The Real Story of Ah-Q by Lu Xun

repository of all news worth hearing. She glanced across at Seven-Pounds’s shaved head, feeling hatred and resentment surging up inside. Just as quickly, however, despair took over: ‘Eat up!’ She filled a bowl with rice and pushed it over to him. ‘Long faces don’t grow queues, do they?’
    The sun gathered up the last of its rays, the surface of the river stealthily greeting their departure with fresh, cool air. All along the mudbank, spines beaded with sweat as chopsticks clattered on bowls. Looking up after her third bowl of rice, Mrs Seven-Pounds’s heart began to pound violently. Through a screen of tallow leaves, she spotted the squat form of Mr Zhao, draped in a long gown of sapphire-blue glazed cotton, picking his way across a single-log bridge and towards them.
    Proprietor of the Splendid, the tavern in the neighbouring village, Mr Zhao was the only man of any distinction or education within ten miles. A celebrated fogey, he was often to be found poring over his multivolume set of
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms
, annotated by the great seventeenth-century scholar Jin Shengtan. Give him the chance, and he would reel off not only the names of the five Tiger Generals of Shu 1 but also at least two of their honorifics. After the 1911 Revolution, he had coiled his queue up on to his head, like a Daoist priest. If there was just a bit more of
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms
spirit about today, he would often sigh to himself, things would not be in the pickle they were. Mrs Seven-Pounds had a pair of eyes in her head: even from that distance, she could see the gleam of his clean-shaven forehead, and the black jet of his liberated queue. She now knew for sure that the emperor was back on the throne, that queues were an essential requirement once more, and that Seven-Pounds was in mortal danger. This cotton gown was not everyday attire for Mr Zhao. Only twice had he worn it in the past three years: once when his sworn enemy, the pock-marked Ah-si, took ill; and once on the death of one Mr Lu, who had vandalized his tavern at some point in the past. And here it was again: joy for him, sorrow for his enemies.
    Two years ago, Mrs Seven-Pounds now remembered, her husband had – under some undue alcoholic influence – called Mr Zhao ‘a bastard’. Now she saw the danger he was in; now her heart began pounding.
    Every diner stood up as Mr Zhao rippled past, touching their chopsticks to their rice bowls, inviting him to sit down and share their meal. ‘Carry on, carry on,’ he nodded as he glided swiftly on to Seven-Pounds’s establishment, which wasted no time in offering him fulsome greeting. ‘Carry on, carry on,’ their visitor smiled, taking careful note of that evening’s menu.
    ‘Delicious, delicious, I’m sure.’ Mr Zhao took up position behind Seven-Pounds and opposite his wife. ‘Heard the rumours?’
    ‘The emperor’s back,’ replied Seven-Pounds.
    Mrs Seven-Pounds beamed obsequiously, keeping close watch on their guest. ‘So when will we hear about the amnesty?’
    ‘All in due course, all in due course.’ A new note of severity entered Mr Zhao’s voice. ‘But where, might I ask, is your queue, Mr Seven-Pounds? This is no laughing matter. Remember the Taiping Rebellion! If you kept your hair, you lost your head; lose your hair, and the head stayed on…’ 2
    As neither Seven-Pounds nor his wife had been to school, the profundity of this historical allusion floated some way over their heads. But they could see that if a man of Mr Zhao’s wisdom was talking like this, then the situation was serious indeed; beyond salvation, in fact. They fell silent, listening to their death knells clanging in their ears.
    ‘The youth of today,’ grumbled Mrs Nine-Pounds, seizing the opportunity to get a word in with Mr Zhao. ‘Always interfering with people’s hair, cutting off their queues. Not like in my day. Seventy-eight years I’ve lived – that’s enough for anyone. Those Taipings wrapped