Tibetan Soul : Stories 9781937385095

Citation preview

Tibetan Soul

ALAI

“. . . Weaving together a rich portrayal of social relations, a strong connection with nature, and the folklore that animates the distinctive daily life of modern Tibet, Alai’s stories open the door to a striking vision and an original fictional voice.” —Wendy Larson, Professor, East Asian Languages and Literatures, University of Oregon

Stories

Tibetan Soul Stories

ALAI

Ti betan S o u l Stories

ALAI Translated by

Karen Gernant and Chen Zeping

MerwinAsia

Portland, Maine

Copyright ©2012 by MerwinAsia All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher, MerwinAsia, 59 West St., Unit 3W, Portland, ME 04102 USA

www.merwinasia.com Distributed by the University of Hawai’i Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2011944451 ISBN 978-1-937385-08-8 (pbk) ISBN 978-1-937385-09-5 (cloth) Printed in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Services— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39/48-1992

MerwinAsia extends its heartfelt thanks to the photographer Steven Talevski for use of his evocative photo “Inseparable Bond” that graces the jacket of Tibetan Soul. Charando Village near Xiahe, Gansu Province - A common interaction among the Tibetan young and old revealing an inseparable bond as if they are two souls interwoven as one. —Stevan Talevski Photography Copyright ©2011

Contents Translators’ Acknowledgments

vii 1

Akhu Tenpa Dance of the Soul

14

The Silversmith in the Moonlight

24

The Fish

47

A Swarm of Bees Fluttering

97

The Loba

110

The Locust Blossoms

123

Gela Grows Up

132

Life

147

The White Mountain Range: Like Galloping Horses

162

Bloodstains from the Past

171

Blood Ties

218

About the author

255

About the translators

256

v

Tran slato rs’ Ac k now l edgments

W

e thank Manoa and its editor Frank Stewart for publishing “A Swarm of Bees Fluttering” and “The Loba” (as “The Yeren”) in 2001 (13:2) and “Blood Ties” in 2005 (17:1); turnrow and its editors William Ryan and Jack Heflin for publishing “The Silversmith in the Moonlight” (spring 2005) and “The Fish” (winter 2007); and Conjunctions and its editor Bradford Morrow for publishing “Akhu Tenpa” (as “Agu Dunba”) and “The Locust Blossoms” (spring 2005). “Dance of the Soul” and “Blood Ties” appeared in our anthology, Eleven Contemporary Chinese Writers (Monroe, Louisiana: Turnrow Books, 2010). We extend special thanks to Dr. Yangdon Dhondup, research associate at the School of Oriental and African Studies, London, for graciously providing us with the transliterations for Tibetan words and proper names used in these stories. Doug Merwin is a splendid editor, whose revisions we greatly appreciate. We owe Alai our deep gratitude for entrusting us with his stories. And Karen Gernant also thanks him for his generous hospitality in Chengdu for a few days in the spring of 2005. Without the supportiveness of those closest to us, translation would be impossible. For this and much more, Chen Zeping thanks his wife Weng Zhongyu, and Karen Gernant thanks Louis Roemer.

vii

Tibetan Soul Stories

ALAI

A k hu Tenpa

Translators’ preface: Alai says that this folk tale dates back to about the fourteenth century. “Akhu,” he notes, means an uncle younger than one’s parents; Tibetan people thus regard Akhu Tenpa as part of their family, and as one who represents their own lives. In this version, Alai has supplied details of Akhu Tenpa’s background which are missing from the folk tale itself.

B

y the time of Akhu Tenpa, yaks had already been worked, and horses had already been separated from wild animals. In legends, the times before this are called the beautiful times. But now, the constellations in the sky had lost their harmony because of all kinds of misgivings. The amount of one’s wealth became the standard for judging worthies and fools, for determining the noble and the base. With the help of evil spirits, crafty people became stronger, and people were no longer the way they were when gods and humans hadn’t yet separated; they were no longer acting in a very upright way. Nowadays, very seldom do traces of the gods appear. And back when Akhu Tenpa was born, no traces of the gods appeared, either. It was only later that it was said that before his mother gave birth she dreamed of large expanses of clouds whose colors were endlessly magical. What was irrefutable was that this child’s birth took his beautiful mother’s life. A woman servant who delivered him also lost her life because of this. When Akhu Tenpa was born, his father—a feudal lord—didn’t indulge him much. The servants did their best, too, not to come into contact with him. From childhood, Akhu Tenpa spent a lonely life in the prosperous 1

Ti b etan S oul manor. In the winter, in front of the massive fortress, he sat below the smooth stone steps and enjoyed the sun’s warmth; in the summer, under the cool shade of the courtyard’s apple and walnut trees, he sank into deep thought. He had a large head. Below his wide forehead was a pair of melancholy eyes. It was precisely this pair of calm, precocious eyes that truly saw the beginning and end of the four seasons, including even the life which people always thought they knew so well. Later, when Akhu Tenpa’s reputation was known far and wide and he became the embodiment of wisdom, the people in the manor had no distinct memory of any of his behavior. His childhood was only a faint shadow in the gloomy, forbidding manor. “He just sat that way under his own head—silently and noiselessly.” So said the woman cook. Opening the door, she could see the jade green lawn of the backyard. “My breasts hurt from being swollen. I looked all over for that poor child of mine, but he was following me just like a shadow,” his former wet nurse said. “The only one who talked less than he did was the mute doorkeeper.” Many other people also talked. But it was precisely the mute doorkeeper who really knew the child whom everyone was now frequently talking about. He remembered the way the child walked, the way he sank deep in thought, and the way he smiled. He remembered how Akhu Tenpa grew up slowly. The mute doorkeeper couldn’t help smiling when he recalled how the child looked. Akhu Tenpa’s growing up was his body growing up. His head had already grown up and taken shape in his mother’s womb. It was because of this head that his mother’s life was taken. The process of his growing up was changing from a guy with a large head and a small body into a guy with a small head and a long body—a comical-looking, but also solemn-looking, guy. The doorkeeper remembered, too, that for several days in a row he had sat bent over in the deep, recessed gateway, looking at the sky outside, the rows of mountain ranges, and the wheat fields irrigated by canals in the midst of the mountains. One day, as the sun was setting, Akhu Tenpa had stood up at last and walked toward the highway going southeast. He remembered how Akhu Tenpa’s long, long shadow slid through the thicket and the hillocks, and onto the sacrificial altars, and went away: the doorkeeper remembered all of this very clearly. Before leaving, Akhu Tenpa had gone to his father’s sickbed, where he 2

A k hu Ten pa

had carried on a deep conversation with his father, who was then on the verge of death. “I didn’t ever love you well, because you brought about your mother’s death.” His breathing labored, the feudal lord said, “Now, do you say you want me to die?” Akhu Tenpa looked at this old man who was coughing constantly, almost as if he wasn’t breathing air but breathing dust, and thought: He is Father. Father. He gripped his father’s trembling, bony hand: “I don’t want you to die.” “But your two elder brothers do want me to die, so they can inherit my position. I thought of handing it down to you. But I’m worried about your silence, worried about your sympathy for the servants. You must understand, servants are like cattle and goats.” “Then, why do you like your horse so much, Father?” “A good horse is even more valuable than a person. If you understand these principles, I’ll hand my position down to you.” Akhu Tenpa said, “I’m afraid it’s difficult for me to understand.” The old feudal lord sighed, “Go ahead and leave. I can’t worry about this. In any case, I haven’t loved you, and in any case, my soul wants to go up to heaven. In any case, your brothers understand all the principles of being a good feudal lord.” “So go ahead and leave.” The old feudal lord also said, “If your older brothers know I’ve summoned you, they will kill you.” “Yes.” Akhu Tenpa turned around to leave this room filled with woolen fabrics and copper household utensils. Go ahead and leave. Like lightning, his father’s words suddenly illuminated his life’s prospects. In that one instant, he saw his entire future. And yet, clutching indignation and sorrow, he walked on the soft bearskin carpet without raising even the slightest echo. For the first time, a satirical smile completely matching his comical image appeared on Akhu Tenpa’s face. “Come back.” The hoarse, dignified voice sounded again behind him. Akhu Tenpa turned around, but saw only a pitiful, imploring expression that didn’t match the voice: “After I die, will I go to heaven?” Suddenly Akhu Tenpa heard his own laughter. The sound of the laughter was a little husky and filled with satire. 3

Ti b etan S oul “You can go to heaven, my lord. After a person dies, the soul has only one seat—either in hell or in heaven.” “What kind of people have seats in heaven?” “Good people, my lord. Good people have places in heaven.” “Prosperous people have places in heaven. Prosperous people are good people. I gave the gods countless offerings.” “Just so, my lord.” “Call me Father.” “Yes, my lord. Reason says your place is in heaven, but everyone says his own place is in heaven, so the seats in heaven have been occupied for a long time. You will have to go to hell!” With that, he bowed respectfully and withdrew from the room. In the considerable time that followed, he always sat in the shady, cool, dry, refreshing recess of the gate. Boundless regret at parting from the family rose up in his heart. At the same time, his incomparable wisdom also told him: this sort of regret is actually a kind of yearning—a yearning for a tranquil, kindly feeling of closeness. As he saw it, his father’s face wasn’t the face of feudal lords who were dying out, but was a blend of a charcoal burner’s forbearance and a doorkeeper’s peaceful simplicity. As he sat quietly on the clean muddy ground, a pure and fresh clear feeling gradually rose from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. Akhu Tenpa watched the light breeze stir the green trees—the cool air, like water, poppled and gave him inspiration. He remembered the prince Sakyamuni. Then he stood up and left the manor. Under the swaying, cool, and refreshing evening breeze, he embarked on a wandering journey—in search of the path of wisdom and truth. For Akhu Tenpa, who had just broken away from the leisurely life of the manor, the paths were too numerous, too rugged, too endless. His boots were worn out, and his feet unbearably swollen. He was walking in a warm region. Between the grazing lands of the high mountains were the level plains planted with highland barley, wheat, and nettles, and also orchards irrigated by free-flowing stream water. Not only the plants placed there by human labor, but even the naked granite rocks emitted delicate cloud-like fragrances. Many times, in this mild and beautiful scenery, his body felt as heavy as rocks, yet his soul ascended lightheartedly, hurrying straight to the middle of his forehead—hurrying straight to the abstruse secret of this 4

A k hu Ten pa

world’s existence. He felt that his soul had already wrapped up this secret. Perhaps it can be said that this secret had already used its state of chaos and ambiguity to forcibly occupy his brain, and had also been scattering faint rays of light. Akhu Tenpa knew that he now needed an even stronger ray of inspiration to penetrate this chaos. But hunger increasingly weakened his inner vision. That thing he had once seized also gradually vanished. He could only open his eyes and confront the real world anew, and look at the earth shaking lightly below the sluggish clouds. All he could do was get up and search for food. As he walked, the earth beneath his feet shook even more terribly. This time, Akhu Tenpa felt his soul grow heavy and his body lighten. He found a sheep’s head that had been sacrificed to the mountain god. And because he stole and ate it, he was arrested and imprisoned. He was familiar with this kind of prison cell, for his family had also had this kind of prison cell in its manor. Everyone told him he was going to die. As a substitute for the sheep’s head, his head would be presented to the mountain god. It was night. Nothing was going on. The moon was bright and the stars sparse, and he took the leftover bone of the sheep’s head out of the pocket of his robe. It still had a little meat left, and he began to gnaw on it. Before his eyes, the row of sharp ram’s teeth gleamed. He pushed the teeth back and forth to grind them, and he finally scratched his cheeks. He felt with his fingers. Some parts of the teeth were as sharp as knife points. He had a brainstorm: he ground the sheep’s teeth back and forth on the wooden window lattice of the prison cell, and quickly sawed through a window lattice as thick as a human wrist. Akhu Tenpa stretched his thin, small, pointed head out, and saw twinkling stars filling the whole sky. What a pity that those sheep’s teeth had already been ground down. Akhu Tenpa thought, if my head is used tomorrow in repayment for the sacrificed sheep’s head, it’ll be all over. He sighed and rubbed his still-hungry stomach, and slowly fell asleep. When he woke up, it was high noon. The prison guard told him that after one more night, he must die. The prison guard also asked him what he would like to eat before he died. Akhu Tenpa said, “Sheep’s head.” “Beggar. Haven’t you eaten much better things in the past?” The prison guard said, “Wine? Pork?” Closing his eyes, Akhu Tenpa laughed lightly, “I want only a sheep’s head, boiled until it’s thoroughly cooked.” 5

