Five Spice Street

Madam X’s age became a major issue on our street. When anyone left a group, he stood his own ground, and so at least twenty- eight different views flourished. No one wanted to argue continuously anymore. Madam X’s husband, a thirty-eight-year-old stud, also-without rhyme or reason-simply accepted the young coal worker’s view that his wife was twenty-two and not thirty-five, as his good friend had insisted on the basis of her ID card. Weighed down by habit and inertia, he was always tender and affectionate toward his wife. It’s said that from the very beginning he ‘‘couldn’t see a single blemish in her.’’ Consequently, we judged his opinion the most unbelievable, because ‘‘it seemed that he didn’t use his eyes to look at the truth; he let his imagination run wild. His head was filled with optimism.’’ (These are the widow’s words; the facts narrated later bear out the brilliance of her perception.)

The mystery of Madam X’s age wasn’t resolved, and later, more and more doubts arose. The day after hearing that Madam X and a certain Mr. Q, an office clerk, were involved in a furtive, sneaky way, the much-admired widow secretly entered her room and stole a look at her ID card. She noticed that the column with her age had been artfully altered, but the evidence left by the alteration not only confirmed the widow’s estimate, it ‘‘proved it precisely.’’ At the same time, another of X’s husband’s friends-a young man with sideburns — declared that Madam X wasn’t thirty-five, but thirty-two, because he and Madam X had been born in the same year and had been childhood sweethearts. Their parents had even considered betrothing them. As for X, in her youth, she had always been shy and tender with him. It was only because he hadn’t yet understood male- female relationships that he hadn’t allowed their relationship to develop. How could X suddenly have become three years older than he? Several other guys also tried to muddy the waters. Apart from the twenty-eight opinions already noted, one said she was thirty-seven and a half, another said forty-six and a half, another said twenty-nine and a half, and the last claimed twenty-six and a half. With the addition of a half-year’s difference, the issue became very profound and philosophical.

Though the matter remains unresolved, let’s take her husband’s good friend’s investigation into her ID card and postulate that she’s thirty-five. This is expedient for a number of reasons: we don’t have to consider her a young girl (after all, her son is already six years old), nor do we have to consider her an older woman (even though some, like the widow, calculate she was about fifty, which didn’t necessarily mean that she was an ‘‘older’’ woman-a subtle difference. The widow is precise and knows the nuances of language). As for her husband, he’s free to think she’s twenty-two if he likes. No one has the right to interfere. We can only wait for him to ‘‘wake up’’ on his own (the widow’s words). The stream of drivel from the young coal worker and the guys who deliberately muddied the waters is worth even less. They were merely satisfying their own needs without offering an ounce of sincerity.

The controversy about her age was part of a generally vague and contradictory image of Madam X. She is a middle-aged woman, very thin, with white teeth, a neck that’s either slender or flabby, skin that’s either smooth or rough, a voice that’s either melodious or wild, and a body that’s either sexy or devoid of sex. When this obscure image takes us by surprise and ‘‘discloses its true face,’’ everything unfathomable becomes clear, but only for an instant. Let’s put it aside for now.

We can’t approve of her husband’s impression, because it raises the most questions. Although he’s tall and sturdy, and knows how to handle himself around other people, when talk turns to his wife he acts in a feminine, even servile way. Indeed, when he talks, he suddenly becomes stupefied, as if having a seizure. He forgets the thread of the conversation and suggests that you play ‘‘hopscotch’’ with him. Right away he finds some chalk to draw a grid on the ground. If you refuse, he just forgets about you and throws himself into hopscotch.