Diary of a Naked Official Read online

  MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

  www.transitlounge.com.au

  Copyright © Ouyang Yu 2014

  First Published 2014

  Transit Lounge Publishing

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Front cover image: Andrea Pun/Trevillion Images

  Cover and book design: Peter Lo

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  A cataloguing-in-publication entry is available from the

  National Library of Australia: http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

  ISBN: 978-1-921924-71-2

  Let ideals be declared void: beliefs, trifles; art, a lie; and philosophy, a joke … Let the mediocre speak of the consequences of pleasure: are not those of suffering even greater? Only the mediocre want to die of old age. Suffer, then, drink pleasure to its last dregs, cry or laugh, scream in despair or with joy, sing about death or love, for nothing will endure! Morality can only make life a long series of missed opportunities!

  –E. M. Cioran

  He’s the most renowned atheist, the most immoral Man … He practises the most thorough and complete corruption, and he is the wickedest and most nefarious person in existence!

  –Marquis de Sade

  At birth, and death, our bodies naked are.

  –John Donne

  I said to the men who liked me: Let’s not talk about love; there is no love in this world.

  –F03 (a woman who had had ten sex partners by 32) [p. 172]

  The other day, when I travelled home on the tram from the city, I was reading a book that I had bought some years back. It was a history of Chinese in Indonesia, of all the books, and I was reading it in Melbourne, of all the places, too. I had picked up this book out of pity because I saw it lying there in my study, amidst a large number of other books that I had bought, waiting to be read. After all, I thought to myself, a book is a book. If it is not interesting enough I can read it fast and get onto the next one. In less than half an hour, when we arrived at Thornbury, I had covered 86 pages and had found only one reference that aroused my interest. It was the translation of the word ‘junk’ in Chinese, as zhongguo fanchuan (Chinese sailing boat) that had left me puzzled until it turned out that, in its original version, the Chinese sailing boat was actually called zong. It dawned on me that the English word ‘junk’ may have originated from this Chinese character as zong may have sounded like jong in Cantonese.

  It was a fine day that day. After a steamy hot day of 34 degrees Celsius, Melbourne had seen an overnight rain that brought the temperature down to a cool, comfortable 24. I sat there reflecting upon this latest discovery and wondering how I could incorporate that into my work in progress, one that was a book on translation, when someone rose to go, who had been sitting opposite me and who, in my occasional glances, I had noticed to have a haggard, sickly face. I had wanted to move away from him because he sneezed a few times and blew loudly into his handkerchief. When I raised my head, with resentment at the likelihood of catching germs from him, I could see something shiny running down his nose. The guy quickly wiped that clean with the back of his hand when he noticed me watching him. So, it was a relief to see him disembark. I settled back to my book, intending to get through it quickly as a history full of irrelevancies was beginning to pall, when I spotted something on the opposite seat, something white, caught in the corner of the seat. I reached for it and took it in my hand. It was a USB. I looked around, searching in vain for the man who had blown so much stuff into his handkerchief. He must have pulled it out of his trouser pocket when he wiped his nose. Hopefully, I thought, I might find this guy when I got home and checked.

  There was nothing in this USB when I inserted it into my computer except a document, titled, Diary of a Naked Official, written in English in its entirety and signed in a name I had not seen anywhere. I Googled ‘Shi Ma’ but in vain, too; it could be a pseudonym, given the nature of the book. Nor was there any contact detail that I could lay my hands on. It reads like a mere diary but in certain places it sounds like a novel. The blurring border between the two is as unclear and unclear-cut as that between the skyline and the earthline, known in Chinese as dipingxian, the word for horizon. I prefer to think of it as the former because the stuff written seems to have quite an authentic ring to it although imaginary things could also appear true, or truer than the realities.

  No sooner did the thought come to me of putting the whole thing online at my blog than I had given it up, for the need to protect the person’s identity was greater than the need to reveal it. The alternative was that I could present it as it is, either as a diary or a novel or both, for the readers to decide as to what they want it to be or believe it to be. I now present it as it is, with a bit of editing here and there, just to make it less offensive to the middle-class sensibilities in this country. Although I thought of adding comments wherever appropriate or necessary I have ended up not doing so for obvious reasons: it’s not my writing and I should try to maintain its integrity by not tampering with it; after all, the author might one day come back to claim it. However, before I show the manuscript in its entirety, I have to prepare my readers for the assault to their eye and their senses as well as their sense of moral values because the kind of thing written here is more than we want to see of a growing superpower such as China. I do warn the readers against any potential corruption.

  The story tells of an official in his mid-40s, to be more exact a deputy director in a publishing house, who, prior to and after settling his wife and daughter in Australia, leads a life of debauchery and total abandon until he is put in detention for his alleged embezzlement and corruption, of which he keeps a detailed account by way of a diary. I present this in the hope that my readers will be discerning enough to fend themselves off any corrupting influences from a civilization known for its past capabilities of evil and present diversion into the weird and irrepressible, coupled with its resistance to moral and moralizing influences from the West. Because there’s no indication of the years given, I would presume that the dates would fall somewhere in the years of the late 20th century or the early years of the 21st although I could be wrong.