Ti b etan S oul When he got the sheep’s head, he tackled it patiently. He picked the shreds of meat out from the cracks in the skull and ate them all. It wasn’t until midnight that he ground the window lattice with the new sheep’s teeth and made his way out of the prison cell. He stepped onto the road drenched by the night dew. The road was glistening with the pale rays of light of the horizon’s early dawn. The road led him to one place after another. At that time, in the entire snowy region of Tibet, there was not yet one saw. Akhu Tenpa had invented the saw to get out of prison, and as he wandered along on the road, he taught this invention to carpenters and woodcutters. In their hands, the saw was gradually perfected. Not only could they deal with small pieces of wood, but also with large pieces. Later, the saw even became the tool of stonemasons, coppersmiths, and gold- and silversmiths. By now, Akhu Tenpa’s clothes were ragged and infested with lice. His clothes had also faded in the sunlight, wind, rain, and dust. His face was even more emaciated than before. Akhu Tenpa had become a poor person, a leisurely and carefree person. In one small kingdom, he drew upon his wisdom to punish the king. He also used his wisdom to kill a lama who didn’t adhere to religious discipline and who committed treason and heresy. These were things the ordinary people had wanted to do, but hadn’t dared to. So, Akhu Tenpa’s reputation for wisdom and justice spread to faraway places. People also knew all the details of his trading one cauldron for all the wealth and the precious horse of a greedy, niggardly merchant. Later, they could remember all of this even more clearly than Akhu Tenpa could. Everyone said the merchant who had been tricked caught up again with Akhu Tenpa in Lhasa. This time, Akhu Tenpa was holding a very tall flagpole in front of a temple. The flagpole pointed straight up at the deep blue sky where white clouds were drifting. Akhu Tenpa wanted the merchant to follow the line of the flagpole and look up at the sky. Below the drifting clouds, the flagpole seemed about to slowly topple over. Akhu Tenpa said he’d like to return all the wealth to the merchant, but the lamas in the temple wanted him to prop up the flagpole—and not let it fall to the ground. The merchant said that if Akhu Tenpa could only find and return the wealth, he’d be happy to take Akhu Tenpa’s place in holding up the flagpole. 6

A k hu Ten pa

Akhu Tenpa left, distributed all of the merchant’s wealth to the povertystricken common people, and then took to the road of wandering again. And the merchant was holding the stable flagpole as he waited for Akhu Tenpa to come back with his wealth. When he wandered to a district called “Gyas,” his story had preceded him. People told him, “That crafty but foolish merchant has died beneath the flagpole.” He said, “I am Akhu Tenpa.” Glancing at this haggard, comical-looking person, the people said, “No, you aren’t.” They said that Akhu Tenpa should have the dignity of a king and the charm of an immortal—not the appearance of a beggar. They said, too, that they were just then waiting for Akhu Tenpa. They were refugees who had been defeated in tribal warfare and then exiled. They had left the grasslands and herds of cattle on which they relied for a living, and it was hard for them to subsist now. These people lived in a hamlet destroyed by pestilence, and confronted the fertile uncultivated land that was being swallowed by the jungle. As they sat under the sun, they caught the lice on their bodies. They said some tribal members had dreamed that Akhu Tenpa would come and save them from peril. Akhu Tenpa shook his head and sighed. He fell in love with one beautiful and melancholy woman among them. “I am the Akhu Tenpa you’ve been longing for.” The woman had been silent from start to finish, but now she said, “You are not he.” She was the tribal chieftain’s daughter. Her father would never be restored to his former vigor and might. He was quietly waiting for death. “I am indeed Akhu Tenpa,” he said stubbornly. “No.” The woman shook her head slowly. “Akhu Tenpa is the feudal lord’s son.” With melancholy eyes, she looked off in the distance where the longed-for savior would appear. Her tone was desolate, miserable, and touching. She said that once Akhu Tenpa arrived he would fall in love with her and save her tribe from danger. He would enable people to eat the butter that hadn’t moistened their mouths for ages, and eat meat that had been well cooked. 7

Ti b etan S oul “I’ll get all of that for you.” Akhu Tenpa let her savor her beautiful illusions. He himself set out for the wilds to look for copper pots of butter and cooked meat. He walked two days on the road lined with wild white poplars and groves of dark green trees. At noon, a fork in the road appeared before him. Akhu Tenpa hesitated at the intersection. He knew that one road led to freedom—unrestrained freedom without responsibilities. The other would carry responsibility and hopeless love. Wavering at the intersection, Akhu Tenpa suddenly saw two thrushes fly up. The birds were chirping. He listened attentively, and at last he understood what they were telling him. One thrush said a blind old woman was about to starve to death. The other said it was because her son had died while hunting tigers. Akhu Tenpa knew he would have to lose some freedom. Hearing the summons of conscience, he lost freedom. He asked the birds where the old woman was. The thrushes told him she was on the third huge rock below the mountain range, waiting for her son to come back. Then the two thrushes happily flew away. Afterward, whenever he came to a fork in the road, he always chose the road that made him feel worried and heavy-hearted. At last, from the top of the range, he saw a small, solitary house with no smoke rising from a kitchen chimney. The small house was surrounded and screened by a grove of trees. Its outline was indistinct. In front of the house, on a towering rock that looked like a reclining cow, there was the shadow of a rickety old person. Although she was far away, the figure of the helpless, wretched old woman became absolutely distinct before his eyes. This one figure combined the many poor and humble women he had seen before. This collage of a person stabbed a certain unbearable ache in his chest like a knife. In the breeze greeting him in the pine trees, his tears streamed down. He heard himself shout, “Mama!” Akhu Tenpa knew that he had been entwined many times by the tangles of worldly feelings. However, he had not exactly left the manor to wander in all directions because of these things. Two thrushes flew to and fro before his eyes again and chirped incessantly. He asked, “What do you want to say to me?” “Zha! Zhazha!” the male bird called. “Ji, jiji!” the female called. Akhu Tenpa, however, didn’t understand the birds’ sounds. Holding his 8

A k hu Ten pa

head in both hands, he hunkered on the ground and began to weep. Later, the sound of weeping turned into the sound of laughing. From another end of the highway five young Buddhist monks walked up. They stood still and asked curiously if he was weeping or laughing hard. Akhu Tenpa stood up and said, “Akhu Tenpa is laughing hard.” Naturally, his face was so dry it didn’t reveal any traces of tears. The young monks paid no more attention to him. They sat down, rested their feet, and had their meals. Each of them took out his last wheat flour steamed bun. Akhu Tenpa asked them to give him a little. They said, “That would make six people. How can six people divide five steamed buns?” Akhu Tenpa said, “I don’t want much. If each of you gives me half, that’s okay.” The monks agreed with pleasure, and praised him for being fair-minded. The monks also said that it would be great if the steward at the temple were as fair-minded as he was. Akhu Tenpa ate half a steamed bun. Just then, the wind changed direction. With two steamed buns tucked in at his chest, he walked down from the mountain range and found the rock. It was a desert rock left by a glacier. The deeply cut and smooth marks rubbed onto the rock made him think of a certain kind of force that was neither human nor god. The sound of the old woman’s weeping interrupted his reverie. With complete clarity, he felt that the sound of this blind old woman’s weeping—as beautiful and mournful as a young girl’s—wasn’t her own but instead was part of his own destiny. She said, “Son.” She stroked Akhu Tenpa’s face to her heart’s content. Her trembling hands gradually moved down and felt the steamed buns tucked in at his chest. “Buns?” she asked greedily. “Buns.” “Give them to me, son. I’m hungry.” The old woman spoke with the dignified intonation of a queen. After getting the steamed buns, she sat on the ground and wolfed them down. The buns went into her mouth, and a lot of crumbs stuck to the corners of her mouth. This image disgusted and frightened Akhu Tenpa. He thought he would take advantage of the blind old woman’s greed and gluttony and turn around and leave. Just then, he heard a thunderclap in the clear sky. A 9

Ti b etan S oul ball of fire fell, burning down the small house where the old woman was staying. Akhu Tenpa had been about to leave, but now he changed his mind and turned back. Finished with the buns, the blind old woman looked up and said, “Son, take me home.” She stretched her hands out, clasped Akhu Tenpa’s long slender neck, and leaned over his back. Akhu Tenpa looked up for a moment at the clouds drifting unbridled in the sky. Then he bent and lifted the old woman to his back, and looking down at the ground, he strode with heavy steps. The old woman asked again, “Are you my son?” Akhu Tenpa didn’t answer. He thought again of the tribal chieftain’s haughty but beautiful daughter. He said, “She definitely doesn’t want to believe me. She doesn’t believe I am Akhu Tenpa.” “Who? Is Akhu Tenpa a person?” “I’m Akhu Tenpa.” The sowing season was rapidly approaching. Akhu Tenpa’s body had already lost its former poet-like carefree and contented emotional appeal. Like a hungry dog, he ran helter-skelter in all directions because the blind mama whom heaven had bestowed on him was always starving. One day, the daughter of the tribal chieftain said to him, “You—didn’t you say you were Akhu Tenpa? Akhu Tenpa is from a distinguished family.” Saying this, she lifted her beautiful face. The brilliant rays of the twinkle in her eyes were enchanting, and her tone changed so that it was as if she were talking in her sleep, “He definitely is a handsome, bright prince.” The real Akhu Tenpa was just a skeleton. Hands at his sides, he stood in front of her. The expression on his face was incomparably happy. “Go ahead and go,” the beautiful lass said coldly, “Go and dig up several wild yams for your insignificant mother.” “Yes, Miss.” “Go on and go.” It was on this day that Akhu Tenpa saw plump tender shoots coming out from the grasses in the earth. And he suddenly thought of a way to save this tribe from danger. He promptly went back and found the chieftain’s 10

A k hu Ten pa

daughter, and said, “I just dug up a treasure, but it escaped from the ground again.” “Retrieve it, and present it to me.” “One person alone cannot find it and bring it back.” “All the people of the entire tribe will go with you to find it.” First, Akhu Tenpa directed these people to excavate the land. In the past, these wastelands had been farmed for more than a thousand years, and it was quite easy for them to excavate. The loose black clods of mud threw off an intoxicating smell. Naturally, they didn’t dig down to the nonexistent treasures. When Akhu Tenpa saw that they had already reclaimed enough land, he said, “Maybe the treasures have burrowed into even deeper places.” The people excavated again toward the deeper places. Just when all of them were cursing and blaming themselves for listening to a madman, they dug down to clean, mild spring water. “Since the treasures have already fled to faraway places, and don’t wish to approach our miss, and since that Akhu Tenpa hasn’t yet arrived, let’s plant barley on the land and irrigate it with well water.” When autumn came, the people had completely shaken off their hunger. Within three years, this nomadic tribe that had been on the brink of extinction had changed anew into a formidable farming tribe. The tribal chieftain became the feudal lord. His beautiful and arrogant daughter lived a respected, honored life in the newly built manor. And, as before, Akhu Tenpa and the old woman lived in the low earthen house. One day, the old woman said again in her beautiful, pleasant voice, “Son, why isn’t there butter in the tea, and why don’t we have dried meat and cheese on the plates?” “Mother, only if you’re a feudal lord can you have such good things to eat.” “I’m old. I’m going to die.” The old woman’s tone was imperious and indignant. “I have to eat those things.” “Mother . . .” ”Don’t call me Mother, since you cannot give me a good life.” “Mother . . .” “You good-for-nothing thing, what do you want to say?” “I don’t want to live this kind of life.” “Then you,” the old woman’s voice changed again to genial, “Then you 11

