoxing woman was usually so kind: why would she want to hit her? The madwoman could not distinguish between rhetoric and reality. Bewildered, she backed away from the cart, and the hem of her cheongsam caught under one of its wheels. The madwoman cried out loudly and freed the hem, craning her neck to examine it for grime. Just then, a bespectacled man was passing by. He jumped off his bicycle and eyed her for a moment, then he grinned, straddled his bike again and rode off.

  When the madwoman noticed the man, her eyes kindled and she waved vigorously after his retreating figure: ‘Mr Zhang! A real scorcher, isn’t it?’ It distracted him and he made as if to stop, then decided against it, the hesitation nearly causing him to fall off. He had to put his foot down hurriedly, coming to a stop by the end of the bridge. The madwoman and the Shaoxing woman both looked at the man, or rather at his back. He was clad in khaki trousers and a tunic, with sagging shoulders. The strange, sunken-looking figure hesitated for a long moment on the bridge before glancing back with undisguised interest, but in the end he kept silent and rode hurriedly away.

  ‘Do you know him? And if you don’t, why did you call him Mr Zhang?’ the Shaoxing woman asked, looking after his receding figure reproachfully. Then she turned back to the madwoman. ‘See how you’re always accosting people? No wonder they say you act badly. You’re indecent, that’s what you are.’

  The madwoman exclaimed, ‘Who’s indecent? You’re the indecent one. I know him. Mr Zhang – he was the make-up man for the ensemble. He used to do my make-up.’

  ‘Make-up, make-up! Is that all you can talk about?’ All the time, the Shaoxing woman was nudging the madwoman towards the end of the bridge, saying, ‘You have a nerve, calling a woman my age indecent. Still, your mind’s gone soft, and I’m not going to quibble with you. You doll yourself up like that and stand on the bridge if you want to. What do you think you look like? A painting? That would be all right – a painting for people to look at – but why is this painting looking back at them? Do you have any idea how people think these days? There are so many bad sorts. If they gang up on you, you won’t be able to report them, and even if you did, they’d ignore you. Why don’t you go home?’

  At first the madwoman dodged her, then the Shaoxing woman caught her by her cheongsam and started tugging at it. The madwoman’s heart bled for her beloved cheongsam and she began to resist, swatting the Shaoxing woman’s hands as if they were flies. But they were strong and persistent, and the madwoman grew flustered. She raised her sandalwood fan and struck out at the Shaoxing woman’s arms once, then twice, but when she saw the anger in the Shaoxing woman’s eyes she didn’t dare continue. Instead she forcibly thrust the old woman away. The Shaoxing woman staggered back, features twisting into a ghastly expression. She stamped her bound feet, gave h
er clattering milk cart a shove towards the end of the bridge, and said sharply, ‘Fine. Don’t listen to me then. Hit me with your fan. Just stand there like a peacock flaunting your feathers. No wonder people are cruel to you. You reap what you sow. Even a peacock doesn’t spread his tail for just anyone.’

  * * *

  On that autumn afternoon, the madwoman stood on the bridge waiting for her daughter Susu. She would leave school and come home only in the early-evening, at about five o’clock, but the madwoman was standing on the bridge by a little after two. Perhaps she had nowhere else to go; perhaps she had already lost any sense of time passing. Everyone knew that something had gone wrong with her mind last spring. I suppose what happened next was pure coincidence, but it’s often the case that if you wait for blossoms to open, you are rewarded with a bee sting. For Susu did not come, Cui Wenqin did.

  Cui Wenqin came . . .

  Forgive me for interpolating a few explanatory sentences at this point. Wenqin was the youngest doctor in the clinic on Mahogany Road, as well as one of the most famous women on the north side of town. She was extraordinarily beautiful, and she gave injections; it was therefore only natural that some people were given to unwholesome flights of fantasy about her. Apparently there were even a few who, although perfectly healthy, were so obsessed by her that they submitted themselves to injections just so they could be in her company. What they hoped to gain by this you can probably guess without my telling you.

  Wenqin had in fact administered injections to the madwoman, but they had turned out to be ineffective for her illness, and were discontinued, so although the madwoman had no recollection of the doctor who had treated her, Wenqin remembered her clearly. The shocking sight of a beautiful woman in a state of mental collapse had touched her, and she kept pointing at her as if she were a painting, gasping in admiration. An intelligent woman openly admiring another woman’s appearance is unusual enough, but since the latter’s mind had gone, Wenqin’s gasps were genuinely heartfelt. Some people wondered if this admiration might simply be a form of pity, though the madwoman provoked no similar feeling in others. Instead, the women who took their children to the clinic for inoculations would try to curry favour with Wenqin by saying, ‘Look how pretty auntie is. Look how simple her clothes are. And it doesn’t hurt at all when she gives you your injections.’