333532 – by Ouyang Yu
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
When a writer is reaching his year of never-never, do you know what goes through his mind on a daily basis? Even after he has lived for more than thirty years in a country that is a cultural, linguistic, political, philosophical, poetical and pathological antithesis to his home country, these things that come to haunt him remain an antithesis in themselves.
333532...
What came to him just when he finished opening his bowels and went into the kitchen was a string of sounds: 333532, 16123, 3335656, 66612, that caught him, bewildered, for a brief moment before he ‘oh’ed, coming to his musical senses. It was a song he had either sung or heard sung everywhere in his country of origin more than thirty-two years ago, perhaps ever since he was born.
While he was doing his BM for a second time, he tried to work out the first few lines, ‘Shehui zhuyi hao, shehui zhuyi hao, shehui zhuyi guojia renmin diwei gao’. But that’s as far as he could get. The words that followed escaped him. He had to seek help from online now that he had finished doing his second BM. Soon enough, he found the lyrics, a few different versions, and settled for this one below, with punctuation and stanza divisions:
社会主义好，社会主义好！
社会主义国家人民地位高，
反动派被打倒，
帝国主义夹着尾巴逃跑了。
全国人民大团结，
掀起了社会主义建设高潮，
建设高潮。
共产党好，共产党好！
共产党是人民的好领导，
说得到，做得到，
全心全意为了人民立功劳。
坚决跟着共产党，
要把伟大祖国建设好，建设好。
社会主义好，社会主义好！
社会主义江山人民保，
人民江山坐得牢，
反动分子想反也反不了。
社会主义社会一定胜利，
共产主义社会一定来到，
一定来到。
He's wondering who he's writing this piece for and whether he should translate the lyrics. Perhaps just the first two lines? How about just the first two lines, as follows:
Socialism good, socialism good!
People have a high status in a socialist country...
In his early teens, he had entertained thoughts of becoming a composer and had composed music. He continued to do so into university. Then he stopped, realising that it was an impossibility. He had musical thoughts. He had musical feelings. But he did not play any instruments. He only had a mouth organ, with which he managed to capture the heart of his sweetheart. That was enough.
By the time he did his third BM, still feeling that he hadn’t had enough, like a great purge, something else had crept into his mind, or memory. Or both.
53235, 53235...
This something was a tune of a nursery rhyme that he had learnt as a baby and sung or practised as part of a game played with organized groups of kids. While sitting on the bowl, he had little difficulty recalling the lyrics that go, in his native language, or native-born language,
丢手巾，丢手巾
轻轻地放在小朋友的后边
大家不要告诉他
快点快点捉住他
快点快点捉住他
The tune goes like this:
53235, 53235
55365353212
3532123
6565235
6565231
‘Should I translate the lyrics?’ he thought. Then he said, to himself, ‘Perhaps not before I translate the first lyrics that begin with the tune, 333532...or the first stanza of it.’
Socialism is good, socialism is good!
People have a high status in a socialist country.
Reactionaries have been struck down
And the imperialists have run away, tails between their legs.
The whole nation is united,
Setting off a new upsurge of socialist construction,
And a new upsurge.
After he did his fourth BM, without producing any result, he came back to his study and was about to go on when he noticed a trace of blood on the back of his left hand. Where did I get that? How did it get there? Did I shit blood? Why didn't I see any bloodstains on the toilet paper?
He tore a piece of paper from the toilet roll by his computer, normally used to blow his nose into or wipe his mouth with, in a way that was cheaper than the boxed tissues. Standing in the middle of his study, and facing the open window, he put the paper and wiped his arse. When he brought it out, it was as white-clean as he had first torn it.
If he had to use political terms, he had to apply ‘capitalism’ to the current country where he was living and ‘socialism’ to the one that he had left some three decades ago. Assuming he had left all that behind, these tunes or melodies of music never fail to enter his mind or memory or both by themselves without invitation. He never wondered why. He was not a theorist. He had got used to it. He let them come and he let them go.
It was probably time, he prompted himself with a gentle reminder, he gave that nursery rhyme a translation, which he did, as follows:
Throw the handkerchief, and throw the handkerchief
Gently put it behind the little friend
Please you don’t tell him
Quickly catch him
Quickly catch him
He had forgotten how the game was played. Did the boys and girls sit in a ring, facing each other? Did someone chosen walk behind them and put the handkerchief by stealth behind someone before he or she ran back to his or her place in the ring? Did the people in the ring all close their eyes while this person was doing that? If this person was caught in the act, did he or she have to do it all over again? If he or she was wrongly caught, did the one who got it wrong have to do it?
His eyes closed, he tried to imagine the game played more than six decades ago. But just then, the doorbell rang. It was the delivery of his new book, the two replacement copies for the previous two that were part-damaged in the process of delivery from Sydney.
66536535, 661653653...
This was the tune that accompanied the sound of the doorbell. He could sing along with it, nearly all the way through. But he couldn’t remember the words, the lyrics. When he checked online, this message appeared, ‘Looks like there aren’t any matches for your search’. He checked under ‘Shopping’, and it returned with this:
Your search – 66536535, 66165365 – did not match any shopping results. Suggestions:
Make sure that all words are spelled correctly.
Try different keywords.
Try more general keywords.
Try fewer keywords.
‘Ridiculous,’ he blurted out. He could sing the whole tune, like this: 66536535, 661653653, 5561653, 5235321, 1233532132, 1233532132, 11235232161, 32165321, 65235321.
But without the words, what is the music? A blow of wind from nowhere that returns nowhere.
But who is there to check? All his friends are dead. Alive but dead. ▼
Image: visuals - Unsplash
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