Ti b etan S oul just let me live a comfortable life, a life like a feudal lord’s.” “The life of an ass?” Akhu Tenpa heard the ridicule in his voice again—the jeering note. “I’m going to die. I’m really miserable.” “Just go ahead and die then.” All of a sudden, Akhu Tenpa had spoken in the grave, stern tone that he had used with his dying father before he abandoned his family and began wandering. He strode out the door while the old woman was weeping desolately. He was going to buy a little good food for this miserable mother. Under the sun setting in the west, he saw his long, thin shadow sliding soundlessly and unceasingly ahead of his steps. He saw the fragments of the ragged clothes he was wearing fly upward in the icy wind like the feathers of birds. He saw the shadow of his amusing pointed head go up to the tall and large arched gateway of the manor. Then he heard the sound of music and singing, and saw that the courtyard was filled with all kinds of horses with valuable saddles. Perhaps the feudal lord is about to die, he thought. Everyone told him, however, that it was the wedding ceremony for the feudal lord’s daughter. “Which daughter?” he asked, his tone absent-minded. “The feudal lord has only one daughter.” “Is she marrying Akhu Tenpa?” “No.” “She didn’t wait for Akhu Tenpa?” “No. She said Akhu Tenpa doesn’t exist.” The feudal lord’s daughter was marrying the tribal chieftain who had formerly defeated and driven their tribe out. The marriage would head off any further disturbances between the two tribes. On this day, no matter whether people were high or low, they were all treated very well. Akhu Tenpa drank a lot of alcohol. In a daze, he also stuffed himself with a lot of deep-fried cakes and cheese. When he pushed open the heavy wooden door of the small, low earthen house, a square of moonlight also entered. He said, “Get out, moonlight!” The moonlight stopped where it was. “I found delicious food, Mother.” 12

A k hu Ten pa

But the blind old woman had died. Those unseeing eyes were opened very wide. Just before she died, she had washed up a little and dressed. At daybreak, Akhu Tenpa took to the road again. He crossed a low hill covered with white birches. The manor that had been built because of his wisdom disappeared from his vision. The cool and refreshing dew made him quicken his steps. The moonlight burrowed into an expanse of thin clouds. “Come along with me, moonlight,” Akhu Tenpa said. The moonlight burrowed out of the cluster of clouds and kept pace with his steps.

13

Dance o f t he S ou l

S

onam Palden had been waiting for a nice day to go out. The green meadows were alight with sunshine, and turtledoves called out constantly in the wheat fields. “Going out? What for?” Gabu asked his father. “Me?” The old man—hair and beard coarse and gray, face gleaming like brass—was walking down the stairs. On the landing at the top of the staircase, he saw that it was a perfect day for going out. Now, the old man had reached the center of the courtyard: he was carrying riding boots, a halter, stirrups, and a whip. The silver and brass accouterments were flashing radiantly; the leather ones were squeaking. “You asked me? I’m going out to ride my horse.” As he said this, the old man felt something stab his heart: desolation. It was desolation. So he added, “I want to ride my horse and visit my former lovers.” His son smiled. Nearby, Sonam Palden also saw his wife’s smile, but when the woman repairing the fence straightened up, he realized it wasn’t his wife but his son’s wife. Your wife died years ago, he heard a voice say calmly. And not just his wife: none of his lady friends was any longer in the land of the living. Head buried in the yellow buttercups in the courtyard, his granddaughter looked up and called out, “Grandpa!” She and her voice were rays of bright light kindling his eyes. “Grandpa’s going out.” “You haven’t gone out for years.” Squinting, the old man looked out in the distance in all directions. “What are you looking for?” “My horse?” The silver and brass accouterments were flashing radi14

Da n ce o f th e So u l

antly, the leather ones squeaking. The old man looked entranced as he said, “Geshi Metok, have you seen my horse?” “When the lama Tagong came to chant the sutras, you set it free. You set it free long ago.” Sonam Palden said something: he seemed to be saying that the Buddha wouldn’t mind if he rode the horse once more. He also seemed to be saying that he wanted to free himself along with the horse. Laden down with a saddle, felt pad, reins, halter, and whip, he walked out the gate and down the smooth stone steps in front of it. The stirrups hanging from his chest collided with each other—dingguang dingguang. His son, his daughter-in-law, and his granddaughter watched him walk slowly into the distance. They saw him off into the distance with their eyes. It wasn’t until afternoon that they wondered why none of them had stopped him. Of course they could only attribute this to providence. What will be, will be: that’s providence. Following the path of the mountain slope, Sonam Palden went through the wheat field and through bosks dotted with willow and phoenix trees. He felt his color changing along with the colors of the vegetation. When he walked into a grove of wild cherry trees, he sensed that the white blossoms began falling the instant the sunshine vanished. Suddenly, the sunshine returned like a metal screen descending. As if a waterfall were cascading before him, he fell back a few steps. He’d reached the meadow. The meadow, its grass sturdy and luxuriant, was on a plateau in the canyon. Several miles long, the plateau was called “Used to Be Ice.” Sure enough, huge solitary desert boulders were scattered all around. The black boulders had a metallic quality. Not until the family, still at the floor of the canyon, mounted the steps of their house did they see the old man walk from the cherry grove into the meadow. Gabu said, “I think the flower fairy has bewitched him.” The granddaughter said, “Is the flower fairy a beautiful woman?” “Don’t say such things around your daughter.” “Your daughter is already grown up.” But Sonam Palden hadn’t encountered a flower fairy: he just sensed that at the beginning of the day a floral fragrance suffused everything. The black ground underfoot was as soft as clouds. If that process began, 15

Ti b etan S oul it would begin amid the profusion of falling white blossoms. He entered the meadow to look for the white horse—the last one he’d ridden. For a moment, he thought he saw it. He focused his eyes and looked again, but it was merely a cloud rising from behind the mountain ridge. “I thought you were it,” he said to the cloud. The cloud changed into something else. Then it stretched and rolled up and changed into yet another thing. Before he reached the middle of the meadow, the saddlery slid of its own accord from his shoulders and fell to the ground. Sonam Palden sat down with it, and another Sonam Palden walked out from his body: it was a different body—a light one. His heavy body sat on the ground, leaning against the large heap of things made of leather, felt, brass, and silver. His face, with eyes half-open and deeply etched wrinkles, flashed radiantly. His seated body was wrapped in a large, bulky robe. The robe no longer seemed like a real robe, but like something carved from ebony. The seated Sonam Palden thought: I’m dreaming. He dreamed of seeing another Sonam Palden taking light steps. His silhouette was fluttering and expanding in the light blue breeze carrying a slight scent of rain. With another puff of the wind, the seated person fell sound asleep. Even his heartbeat slowed. Only the walking Sonam Palden sensed the bell-like sound of the birds warbling and the pervasiveness of the floral fragrance. When he went into the river, he felt the water skim over his skin like silk—slippery and cool. Cattle floated all over the surface of the river, bobbing up and down in the waves. A herd of cattle was crossing the river. Their heavy bodies sank, their nostrils spurting water up and their flinty horns butting against each other. Holding onto one cow’s tail, he swam across the large river, the waves beating against him like women enticing him with their laughter. “You might die in the water,” they said, their white teeth shining like beautiful cowrie shells. When herders drove cattle from meadow to meadow, didn’t they all cross the river this way? A woman held him so tight from the back that her coral necklace hurt him. “No,” Sonam Palden said, “I’ve come to look for my horse. I want him to take me to a faraway place.” When he turned around, there was no herd of cattle. There was no river. Everything was again a stretch of meadow opening onto the strange land below the blue sky. Some sheep were gathered in the pasture. In the center 16

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of the flock was his wife, still chewing sour grass, chewing and chewing until the sourness reached your belly, until the sourness reached your brain. Her mouth was still full of sour grass: how come she hadn’t been transformed into sour grass herself? “Kachoe!” Sonam Palden heard his voice move farther and farther away. The sheep changed into rising clouds again: on them was Kachoe, who, after all, had not turned into sour grass. She’d begun chewing sour grass when she was pregnant with their son Gabu, and it had dyed her lips green. The clouds drifted overhead; the clouds drifted past his head. As Sonam Palden chased the clouds, he recovered his youth. He even saw an old man without a horse but with all the riding accouterments: he was asleep in a robe up to his chin. The strange thing was that the old man’s heavy heartbeats touched off echoes in his own body. He wanted to touch the riding accouterments, but the breeze blew until he began rising lightly like a sutra banner. The man leaning against the saddle woke up, opened his eyes, looked at the sun, the tranquil pasture and the huge boulders, then closed his eyes again and let his soul emerge to walk around freely. A flock of red-beaked crows flew past his head like black clouds. When the birds flew over his head, happiness dropped from the sky, lit on the robe, and chirped. This is a story and yet it is true. It was summer, 1991. In a broad, quiet canyon where a river flowed through the meadow, the surrounding peaks were covered with dazzling snow—the rich source of water. The pasture lay between trees and mountain. Living in this valley was a Tibetan tribe called Gyarong—a tribe that both farmed and herded. A tribe whose men were brave and kind, whose men loved horses and women. An old man like this was dying. My compatriots believe this sort of death does exist. Those who enjoy this sort of death are blessed. Sonam Palden was fortunate. A visitor who in the future would also die like this told me: There is this way of dying, young man. A dying person frees his soul to relive his past. Everyone used to be able to die this way. Now that isn’t so. The old man sighed and said, Ah. Now it isn’t so. Now you suffer from disease before death, and your soul can’t see the light. That light is the soul’s legs and the soul’s path. This is also the season of sunshine when the grass is bright green. This old man was also named Sonam Palden. 17

Ti b etan S oul Sonam Palden thought, I have to be careful. I’ll just look around a little at the scenery over there. But who could be sure that he was precisely on the line between life and death? If he took the slightest misstep, he would arrive at the other side. Here, Mother Earth was in repose and immutable. But the ground over there seemed to be flying in midair. The flying ground carried him to a horse. It wasn’t the white horse he was looking for. No. Yet, it was his former mount—a black-maned horse bridling and neighing. “You,” Sonam Palden said, “didn’t you die in the avalanche?” He’d hardly finished speaking when the land all around turned snowy. The wind roared. Riding the black-maned horse, he chased a red fox. Before the rifle report had time to sound, the bullet sent the fleeing red fox soaring elegantly toward the sky. Before the fox fell to the ground, the early winter snow—not yet hardened—slid down in an avalanche. Waves of snow pounced on the horse and flung the person to a faraway place. “You died this way.” The horse said, “Take another look.” Thus, as he watched the snow pounce on the horse, a blue light rose in the void and broke through the roar of the avalanche: Sonam Palden knew this was the black-maned horse’s soul ascending to the boundary of the heavens. “Are you the mountain god’s mount?” “The mountain god’s mount is the lion. The wind is my mount.” Just then, the steed galloped across the rosy clouds and turned date-red. In an instant, it went through many seasons. The seasons alternated with such agility that the horse’s hooves seemed windborne—running in order to overtake a certain season, forcing it to settle in a place etched deeply in a certain memory. Thus, the running Mother Earth and the seasons running even faster settled down. So, Sonam Palden—this man who cherished animals—dismounted and began walking. When he turned around to take the bit out of the horse’s mouth, he saw the bullet hole like a black agate in the center of the horse’s forehead. It was a great horse known to all. “It was a date-red horse.” The old man Sonam Palden said, “Back then, it was famous.” This incident had occurred two years earlier. In an age when all kinds of exhibitions were the vogue, fine horses were also exhibited at the county seat. It’s said that the earthen exhibition platform 18