  Instead of giving the text chapter headings as I had thought of doing, I allow it to run on in a flow of dates in an attempt to retain the natural sequence without disrupting it.

  4/6

  D, 18, is the first woman I made love to who has not a single hair on her cunt, a straight line going down beneath her. After we finished making love, she, lying in my arms, told me her story.

  I have kept a man at home. He is younger than me by one year. He does nothing all day. Just sleeps and waits for me till I get home. And that is what I expect him to do, too, because I can afford to keep him that way. I make money here and he waits on me there. He says he loves me but I don’t know what he does when I am not around. I don’t care if you know this because you are a total stranger and because I have not been in the mood for anything today.

  We had an argument yesterday. That’s what. I got a bit of cold, so I asked him to buy me some medications in the shop. When he came back with the medications, I found they were not the right ones, so I sent him back to the shop to have them replaced but he refused. Why did you refuse, I said. Did you not see that I was quite ill? Then and there, he turned stubborn. I then said we’d go together but halfway he became nasty again. He threw the medications wrapped in a paper bag down to the ground and squatted there, refusing to move, like a spoiled child.

  He’s like that. Men from his plac
e are all like that. They are kept by their women, doing nothing all day but just smoking and drinking then sleeping. He said he was not afraid of me dumping him because he was young and handsome and it wouldn’t be hard for him to find another girl willing to keep him. He did work in a factory for a short while but he gave up, complaining that he was not fit for work, not even born for work.

  While he was squatting there in public, everyone was watching. I was made to feel very embarrassed. This upset me so much I decided to go, leaving him there. Tomorrow, I’ll come early to work and won’t bother with him anymore.

  As she talked, I found it hard to keep my eyes open, her young body having exhausted me. She wore an eye-hitting pair of Christian Louboutin shoes, with brightred soles, called Declic, which I thought was Derelict; I rather liked my mistaken shoe identity. As I entered her, I said: You are so dry. Her response came from below that it was because she was youthfully tight.

  I can’t keep writing this because, for one thing, I’m getting an erection, and, for another, I feel as if someone is watching over my shoulder. I must find a way to keep this in a safe place.

  Another detail: While she was licking me, one of her false lashes half fell. She attempted to put it back a few times, but in vain. I watched that half-fallen thing, looking like the broken piece of a black toothbrush, moving up and down as she nodded her head above me.

  A line, ‘your eyes/close upon the gift of life/that without cease I give you’, emerged, as if from the depths of my loins, and mind, as I finish today’s entry.

  5/6

  Early this morning, someone touched my hand and I woke up. It was Y, Yummy, who put a finger over her mouth and said ‘shush’ as she saw terror in my eyes, because my wife was lying next to me on my left, sleeping without a sound.

  Now the size of a Barbie, she crept in, nestling against my chest and whispering into my left ear, ‘I love you’, in a voice as beautiful as before, as when she had decided to break up with me. In my semi-confused mind I thought I was dreaming a dream but she was there, her tongue out in search of mine. I was reluctant, knowing that my mouth stank after a night’s accumulation of stagnancies but she insisted, like in the old days when we would touch tongue any time of the day or night, regardless. I gave it to her and she took it as if it were her own, in a way that hurt. I ‘ah’ed and she let go. My wife turned in her sleep, muttering something about my disturbing her.

  When I woke up I realized with bitterness that it was a dream and that once gone she would never return. I would categorize her as my nth wife, gone but palpable.

  In this morning’s meeting I wasn’t happy with B, head of our publishing house and the Party secretary, as he was making a suggestion about publishing quickies – books that made quick money but had no values. As I was new to this job I kept silent; I had to see what role he assigned me.

  To do him justice, he does have values, ones that the Party wants him to adhere to, that is, the socialist core values putting the emphasis on yi ren wei ben, an expression that defies translation but could roughly turn into something like this: with human beings as the roots. To achieve that purpose, books published should contain no sex, little violence, and nothing that might hurt the harmonious relationship between the Han and other ethnic minorities. In a word, books are published to serve the people and to serve socialism by making people feel happy, not otherwise.

  Something to remind myself: Have to remit the first lot of money to John towards the purchase of an incense shop and get ready for Wife’s visa.

  6/6

  Celibacy for a whole day, which is rare these days, but memory makes it worse, so I suppressed it, its assault.

  W, short for Wife, was unhappy. She didn’t like me going out too frequently even though I said it was all work related. ‘I feel so lonely sometimes,’ she said. ‘You can go to Australia, then,’ I said. ‘I’m organizing everything for you and it’ll be pretty soon that you’ll live riding on the sheep’s back.’ ‘I’d rather live off a man’s back than a sheep’s back,’ she said, in her forthright manner. ‘And what about her, our daughter?’