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was generally used for public sentencing of criminals. Three horses were led to the platform. Below, the assembled crowd shouted loudly. Sonam Palden could see sweat pouring from the horses’ bodies and blood slowly filling their eyes. He wanted to alert people to this, but he’d been thirsty all morning and his lips were dry and pasted shut. A local authority pried open a horse’s mouth and tapped its teeth with a ruler. He said, “Look.” The microphone didn’t pick up this word; when he repeated it, the speakers exploded with static. In that apparition-like sound, the red-date horse soared and leapt down from the high earthen platform. Thousands and thousands of people shouted in wonder and terror. In that instant, the authority took hold of the horse’s reins and began floating with it. When the horse’s hooves touched down, they trampled the man’s chest. At the same time, he opened fire. The rifle reports were sharp. All three bullets pierced the same place: they entered from the neck and exited from the forehead. Sonam Palden said, “Horse, you’re dead. They invoked the cavalry rule sentencing you to be executed posthumously.” The horse whinnied, and blood gushed again from its wound. As women’s laughter echoed in the air, he bade farewell to the horse. Lifting his face to the sky, he asked, “Have you seen my white horse?” No one answered. The laughter became a small whirlwind pouncing on the lake and inhaling its water, and then spun back to him. It jounced and twisted for a while, dampening his whole body with a layer of fine moisture. “I’m dreaming,” thought Sonam Palden, and in fact he was dreaming. There wasn’t a drop of water on him, and yet the feeling of moisture remained. After a while, the feeling vanished. He said, “Sun of Buddha, thank you for drying me off.” The old man stood up slowly and with great effort. He heard all his joints creaking like wind snapping a sturdy pine bough. That thing was about to come. That thing. That thing. In that brief instant, he thought, What is that thing? Then he lost consciousness. That thing is gray. It’s immense. It steals up quietly from behind. It locks your breathing. It stands on tiptoe, extends its claws, as if to stand on your shoulders. That bear-like thing is . . . death. When it started to raise its claws again, Sonam Palden suddenly turned 19

Ti b etan S oul around. Nothing was there. Only sunshine. When he turned around with a rush, his head boomed and something split open. Before his eyes, summer’s scenery took on a weak red color. A sweet taste was in his mouth. “My eyes are hemorrhaging. It’s coming. It’s coming. I have to go back home now. I can’t keep looking for you, white horse.” It was probably more than ten years ago that a medical team from the capital came to this remote, tranquil mountain district. They were astounded by how healthy the elderly here were; they were also astonished that most old people died so simply, so directly. All of a sudden. So one of the old doctors stayed on for almost two years. Sonam Palden said, “The doctor tested our water with instruments and weighed our air.” A man who used to be a lama said, “They won’t let you die until you’ve suffered enough from illness.” “Oh, no! Oh, no!” people chorused. The doctor carried in his machinery and a blackboard. He set the blackboard up wherever he could and drew red arteries and veins. He drew clouds and mist—the atmosphere and air pressure—in blue. He said, “It’s this, it’s like this.” Then he drew something like cheeks puffed up from blowing on a fire. He said, “The heart, the heart.” The doctor blew on the heart, and raised his hand to the veins in the head where he deepened and strengthened the red color. Finally, with a “peng,” he exploded the veins. “Peng!” the doctor said and then held his head in his hands to simulate someone who has died. Later, when he made the same explanation in another village, he himself really died with a “peng.” When he walked down the mountain, Sonam Palden’s buzzing mind recalled this incident. Dragging along the saddlery and his heavy body, he said, “Ah, ah. He surely was a good doctor.” The saddlery was unloaded in the courtyard. Sonam Palden lay down on the clean, cool floor inside the house. The obscure light in the room and the faint dust in the air were like that vision. When he closed his eyes, the house became a world of sound: the sound of bare feet stepping on the floor, the sound of flames crackling, the sound of people running up and down the stairs, the sound of people talking, and finally the sound of weeping. Tears fell. Fell on his face. Rain fell on the earth, on the trees, on the rocks. A distinct new smell permeated everything. It was in this atmosphere that his body began floating up. 20

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Sonam Palden lay in his son’s embrace: “Papa, Papa . . .” “I’m going to go where your mama is,” the old man said. “Ask all our relatives to come and see me off. I’m waiting.” When he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves, the old man fainted again. This time, the soul became even lighter. Exiting from the window, the soul immediately found the wings of the wind. The wind was underneath. Ah, people could walk on the wind: he hadn’t known that. In the wind were the fragrances of flowers, grasses, muddy earth, and rising water. On the budding treetops, Sonam Palden’s soul followed the brook and ascended. Below were the ever-changing trees, first cypresses and then silver firs, and last of all the intermingled broad-leafed azaleas and larches. Below the grove, whitewaters eddied. When the grove of trees gave way to pasture, a flock of sheep appeared. The sheep’s hot, stinky smell smashed against the sky, making it impossible for him to land among the sheep. He saw his grandson Mergo sleeping in the pasture, and so he entered his grandson’s dreams. “Are you dreaming of me, Mergo?” “Just now, you pushed the gate open and came in.” “I’m leaving. I’ll leave you forever.” “No, Grandfather.” “In dreams, you can’t get hold of anything, not even an old man who’s going to die.” His grandson wept, the tears first scalding his dream, then reaching outside the dream. “Where’s your sister?” “She went to the spring.” By then, Sonam Palden had emerged from his dream. He saw his dreaming grandson talking in his sleep. He said his sister hadn’t let him go with her to bathe at the spring as she had in the past. The tears on his face gleamed in the sunshine. And so, Sonam Palden flew toward the spring. An airplane roared overhead—the regularly scheduled flight from Beijing to Lhasa. The airplane was high in the sky, above all the verdant mountain peaks and glaciers: it was like a silver dreamland, flashing with light. Now, Sonam Palden had reached the edge of the spring. The bathing girl in the center of the hot springs was like a bright, pure moon or a lotus flower waiting to blossom. She embodied the purity of youth. With a toss of her hair, his granddaughter stood up in the water, and looking up at the sky, she saw him. Her body, just beginning to mature, flashed with 21

Ti b etan S oul light. In the heavy sulphur smell, Sonam Palden’s soul was giddy with happiness. Circling around the beautiful, life-filled body, the dying soul began to soar. The vapor on the hot springs made the soul heavy, and he had to retreat a little. The airplane flew past, and like a goddess, his granddaughter shielded the loveliest parts of a girl and sat down. As everything blended again into warmth, finally it was the beautiful hair and the fresh face that remained on the water’s surface. The water poppled slowly, and because of this, her face slowly lost its form. And then, Sonam Palden saw his white horse. A few years before, when he realized he was old, he had freed the white horse on the mountain. Now, far away, the white horse was traveling with the fresh grass and the cool wind straight to the foot of the mountain. Spring was finally about to disappear and summer was coming, gliding in with ever increasing grandeur. On the high mountains, avalanches were forming. The horses knew this. Now the earth was beginning to vibrate gently. From the mountain peaks came majestic roars: the snow was turning over slowly and falling from the highest point. The white horse was frightened. Its tail stood straight up, and its mane flew up. It was running for its life down the mountain. When the avalanche stopped, it saw its master whom it hadn’t seen for a long time. It saw its master flying in the sky. And so it raced even faster down the mountain. The white mountain was like a streak of light, but it couldn’t overtake the soul circling so gently, so nimbly. The soul came back. Sonam Palden could no longer talk through his body, and his face was completely numb. His family, relatives, and fellow villagers were gathered around him, but he was unable to give them any indication that he had come back. At that moment his soul was chained and encased in the middle of something boiling hot. But he lifted his arms. With a lot of effort he raised them slightly, and everyone understood at once. He was carried to the platform outside the house. The old man, limbs stiffening, faced the slowly setting sun. Shadows of bygone events appeared like blurry faces before his eyes, strewn at random in disarray, teeming, and then disappearing in an instant. His inanimate eyes held only a glow burning like a sunset. The old man had actually already died. He couldn’t hear the weeping or 22

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the prayers. The light in his eyes dimmed. While his limbs were still warm and flexible, his son dressed him in clothes for his journey. An old man was dying in peace, and beloved. But a pinpoint of light flickered ceaselessly in his eyes. “Are you waiting for your granddaughter?” When his son leaned over and asked this, the pinpoint of light twinkled for a second. “Or are you waiting for your horse?” The pinpoint of light twinkled again. In the stillness of twilight there suddenly came the bleating of sheep returning to their pen. The granddaughter rushed up the stairs, the long, drawn-out sound of her weeping rising higher and higher like a whirlwind. The light in the old man’s eyes was gradually magnified. The setting sun lengthened the shadows of the people all around him and stacked them on the vacant land at the lower edge of the house. The sheep bleated sorrowfully. The beautiful shepherdess with lovely long hair bowed before her grandfather. When this life, just beginning to mature, placed a kiss on his forehead, the old man’s soul—in receiving this benediction—was ready to ascend to the heavenly kingdom. The setting sun sprinkled the last of its golden light on the mountain, the rivers, the forests, the pastures. “The horse!” With a clatter of hooves, Sonam Palden’s mount arrived—the horse that he had freed years ago. Back then, he’d said, “Go away. I’m old. You can be as free as the wind.” Now the white horse had galloped back. Indeed, the people had no way of knowing if it was a flesh-and-blood living creature or if it was the light of a soul. The son brought out all the saddlery his father had used, and placed it next to the old man. “Papa, it’s here. Your horse.” The white horse had rushed to be here, its mane flying. Pastures and forests were just turning the deep, heavy color of gloom. The white horse began whinnying. Rolling out of the old man’s eyes were large tears like diamonds, the rays of light glittering like crystal and tugging at people’s hearts. The tears rolled down, and the light in his eyes was gradually extinguished. In an instant, shadows covered Mother Earth, and the sound of the wind soughing in the pines and the sound of flowing water began gathering force. In the end, the white horse went back to the mountain under the moonlight. People said, Bearing his master’s soul, he went straight through an infinitude of mountains cascading in snow. 23

The Si l versm i t h i n t he Mo onlight

W

henever the full moon rises over the river valley, people say, “Listen, the silversmith is at work again.” When the full moon rises slowly in the sky, the dim light lends even more spaciousness to the river valley. Everything all around becomes blurred and remote. Just listen: from the moonlight or from the moon comes the sound of the silversmith forging silver: Dingguang! Dingguang! Dingding guangguang! Gazing up at the moon, people say, “Listen. The silversmith is at work again.” The silversmith’s father had shoed horses. In fact, back then, society didn’t yet have such a precise division of labor. His father had been famous for shoeing horses, but his real status was house slave to Headman Loga. When there were letters to deliver, he went all over delivering letters. When there were no letters to deliver, he fed the horses. Once while delivering letters, he had spotted a blacksmith who had frozen to death. He had picked up the blacksmith’s tools and built a clay stove next to the stable, and— dingding guangguang!—he repaired those discarded horseshoes. After a while, on the road again, he picked up a child. He liked the child’s eyes, and so he carried him home on his back and said to the headman, “Let’s let this baby be my son and your small house slave.” The headman laughed, “Are you saying I have another little beast of burden? Are you sure you’re not going to waste my food?” When the old house slave said he wouldn’t, the headman said, “Okay then. Go ahead and teach him your skill in shoeing horses. I want a slave who’s expert at shoeing horses.” It was because of this that the child wasn’t lost in the wilds for hungry dogs and wild wolves to feed on. Day by day, the 24

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little boy grew up standing next to the blacksmith’s forge. He could discern countless colors in the fire. And as soon as his little hands took up the hammer, they knew the right temperature for heating the iron. Those who saw him all praised him, saying that he would become the best blacksmith in the world. But he always struggled free of the hands patting his little head. His eyes were fixed on the horizon with the white clouds drifting unpredictably. Because his foster father took him everywhere to deliver letters, the youth had already caught the wanderlust. The valley roads between the mountains strengthened his legs by the day. Compared with many people under the headman’s jurisdiction, he was already experienced and knowledgeable. Many others had never gone out of the stockaded village in their whole lives, yet he had not only traveled all over the area controlled by Headman Loga, but he had also gone outside this jurisdiction several times. One day, his father said, “After I die, you needn’t work so hard. You just need to specialize in repairing horseshoes for Old Master—that’s all.” The youth turned his head and looked anew at the clouds, drifting unhurriedly in another direction. He had a light mustache now, and he had reached the age of thinking for himself and tiring a little of depending on old people. His father said, “Don’t be too ambitious. It’s already a great kindness that the headman lets you specialize in shoeing the horses. It’s only because he thinks you’re bright that this is so.” The youth gazed again at the birds in the tree. In fact, he had no thought of either not doing something or doing something. Perhaps this was because he had a little premonition about the future. Now, he asked his father, “What’s my name? I don’t even have a name.” His father sighed, and said, “Right. I thought someday someone would come and tell me your name. That would have been your parents, and I’d have asked them to take you with them. But they didn’t come. May Buddha bless and protect them. Probably they went up to Heaven ahead of us.” His father sighed, “I think you’re the kind of person who isn’t content being a slave. You have a proud heart.” The youth sighed and said, “So—still choose a name for me.” “The headman can choose a name for you. After I die, you’ll have a name, and then you will really belong to him.” “But I want to know who I am now.” So his father took him to see the headman, who was one of the most learned of headmen. When they got 25

Ti b etan S oul there, he was holding a boxed book, sitting under the sun, and turning page after page without a pause. The headman was reading a book rich with vocabulary. This book said that aside from being called this name, something could also have these other names. It was a fine afternoon. The sun was about to set behind the mountain, and in the east the pale face of the new moon had appeared. In the spoken language, people called it “Zena.” Pointing at the moon, the headman asked, “Do you know what it’s called?” Father nudged his adopted son with his elbow, and the boy craned his long neck and said, “Zena.” The headman smiled, “I knew you’d say that. But this book has a lot of names for it.” Father then said, “This boy can’t wait for me to die. He wants to ask the headman to grant your slave a name.” Looking at the boy, the headman asked, “Do you understand all there is to know about horseshoes?” The boy thought, there isn’t much to know about horseshoes. Aloud, he said, “Yes. I do.” The headman looked at him again, “You’ve grown up to be so good-looking. All the girls will want you. But in your heart, you’re too proud. I don’t think this is because you know you’re handsome. You haven’t yet learned the most important thing your foster father knows: a slave must never be proud. But I’m happy today. You’ll be called the thing that can’t shine when the sun is in the sky. Your name is Daser—that is the moon—that is as beautiful as the moon.” The moon’s faint shadow had just appeared in the sky. And in the headman’s hand, the book with different names for things had a lot of names for the moon. And too, the headman saw that this youth had an attractive if also somewhat proud face. Yet, in his heart he seemed faintly unhappy, so he thought, since you’re like the moon, then I’m the sun and I can hide your brilliance in an instant. Back then, it didn’t occur to the headman—that peerlessly clever brain—that when the sun wasn’t there, the moon was exceptionally brilliant. It didn’t occur to Daser, either, that the moon might be connected somehow with his own destiny. He and his father kowtowed and withdrew. From then on, whenever the headman went on an inspection tour, Daser took along some new horseshoes, and following behind, he changed them whenever necessary. In the stillness of the early evening back then, that sound reverberated: Dingguang! Dingguang! Everywhere they went, the sound entered some young girls’ hearts. 26

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The headman said, “Do a good job on the horseshoes. Someday, nailing horseshoes won’t be a slave’s job, but will be the post and rank of a junior official. At the least, it will be the status of a free person, just like the silversmiths. And then when I come to have horseshoes nailed, I’ll have to pay you.” Not long after this, Daser’s foster father died. Also not long after this, a silversmith’s daughter fell in love with this youth. The silversmith’s workshop was outside the headman’s official compound. When Daser passed by, the girl was leaning against the frame of the workshop’s door. She didn’t invite him to have some hot tea, nor did she drop any other hint to him. She just said languidly, “Daser, do you think it will rain today?” Or she said, “Daser, your boots are a little worn-out.” The youth thought arrogantly: This filly is learning to kick her hooves. But aloud, he said, “Right. Will it rain. Right. The boots are a little worn-out.” Finally, one day he walked into the silversmith’s workshop. The old silversmith took his glasses off and looked at him, and then put his glasses back on and looked at him. Those glasses were crystal. People thought they were too thick to see through. Daser said, “I came to see how to make things of silver.” The old silversmith kept working. The sound he produced was much the same as Daser’s nailing horseshoes: Dingguang! Dingguang! The next time he went, Daser said, “I’ve come to hear the sound of tapping silver.” The old silversmith said, “Okay, go ahead and tap the hammer a few times here, and listen to the sound.” But to his surprise, when the silversmith pushed a beautiful plate in front of him, he didn’t know if he dared start. A magnificent flower had been engraved on this silver plate that was just like a full moon. Not only were the silversmith’s hands filthy and black, but his fingers were like twigs after a long drought—withered and curled up. But Daser’s hands were slender and nimble, and he took up the silversmith’s tiny cherry wood-handled hammer and began tapping where he thought the decorative pattern should be incised more deeply. The sound was sweet and bell-like. When he was about to leave, the old silversmith finally said to him, “When you have nothing else to do, come and watch. You might be interested in my craft.” The next time he went, the old man said, “You should learn to be a silversmith. You have talent. Talent means that you were born to do this.” 27

Ti b etan S oul The old silversmith told the headman the same thing. The headman said, “Then, how do you see yourself?” “Compared with his future, I am just a smith.” The headman said, “But only free people can be silversmiths. It’s an elitist craft.” “Please grant him his freedom.” “At present, he still lacks any special dedication. We have our established practices, don’t we?” Sighing, the old silversmith said, “I’ve dedicated my life to you. Just put this little bit on his account. Then your free man, my son-in-law—well, his unsurpassed craftsmanship will spread in all directions. When places in the entire area blocked by the snowy mountains spread word of his craft, they will also mention your illustrious name.” “What possible significance would that have?” With the headman talking like this, Daser felt deep despair—simply because the headman’s words made sense. Where was the distinction between a name known far away and an unknown name, and where was the distinction between the famous and the nameless? Daser’s inner heart thirsted and burned for a reputation, and at the same time realized the emptiness of a reputation. So he said, “Reputation has no significance. Freedom and lack of freedom aren’t very different, either. Old silversmith, you mustn’t request this. Just let me go back and be a slave.” The headman said to the old silversmith, “Freedom is our lure. Pride is our enemy. The youth you recommended can vanquish the one, but he cannot vanquish the other. I want to grant his wish.” Then the headman said to Daser, “Go to the forge, and make a curved knife and a hoe for yourself, and join the slaves.” When Daser walked out of the main entrance of the headman’s imposing official compound, the old silversmith said, “Don’t ever come to my workshop again. You won’t have smooth sailing in this lifetime. You’ll break the heart of everyone who loves you.” With that, the old silversmith walked away without looking back. Only the shining white sunlight remained on the ground in front of Daser. He knew it was the light from his tears. He knew what his arrogance had brought him. He opened the blacksmith’s forge, and made himself a curved knife and a hoe. He finally understood what he had lost. He had wanted so much to be a silversmith. His tears flowed, and he shouted once, 28

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“Papa!” The wind that rose along the river skimmed over the roof, shredding the sound of his tears and tossing them upward and scattering them. He didn’t abscond that evening because he wanted to see the silversmith’s daughter once more. As soon as it grew light, he went to the door of the silversmith’s shop. The girl was holding a copper dipper with her chin as she washed her face. Catching sight of him, she threw the water from the dipper onto the ground and went back into the house. The last door to his hopes had been closed before his eyes because he was impulsive and had spoken arrogantly. Daser placed the newly made curved knife and hoe at the entrance to the official compound, and turned and walked off on his new path. The sun rose in front of him, and the dew on the leaves glistened with dazzling rays of light. The wind lifted his tattered jacket high. He felt pride returning to his heart. He even wanted to sing something, and at the same time he remembered that he had never sung a song. Still, he felt the significance of livelihood and life. When Daser left, he didn’t even think about the headman’s house rules, so he didn’t know, either, that behind him, the headman had already ordered the guns to close in on him. His long legs taking long strides ahead, he didn’t seem at all like a fleeing slave. The major-domo gave orders to open fire, but the old headman, leading the young headman, said, “Just a moment!” The major-domo said, “It turned out just as your honor has said. This guy—this bastard you’ve fed intends to flee!” The headman narrowed his eyes and took the measure of the shadow receding in the distance. He asked his son, “Is this person fleeing?” The eleven-year-old headman said, “What’s he pursuing?” The headman said, “Son, remember. This person has gone to find the thing he wants. Someday, he’ll return. If I’m no longer here then, you must treat him well. I can’t. I’m even more arrogant than he is.” The major-domo said, “This kind of person cannot enhance the luster of the headman’s family. Let’s open fire!” But the headman firmly prevented this. The old silversmith also hurried over and implored the headman to open fire, “Kill him. I beseech you to kill him. Otherwise, he will become an extraordinary silversmith.” The headman said, “Isn’t that precisely what you hoped for?” “But he’s no longer my apprentice!” The headman guffawed. The others could only watch woodenly as the person who didn’t seem to be fleeing left the headman’s jurisdiction. Out29

Ti b etan S oul side this jurisdiction, what a vast world it would be! The harvest under the distant sky ought to be bountiful, yet also difficult. The headman told his son, “You must remember this day. If this person doesn’t die on a faraway road, he’ll return someday. A silversmith whose reputation has spread far and wide will come back—an arrogant silversmith! All of you must remember this day. Remember to tell that person when he comes back that the old headman knew when he left that he would surely return. My final words are: if he has then really become an extraordinary silversmith, you must allow him to show his arrogance. Because I’m afraid I can’t wait for that day to come.” The young headman said, “That isn’t so. How can you say such a thing?” The old headman guffawed again, “My son, you deserve to be a headman! You’re a bright fellow! Still, you must have a heart broader than this fleeing person’s feet can reach.” Sure enough, it was just as the old headman had foretold. Many years later, in places surrounded by the vast snowy mountains, the name of the hitherto unknown silversmith spread everywhere. The headman was already very old. He murmured, “That name is the one I gave him!” Daser was far away making the insignia for a clan, or making thrones and musical instruments for a certain living Buddha. But the headman was growing older by the day, and his turbid eyes were always gazing at the post road leading to Tibet. In the winter that road was extremely lonely, and under the red sun, the snowy mountains sparkled with a dazzling light. The young headman knew that it was because his father couldn’t tolerate a slave’s arrogance that he hadn’t given him his freedom, thus finally compelling him to take to a path of wandering. The young headman said, “We all know that it’s only because of you that he’s accomplished what he has. But he doesn’t know this. He bears a grudge against you. He forces you to hear his name constantly, but he doesn’t want you to see him in person. He wants to make you die of anger.” The old headman struggled to say, “No. That’s impossible. He’s a bright youth. His name is the one I gave him. He will surely come back to see me; he’ll come back and create the most exquisite things of silver for our family.” “So you have to wait for him to come back?” “I certainly must wait for him to come back.” 30