  ‘She’ll definitely go with you,’ I said, remembering what has happened recently, involving the principal of a middle school molesting a number of teenage girls. ‘I wouldn’t want our girl to be eye-raped,’ I said, using a new word I’ve learnt from the Weibo.

  I could see why she cheered up when she heard the word ‘Australia’, coupled with the fact about the molestation. She can’t stand China. Too many people. Too much chemical-infested food, with a sky that is never blue or never entirely blue, shrouded in a constant haze that refuses to lift. She daydreams of living overseas. Which she thinks is her destiny. With D, short for our daughter, she’ll enjoy it even more. University matriculation examination is hell that both of us want her to avoid, at any cost. Unlike some parents who stick to their gun or gunho (I’ll have to check if this is the right expression) by waiting and working hard till their kids pass the exam, when they then divorce, we’ll save the trouble and go elsewhere and live in a divorce-like situation of marriage. Where else but Australia, which lots of people have come back from and reported as the last jingtu in the world, jingtu, literally, clean earth, being Sukhavati, Pure Land or Paradise of the West?

  I’ll organize payment for the purchase of a house for them in Melbourne or Sydney, perhaps Sydney because it’s been nominated the most liveable city, better than Melbourne as there is the Opera House where photographs of her would do her proud when sent home. Once they are there, all my money will be tucked away in an Australian bank, safe from official scrutiny here.

  It’ll be good for me, too. I love to have the freedom of being totally alone, totally free, like an emperor, among my many and varied imperial, no, new-age, concubines. Some time ago, this vulgar man who came to my party in the Green Teahouse with Peter and Samuel proclaimed that he had slept with over 500 women! I tried to picture how that must have felt but I can’t stand the thought of coming into contact with the smell of so many mouths! The guy looked no older than someone in his mid-thirties. How did he manage that? I noticed that neither Peter nor Samuel said a thing. They kept sipping their tea, looking at the man expressionlessly. I couldn’t tell whether they were impressed or not. An absurd thought came to me: Maybe they’ve also done that many themselves?

  7/6

  The boys are heard talking on a construction site. One of them, the thin one with the long lashes like those of a girl, is telling them a story:

  They are doing that, you know, when they find they cannot separate themselves. Whatever they do the man cannot pull his thing out and the girl cannot push him away either. Soon, the girl’s parents will come home. What to do? They cannot do anything till they are discovered. They are discovered eventually. So they are carried to the hospital where they have to be operated on. It soon transpires that to separate them one has to die, either the man or the woman.

  I woke up from the dream and found it oddly familiar. It seems to have a significance beyond the simple dilemma. These days the women who come into contact with me are as naked and slippery as fish, and as easily separable. C, who I went to see earlier this evening with them, was one such girl. Afterwards, when we sat on the sofas in the semi-darkness of the hall, watching overhead TV and smoking, H said: I’ve given it to her three times! I rather doubted his prowess. Q smiled feebly, shaking his head, as if he did not believe his own doubts. I pretended I did not hear that. Because I had done someone else earlier, I wasn’t able to ejaculate with C and had to get her to help me out with her hands. Afterwards, I lay in her arms and heard her story or part of her story.

  She told me that she had a boyfriend whom she suspected had affairs in her absence. ‘If he does that, I am not much concerned because I can also do it,’ she said. Then she told me that she had another boyfriend in her hometown, a nice fellow who was prepared to wait till she came home. ‘He is a nice one. It is beneath his contempt to make advances to other women; it’s not like him to
do that. He’ll wait for me.’

  This is a woman who, to excite my taste for the wild or perhaps just to perform one of her duties, tore her black fishnet stockings to pieces before she allowed me the entry. I had to excuse myself by saying that I was not used to the condom. She laughed and said: You don’t know how quickly these other men come. I said: How? She said: The other day I had a young man come in. The minute he saw me his thing stood up to attention and I had scarcely touched him when he ejaculated, pong pah, just like that! I found myself laughing out loud uncontrollably.

  I must say she seemed to enjoy her work a lot but I am not one to comment on the morality or values of whatever she does or how she relates to other people. I am more concerned with B as he always must have his own way. I get the feeling that he’ll probably assign me something negligible to do. As Old Sheng, editor of self-published poetry books, is leaving, I might be asked to succeed him. Fingers crossed.

  I’ll write about M – short for Metamorphosis – tomorrow as I now am really tired.

  8/6

  Done a few books, including Pale Fire by Nabokov. The poem is okay, but too designed. In fact, that’s what the whole book is. Can’t finish the rest of the notes and stuff. Too pretentious for my liking.

  Montaigne is different. The translation is a flawed one but Montaigne comes off as someone full of wit, of a violent kind, sometimes, such as this story he tells of an old man who succeeds in wooing the heart of a beautiful young lady, only to give up on his dick when he realizes that it is incapable of an erection. Totally frustrated, he cuts it off and chucks it away. It is good that, as yet, I do not have that problem. On one occasion, I remember, I did it no less than ten times in a day with J Ro, coming each time. Quite a waste, of body fluids and physical energy, in retrospect. I wonder why I have bothered keeping track of the times.