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The young headman immediately dispatched many groups of slaves to look for him in all the places from which word of him had come. But the silversmith refused to accept the order to return. People told him that the old headman was going to die and wanted to see him once more. He said, “Everyone will die. I too will die. When I’ve made work that I’m satisfied with, I’ll go back. Even at the risk of my life, I’d return.” He said, “I know I owe him a life.” The visitor told him that the headman was still hoping he would make the best silver things for him. He said, “Do I owe them silver things? I don’t owe them silver things. I grew up on their coarse food. When I left, they could have killed me, but not one rifle sounded behind me. Among those brought up in the headman’s home, more than one good marksman could fire at someone from behind.” The silversmith went on, “I know my reputation has spread far and wide, but I also know where my life came from. When I’ve created the very best silver piece, I’ll return.” He lifted his head triumphantly, an arrogant expression floating on his face. The lower half of his head was wide and flat. Near his eyes, it narrowed—so squeezed together that his eyes bulged. He was born with a resentful manner. At this time, Daser was working for a living Buddha. After he finished one piece, the Living Buddha took some more silver out and told him to make another. This went on for almost a year. One day, the Living Buddha took even more silver out, but the silversmith said at last, “No, Living Buddha, I can’t make anything else. I have to go. My old master is going to die, and he’s waiting for me to go back.” The Living Buddha said, “That one who hasn’t given you peace of mind has already died. I know what you’ve been thinking: you wanted to make one thing here that people would praise, and then you would go back and pay your debt with your life. You needn’t say anything. You’re a great artist, but a lot of artists—because of their prideful spirit—cannot be great. I think you’re like this, and it’s a good thing that person has already died.” The silversmith felt that the Living Buddha had seen through to all of his internal organs. He asked, “How do you know the headman has already died? Do you know his name then?” The Living Buddha smiled, “Come, I’ll let you see something other people can’t see. I’ve said you’re not an ordinary person but an artist.” In a room for individual practice of asceticism, the Living Buddha 31

Ti b etan S oul placed a bowl of clean water in front of the god’s statue, chanted incantations, and flicked a peacock’s plume; an image then appeared in the clean water. Sure enough, Daser saw a person holding a precious pearl, and then the face was covered by a piece of yellow silk. He wanted to look more closely to see whether or not that person was the old headman, but waves rose up in the bowl, and nothing could be seen. The silversmith suddenly heard a sound coming from himself in that quiet room. It was like crying, and also like laughing. The Living Buddha said, “Good. Your anxiety has left you. Now you can work contentedly, and leave your best work here with me.” The Living Buddha repeated, “Remember, I said you’re a great artist.” Perhaps because this room was too airtight and too quiet, it seemed that the Living Buddha’s voice was shaking Daser’s ears with a buzzing echo. He worked there a lot longer, and still couldn’t create the object of his desires. Utterly disappointed, the Living Buddha told him to leave. One road went east, the other west. The silversmith hesitated at the crossroads. To the east was the headman’s jurisdiction, the place where his life had begun, but the old headman to whom he owed a life had already died, and the young headman had no right to demand his life. To the west was a place where the snowy region was even deeper and farther away. Still farther west was the even more sacred Kashmir, where Buddhism had come from. If he went there, it would probably be difficult to come back to the east in this life. He sat at the intersection for two days and didn’t see one passerby. At last when someone did come, it was a beggar. That guy looked at him and said, “Obviously, I have no hope of getting a bite to eat from you.” The silversmith said, “Nor do I have any hope of getting anything from you. However, I can give you a silver ingot.” The person said, “I don’t want things that grow from fire. What I want are things that grow from the earth.” The person also said, “Which road do you think I should take to find food? If I don’t eat something, I’ll starve to death, and people who starve to death must go down to hell.” The person sat at the intersection and prayed. He took off a boot and threw it to the sky. When it dropped down, he took the direction that the boot pointed toward. In a flash, the silversmith realized that he himself was ravenous. So, adopting the beggar’s method, he took off a boot and let it 32

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determine the direction. The boot faced east—not his preference, for he knew that if he went that way, it wasn’t likely to end well. He sighed deeply, and yet he took the eastern direction indicated by fate. He walked on with long strides. His swinging hands suddenly turned scorching hot. He said, Hands, don’t blame me. I know you haven’t yet made the thing you want to make, but I also know that people want my head. May you grow on my body again in the next life. Just then, a snowy mountain towered ahead, and the silversmith spoke again, I won’t let you be hurt. Tuck yourselves in at my chest. Then you won’t freeze, and you’ll still be fine when we meet in the next life. The road underfoot became harder and harder to travel, but his hands were undisturbed at his chest. Several days passed, and at last he came to the headman’s jurisdiction. The silversmith asked everyone he encountered to carry a message for him. He asked them to tell the new headman this: The one who fled back then because he couldn’t be a silversmith has now come back. He is willing to die somewhere on the road leading to the headman’s official compound. If he could choose the means of death, then he doesn’t want to be killed in an ambush. He is well-known, so he wants a dignified death, just as all well-known people do. Upon hearing this, the young headman laughed, “Tell him we don’t want his life. We want only his craftsmanship and his renown.” These words quickly reached the silversmith. But as soon as he returned to this land, he became so arrogant that he said, Why must I make silver things for his family? Everyone knew that it was only because the headman wouldn’t let him learn the silversmith’s craft that he had fled in anger. The headman hadn’t killed him, and naturally he owed the headman something. Now he had returned as a silversmith whose reputation was known far and wide. Now he had come back to pay his debt. He owed a life and he would give back a life. He would not mortgage it with his craft. People all said, that child who nailed horseshoes in the past is now a manly man. The silversmith also felt that he was now a hero—a hero who would go fervently to his death. His arrogant head was raised high. Wherever he went, the people all considered him an extraordinary personage and gave him the best food. Today, when he spent the night on the road, people also prepared a girl for him, and he jubilantly accepted. Afterward, the girl said, “I’ve heard you don’t like women.” He said this was simply because he wouldn’t live long: no woman could hurt him now. The girl said, “That woman who hurt you has already died.” 33

Ti b etan S oul The silversmith sighed deeply. The girl also sighed and said, “Why didn’t you come back a little sooner? If you’d come back a little sooner, I’d still have been a virgin and you’d have been my first.” These words bothered the silversmith a little. He asked, “Who was your first?” With a chuckle, the girl said, “In this land, apart from the young headman, who could easily take girls as pretty as I am? If you don’t believe this, you can check with the other girls.” Because of her words, he couldn’t sleep well that night. From then on, he wooed every attractive woman he encountered on the road. By the time he could see the headman’s imposing official compound, he hadn’t run into any female whom the headman hadn’t enjoyed. Now he was burning with hatred for that person who had ridden him like a horse in the games of their childhood. Inwardly, he vowed that he would certainly not make one silver thing for this headman’s family. Even if he were to die, he wouldn’t make anything. He thrust his pair of hands out and said, Hands, there’s no one I’ve disappointed. Just let me disappoint you. And so, taking long strides, he walked quickly down the mountain. That day, the young headman was preparing to be the new ruler. He wanted to handle some things differently than the old headman had. He said, “Back then, the one who was born to be a silversmith requested freedom. It should have been given to him.” He said to the major-domo, “It won’t work to hold fast to the old rules. From now on, naturally gifted persons can all make such requests of me.” The major-domo laughed, “This kind of person appears only once in several centuries.” At just this moment, the person on the lookout in the watchtower came in to report: The silversmith had arrived. Leading the major-domo, his wife and concubines, and underlings—altogether a large group—the young headman mounted the platform. They saw Daser, arms swinging, descend the mountain and walk this way. When he reached the building, he stood in front of the tightly shut entrance. With the sun just setting, he was covered by the shadows of the group of people high above. He looked up and shouted, “Young Master, I’ve come back!” The major-domo said, “You’ve been away for many years. Haven’t you heard that now you should call him Old Master?” The silversmith said, “It’s just because I know I owe the headman’s fam34

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ily a life that I’ve returned.” The young headman waved his hand and said, “Your debt was to my father. I’ll cancel it.” The young headman shouted again, “From now on, you’re a real, free man!” In front of him, the door to the compound opened with a rumble. The young headman said, “Silversmith, please come in!” The silversmith went in and stood in the middle of the courtyard. The bright, clean flagstones shone, stabbing his eyes so he couldn’t open them wide. He heard the young headman’s leather boots sounding gugu like a pigeon as he approached him. The young headman said, “Feel free to walk wherever you like. It’s stones, not silver, on the ground. Even if it were silver, you wouldn’t have to be afraid to step on it!” The silversmith said, “Where in the world could there be so much silver?” The young headman said, “It doesn’t mean much to have a lot of things when there are plenty in the world. You mustn’t bring up the past, either. Since a silversmith like you appears only once in centuries, of course I want to find a lot of silver and ask you to put your artistic talent to good use.” He sighed again and said, “When I first became headman, I felt it was devoid of interest. So many former headmen handled so many things that I didn’t know what more I could do. It’s good that you’ve come back. I’ll go all over to find silver so that you can show off your craft. I’ll be the headman who has created the most silver pieces in history.” The silversmith heard himself say, “Your family has enough silver. I think you’d better be my apprentice.” The major-domo slapped his face. But the young headman said quietly, “You had no sooner entered my territory than you said you wanted to die, but we always like people with artistic talent and in the end we haven’t haggled with you. Maybe the truth is that you don’t have the skill.” A thread of fresh blood flowed down from the corner of Daser’s mouth. The young headman said, “Even if you were a bogus silversmith, I still wouldn’t kill you.” With that, he went upstairs. Then he bellowed, “Take the banquet I prepared for the silversmith and reward the underlings with it.” The arrogant silversmith said to the deserted courtyard, This can’t hu35

Ti b etan S oul miliate me. I just won’t make anything for the headman’s family. Here, I want to make unprecedented exquisite silver things for the Tibetan people. I just want people to remember my name: Daser. That’s good enough. The silversmith settled down in a grotto. By sunrise the next day, Daser had already taken his silversmith’s tools and begun traveling on the main road. He wanted to make silver things gratis for the headman’s subjects, but they all threw up their hands and said, “Sure, we’d like beautiful silver things, but we have no silver.” In despair, the silversmith looked all over for everyone in this area— slaves, ordinary people, lamas, tribal chiefs. He spoke to these people in an almost imploring tone, “Let me make a one-of-a-kind silver object for you.” These people all shook their heads woodenly. It was as if they not only didn’t know that some things in this world were exquisite beyond compare, but they also didn’t have even a little sympathy. Finally, he said, “Look at my hands. Could they possibly spoil your white silver?” It was a pity the silversmith had no silver. First he drew his slender hand in the mud, and then he dashed into the woods to collect pine resin. When they engraved silver pieces, silversmiths often used pine resin as a lining underneath. Now, he wanted to depict his design first on the pliable pine resin. Just as he was about to climb a tree to get the pine resin, he heard a piercing cry from a mountain dog. A rifle report followed, and the fresh pine resin shattered before his eyes. When the silversmith jumped down from the tree, the barrel of a gun butted him coldly in the back of his head. He thought the headman had begun at last. When he closed his eyes, he actually smelled the fragrance of so many flowers and grasses, and yet the fragrance of the essential pine resin crushed all the other fragrances floating in the woods. It was then that Daser realized that he not only had the hands of a silversmith, but also the nose of a silversmith. He threw off the tears of his unfulfilled wishes along with the tears from his eyes. “Go ahead and fire.” But the person guarding the woods said, “God, it’s our silversmith! How could I fire at you? Even though you charged into the headman’s sacred woods, the headman refuses to kill you, and I can’t kill you, either.” The silversmith inhaled a gulp of cool air. A momentary impulse meant that he now owed the headman’s family another life. People say that dogs have three lives and cats have seven, but the silversmith knew he couldn’t possibly have even two lives. The sacred trees were trees to seal off the soul 36

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and trees to hold the soul. People cursed anyone who harmed a sacred tree. The silversmith said, “I beseech you to tie me up and take me to the headman.” The person guarding the woods tied him up and dragged him like a dog to the headman’s official compound. This was at the beginning of spring— the time when the spring in the air always makes people feel languid. In the official compound, the superiors and the underlings were all asleep. After the person guarding the woods tied him to a pillar, he left, saying, “When the young headman wakes up, report to him yourself. You harmed the tree that holds the souls of six generations of his family’s wives.” The guard’s shadow disappeared into the warm spring day. All of a sudden, the silversmith smelled the delicate fragrance of apple blossoms coming from outside the high wall. This reminded him of the springtime of another year. He recalled that he had gone to so many beautiful places—scenes that leave people feeling carefree and joyful. He thought, Daser, you shouldn’t have come back here. You returned to give a life back to the headman. You didn’t expect that you would end up owing him two lives. The person who guarded the woods was well-trained in tying people up—one fast knot around the neck—so all he could do was hold his head high and maintain his usual arrogant posture. The silversmith intended to be modest and courteous when the headman appeared, but when he lowered his head, his tongue was forced out of his mouth. And so he was exactly like a dog panting under the blazing sun. This was not what he wanted. So the silversmith arrogantly held his head high again. He saw people getting up after their noon naps. They walked along the winding corridors on each floor of the building. Everyone pretended not to see him tied up there. Underlings were constantly going in and out of the headman’s room. The silversmith realized that the headman in fact already knew that he was tied up here. In order to control the anger rising in his heart, he thought, that insignia that I drew in the mud must have already dried, and by now the wind has rubbed it flat. The young headman still wouldn’t show his face. The silversmith begged each person who walked past to report for him, and still no response came from above. The silversmith wept. Then he began to curse loudly. The young headman still wouldn’t show his face. The silversmith wept again, and again he cursed. This time, all the superiors and inferiors said, Daser has gone crazy. A piercing noise rang in the 37

Ti b etan S oul silversmith’s head, and he too believed that he was likely going crazy. Just then, the young headman appeared and said, “What have you done to our silversmith?” No one answered. The young headman also asked, “Silversmith, what’s wrong with you?” The silversmith said, “I’ve gone mad.” The young headman said, “I see that you’re a little off. You harmed my ancestors’ tree that holds the souls. What do you think should be done?” “I know this is a capital offense.” “This is the second time you’ve committed a capital offense, but you don’t have two lives.” “. . . . .” The young headman said, “Free this madman.” And so the ropes were loosened, and he was driven out of the gate. He held onto the gate and bellowed, “I’m not a madman, I’m a silversmith!” The main gate banged shut, and the tiger-head knocker on it glared at him. From then on, people no longer thought of him as a silversmith. At first, it had been just because of the headman’s orders that people hadn’t given him silver and asked him to work. Now, everyone thought he wasn’t a silversmith. Time after time, the headman had let him off, but when he met people he said, “The pair of silver tiger’s heads on the gate of the headman’s home are so ugly!” “Then make a pair of attractive ones.” He said, “I’m hungry.” But people no longer gave him good food. He reminded them, “I’m a silversmith.” They said, “You’re nothing but a madman. You defied your destiny and turned yourself into a madman.” The young headman had won a good reputation with the greatest of ease. They all said, “See how kindhearted and broad-minded our headman is.” The headman said to his underlings, “The silversmith thinks that to be an upright person, a pair of clever hands is enough. It’s possible that he’ll never know that to be an upright person one must also possess intelligence.” He went on, “Now he will probably really be a madman, if he knows that in fact he can’t struggle with me.” Just then came the sound of the silversmith tapping white silver in the moonlight: Dingguang! Dingguang! Dingguang! The pleasing sound seemed to be reverberating in the full moon. The people who sought out the sound discovered that Daser was tapping on the tiger heads on the gate. The moonlight couldn’t illuminate that quiet, 38

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recessed gateway, yet he was tapping there: Dingding guangguang. Underlings took up weapons, but the young headman held them back. The young headman said, “Will you swear before everyone that you’re not a madman but a good silversmith?” The silversmith didn’t answer. The young headman then said, “Hey! I’ll tell someone to give you a torch.” The silversmith finally said, “Get a knife ready. I’m just about finished. These very last ones are simply a few whiskers. You won’t have to wait long. I only want people to believe that I am indeed a silversmith. Of course I’m also mad; otherwise, how would I dare challenge you?” The headman said, “Why would I want to kill you? Don’t you realize that would be a mistake? Aren’t you already working for your master? I’ll tell people to reward you.” At this, people were somewhat confused. Between the young headman and the silversmith, who was the more principled? People said both were principled. But everyone felt, each of these very proper people was still desperately trying to prove that his side was much the more principled. Why was this necessary? Everyone asked, Why is this necessary? What good is it to prove that one is principled? Needless to say, the form of proof was odd. When the silversmith finished the work, he didn’t say, “Master, give me my wages.” Rather, he said, “Headman, you can kill me.” The young headman said, “Because you proved you’re a silversmith? No, I can’t kill you. I want you to continue working for me.” The silversmith said, “I can’t work for you.” The young headman then took a torch from an underling and went to the gateway. Everyone noticed that after the silversmith’s repairs, the tiger heads looked much more vivid than before. The eyes were radiant, and the whiskers were almost quivering with breath. The young headman smiled, stroked his beard, and said, “You are a silversmith, but are you truly the best silversmith?” The silversmith said, “Yes—except for those who have died and those who haven’t yet learned the craft.” The young headman said, “If this is proven, then do you just want to die an honorable death?” The silversmith nodded. 39

Ti b etan S oul The young headman said, “Okay then.” He was about to leave when, from behind, the silversmith suddenly said, “How can you have had so many women?” Without turning around, the young headman guffawed, “You always ran into the women I had used. This means good luck isn’t with you. You’ll have bad luck.” Then the silversmith shouted to the crowd of onlookers, “Am I a madman? No! I’m a silversmith! You say whatever anyone else says. You’re all brainless. You don’t know how pathetic you are.” The people replied, “Be thankful that your neck is still attached to your head, and just worry about yourself.” The silversmith went on talking a lot as if no one was there. When he finished talking, he noticed that everyone had scattered. In front of him was only a faint, restless moonlight—cold and bright. The silversmith recalled that the young headman had said, I’ll order you to prove that you’re the best silversmith. On the way back to the cave, Daser ran into a girl and took her into the cave. Fresh from the pastureland, this girl’s body was fragrant with green grass and milk. She said, “Please take me. I know you’re looking for a girl no one has had. In fact, those girls weren’t all used by the headman. The new headman isn’t as learned as the old headman, but he isn’t as fond of women, either. He deliberately told those girls to lie in order to make you angry.” The silversmith said to this virgin, “I love you. I want to fashion a pair of beautiful earrings for you.” The girl said, “But you mustn’t make them too beautiful. Otherwise, they won’t be mine but will belong to the headman’s family.” The silversmith began to smile, and said, “I still have no silver.” With a sigh, the girl snuggled up to him and fell asleep. The silversmith also slept. He dreamed that he made a pair of earrings for this girl. On the front was a beautiful leaf, and on top a dewdrop filled with desire. On the back, as it happened, was the slender, skillful hand that he’d wanted to use as his insignia. When he awoke, the design for the earrings remained before his eyes for quite a while. He sighed. In the even, regular breathing of the girl beside him, there was still the sweet scent of those flowers and grasses on the high mountain pastureland. Another dawn—and in its early light came the clear and melodious cries of birds. Without waking the girl, the silversmith went out alone. He suddenly thought, These earrings would be the most exquisite thing he could leave in the world. He’d have to ask the headman for the silver. When the sun rose, he reached the headman’s gate again. The small changes he had made the 40

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previous evening really had made this main gate much more imposing. The sun lengthened his shadow. Looking at the shadow that was his and yet not his, he thought, Let me die for this girl, let me swindle the headman. With a shout, he knelt at the entrance to the headman’s official compound. This time, people reported his arrival quickly. The young headman stood on the platform and said, “I won’t go down to greet you. Come up and have morning tea with me.” The silversmith looked up, “Get some silver and let me work for your family. I thought I wouldn’t work as your family’s slave, but I was wrong. From beginning to end, I’ve been your family’s slave. That’s okay.” The headman said, “Sure enough, you’re still a clever person. You insisted that you’re the best silversmith, and that set a bad example. Now, many silversmiths insist that they’re the best in the world. This is your fault, but I’m broad-minded and I’ve forgiven you. Come on up.” Daser was displeased to hear that so many silversmiths had claimed to be the best. Now it was just to prove they were a pack of liars that he would be perfectly happy to work for the headman. He said, “I entreat the headman to issue me some silver.” The headman said, “Tell me what silversmiths love most.” “Of course, it’s one’s hands.” The young headman said, “Then why did that old silversmith—the one who wanted you for his son-in-law and later urged me to kill you—say it was the eyes?” The silversmith said, “Headman, you saw last night that a good silversmith doesn’t need eyes, yet he has to have his hands.” The young headman smiled. “I’ll remember. After this, if you commit another offense, I’ll take your eyes, not your hands.” The sun was shining brightly, yet the silversmith felt a nip in the air climb up his back. He said, “When that time comes, Headman, just grant me death. That will do.” The headman laughed loudly, “I want to keep your hands to work for me.” The silversmith thought, I can’t tell what trick he’ll play on me, but he doesn’t know, either, that I just tried to get his extra silver to make earrings for that girl. “Give me a little work. If craftsmen don’t use their hands, the idleness is unbearable.” The young headman said, “Relax and enjoy yourself for a few days. I 41

Ti b etan S oul want to sponsor a silversmiths’ competition, and summon all those who claim to be the best in the world. What do you think of this?” The silversmith flashed a brilliant smile and said, “Then I ask you to graciously allow me to find some odd jobs. If you say nothing, no one will dare give me work.” The young headman said, “Isn’t this the power a headman is supposed to have? To be candid, if I’d been headman back then, you wouldn’t have had any hope of fleeing. However, since the other silversmiths are all working, then you can find work, too. Otherwise, it would be okay if you won, but if you lost you’d blame me for being unfair. Like everyone else, I love my reputation.” Whenever the silversmith found work, he saved a tiny bit of silver from each job. By the time he had accumulated enough silver for one earring, the girl from the pastures still hadn’t reappeared. The headman launched an intense publicity campaign to announce the competition. Exquisite invitations were sent in all directions. Thirty silversmiths came from the west, twenty from the north. Ten silversmiths came from southern places marked by ancient enmity, and another ten from the Chinese territory to the east. It was said that on the broad Chinese highway, many travel-weary silversmiths were still on their way. The silversmiths occupied all the vacant rooms in the official compound. People from all around rushed over, and tents filled the area outside the official compound. At midnight, singing could be heard constantly. The next day, they would compete. The bright moon would be full. The silversmith set up his forge and placed his tools under the moonlight. He also heard himself singing! From childhood to adulthood, he had never sung. He’d thought he couldn’t sing, but now his throat began singing by itself. The silversmith was singing as he began crafting the earrings for the girl whose name he didn’t know. By sunrise, he’d finished one earring, and sure enough, it was just like those he’d seen in his dream. He said, It’s too bad there’s only one. There’s no point in my competing. He thought, What silversmith doesn’t steal a little silver? If he said he hadn’t stolen, no one would believe him anyway. If he’d thought of this sooner, he wouldn’t have waited until now to start work, and he still wouldn’t have made everything he wanted to make. He packed up his tools, tucked the earring in at his chest, and headed for the competition site. The headman had arranged for the silversmiths to compete in the spacious courtyard of the official compound. The silversmiths sat in a circle around the courtyard. At each seat was a warm animal hide. The headman 42

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broke precedent by opening the compound to the ordinary folk. On the nine floors of winding corridors were layers and layers of people. Daser noticed the girl with the green-grass fragrance in the crowd, and he waved to her. When the girl pointed to the orchard outside, the silversmith knew that after he finished competing, she wanted him to meet her there. The silversmith stroked his ears. Just then, the headman walked up and said, “You must take care of yourself. If you lose, I’ll cut off your hands, and you’ve said you love your hands the best.” The silversmith’s hands at once turned both cold and hot. But he still smiled confidently as he said, “I won’t lose.” The headman said, “Craftsmen have too many flaws. You have to work against these defects, or else I won’t let you go.” The headman added, “Remember?” The silversmith said, “Yes.” “I’m just afraid that when the time comes you’ll forget again.” The headman returned to his second floor seat and waved. A basket of silver dollars crashed down from the building to the courtyard. Daser was successful in all of the first several events, and the headman came down to personally give him a khatag—a greeting gift of silk. Night came quickly. The silversmiths ate the same food as the headman: honey liquor, cheese, bear meat, and oatmeal. After eating, the headman discussed the customs of each silversmith’s home area. Just then, the moon rose. Another basket of silver dollars dropped from the building. The headman said, “It’s like play. Each of you is now to create a moon. We’ll see which is the biggest and the brightest.” The sound of dingding guangguang filled the sky. Very quickly, those who had fashioned silver moons neither big enough nor round enough admitted defeat. Only Daser’s grew bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, brighter and brighter. It was exactly like another moon rising. At first, the silversmith was at the side of the moon, and raising his hammer, he was tapping constantly: Dingguang! Dingguang! Dingguang! Who would have thought that a silver dollar could become such a beautiful full moon? The night gradually grew darker, and that full moon became larger, and more and more brilliant. Later, the silversmith stood on that full moon. He stood in the center of that full silver moon and forged the moon. All the people sensed the full moon rising in front of them. They all held their breath. It was so graceful! That moon hung there motionless. The moon understood everyone’s feelings and didn’t want to take their great silversmith with it 43

Ti b etan S oul as it gracefully ascended—this silversmith who had never been surpassed. The full moon in the sky gradually set, and its slanting rays of light lent even more brilliant splendor to the silversmith’s moon. The crowd erupted in joyous laughter. The silversmith straightened up on the moon, then walked down from its surface. Someone shouted, “You’re an immortal. Go up to heaven! Don’t come down!” But the silversmith still walked down from the moon. With a wave to the crowd, the silversmith walked straight out the main gate. The headman announced, “The silversmith Daser has taken first place. If he doesn’t behave badly anymore, we’ll have a large gathering tomorrow to award the prize.” The people’s happy shouting rocked the official compound slightly. When the people dispersed, the headman said, “Just look—too much beauty and kindness make these people forget their status.” The major-domo asked, “What should we do with that silversmith?” The headman said, “In the hearts of the ordinary people, he’s an immortal. Thus, he has no reason to live any longer. He’s never known when to stop.” The headman finally ordered, “Follow the silversmith. He himself decided that during the competition he could violate the rules that we publicly announced.” The major-domo said, “What if we can’t get anything on him?” The headman said, “Take it easy. People who always think they’re right all make mistakes. He never respects anything.” The silversmith waited in the orchard for the girl of the pastures. Her whole body emitted an even more intense grass and flower fragrance. The silversmith said, “Please conceive my son tonight.” The girl said, “He will be especially attractive—that’s for sure.” She didn’t know that the silversmith meant: perhaps after today he would die. He wanted to leave behind a seed of a talent that would not completely accept fate. And so, he took the girl once, then took her again. Finally he lay down on the grass. By then, the moon had already set. Gazing at the starlight as it gradually dimmed, he thought, in this one evening, I’ve already achieved everything a person can achieve in a lifetime. Then he fell asleep. The sun of another day rose, and he took out the earring and, giving it to the girl, he said, “That full moon is my sorrow; this earring is my joy. Take it.” The girl exclaimed in delight. 44

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The silversmith said, “If I’d known you’d like it so much, I’d have made a pair.” The girl said, “Everyone says silversmiths steal silver. Is that true?” The silversmith only smiled. The girl asked, “Was the silver for this earring also stolen?” The silversmith said, “This was the only time I stole.” The people lying in ambush charged out from all around. Whooping happily, they grabbed the thief. But the silversmith said calmly, “I thought you’d wait until the sun rose a little higher before you made your move.” When he was led before the headman, he repeated this. The headman said, “Why does it matter? The sun can rise high by itself. Even if not one person were on this earth, it would rise high by itself.” The silversmith said, “It matters. If no one were on this earth, if you had no one to taunt, your life wouldn’t be very interesting.” The headman said, “God, you’re still a mortal. Before the competition began, I told you everything I should have told you. Why do you still have to complain? Stealing a little silver isn’t a capital offense, either. If you stole it, I’ll cut off the hand that stole things—and that will be the end of it.” The silversmith held his hands and hunkered on the ground. According to the headman’s laws, a thief ’s hand was to be cut off. If the thief didn’t admit his crime, a pot of oil would be boiled, and he would be told to dredge the stolen article up from the pot. It was said that boiling oil couldn’t scald innocent hands. A pot of oil was quickly set up in the public square. The silversmith was taken there by force, and the girl of the pastures was placed beside him. Several lamas who were present looked serious as they recited incantations. The oil began boiling rapidly. Someone tore the earring from the girl’s ear and flung it into the pot of oil. The headman said, “The silversmith’s hands were besmirched by touching a woman yesterday. To be fair, let the lamas first chant incantations over his hands.” The silversmith was then placed in front of the pot. His hand went into the pot of oil, and a strange odor rapidly filled the public square. The silversmith fished the earring out. But his nimble hand turned black, and the flesh separated in threads from the bone. The headman said, “I won’t punish him. Have someone knowledgeable in medicine treat his hand.” But, facing the silent crowd, the silversmith shook his head, and threaded his way through the 45

Ti b etan S oul crowd and out of the public square. He held the injured hand up with his good hand, and continued walking step by step. He held the hand higher and higher until finally he was walking almost on tiptoe. The people finally recognized that the silversmith was in enormous pain. By this time, the silversmith had walked onto the bridge over the river. He turned around, looked at the silent crowd—and jumped. With that, his tall, slender body disappeared forever from this land. The girl of the pastures shouted and fainted to the ground. The headman said, “All of you saw it. He was too arrogant. He killed himself. I didn’t want him to die, but he killed himself. Did you see that?!” The silent crowd grew even quieter. The headman said, “Formerly, women who committed crimes were also convicted, but I’ve pardoned her!” The headman said a lot more, but without waiting for him to finish talking, everyone silently dispersed and carried the story back to wherever they had come from. Later, the headman was killed. When they had the funeral, his hands were missing. By then, the silversmith’s son was just a little more than a year old. None of the stories that circulated later about the silversmith talked of his death, but only said that—sitting on the moon he had forged—he had ascended to heaven. Whenever there was a full moon, people said, “Listen, our silversmith is at work again.” Sure enough, an incomparably beautiful tapping sound fell from the sky to the earth: Dingguang! Dingguang! Dingding guangguang! That silver-like full moon poured water-like brilliance onto the human world. Look: It’s our great silversmith’s moon!

46

The Fi sh

-1 -

W

hen I first came to know the nature of fish, I felt they liked silence and were languid—just like the infants, still unable to talk, who stared entranced at them for a long time. On the shore, in cool, shady spots under the trees, these infants were sucking their thumbs and gazing at the clouds in the deep blue sky. They were like the fish in the water. The infants’ bright eyes were serene and blunt. This serenity came from the dark green mountains filled with forests on all sides of the valley. It came from the kitchen smoke gradually spreading in the village. One infant didn’t suck his thumb much. Lying on his tummy on the shore, he focused on the fish in the water. Because of the sunshine, when summer ended, the skin on the children’s bare bottoms was even rougher and darker than the skin on their faces. The hair on the backs of their heads was luxuriant, but the hairline on their foreheads was high. From birth, such a child had shallow lines on its forehead, but if by chance he had the good luck to live to old age, the lines did not necessarily deepen much more. Now, waves of slender sunbeams reflected off the water onto this child’s face. Behind him came the rich, textured sounds of women hoeing up weeds and men repairing sheds, of the growing trees, and of highland barley, wheat, oats, and ramie that were jointing, of insects, and of birds and beasts. The sounds the children heard were pure and clear and bright—almost like the limpid water where the fish lived. Now, as the sun’s heat intensified, the fish came up higher and higher. They came out from the deep water—their tails swaying slowly, their silly wide mouths opening and closing. They also struggled to hold up their 47

Ti b etan S oul heads, which—compared with their bodies—seemed to be square. That’s how they stubbornly swam toward the shallow water where the current was slow. The springtime waters were clear and cold. And when the fish lingered over the pebbled river bottom, they looked savage and cruel— and laden with misgivings. But now it was summer, and the plentiful river water brimmed over its usual course. Grass on the low-lying land could grow only under water. Fish—big ones and small ones—lay in the cattle and sheep hoof prints that remained distinctly visible in the grass. Not many days earlier, a large school of mother fish—dragging their swollen bellies—had run wild all over the grass, and with male fish chasing them, they had struggled to drop their strings of bright pale yellow eggs on the grass. Then, the warmest and quietest days of summer arrived, and the river water rose to its highest point. If the plants that greened in the mountains, fields, waters, and air grew continuously, they’d be hard to hold in check. Unbridled, they would crowd into humankind’s living space. The pasture, the conifer forests, the mixed forests of conifers and broadleaf trees, the livestock, and the flowering oats all sent forth smells inducing drowsiness. In this season, it was easy for men to feel sleepy; they lay under the shadows of sheds waiting to be repaired, and listened to the last long drawn-out syllables of the women’s sweet singing floating up in the center of the broad fields. After they fell asleep, the lice finally relaxed and emerged from their hair and enjoyed the sunshine. The one with the most lice was probably the infant watching the fish. This baby wasn’t much like others. Someone concluded that this baby had resulted from the inbreeding from cousins intermarrying. Progeny of inbred marriages were always an extreme form of life: if they weren’t too dull-witted, then they were too intelligent and didn’t live very long. Often, too, because of the pure blood relationship, this kind of family forms a sense of nobility. And, because each supplies the other’s needs through inbreeding, the accumulated wealth is not easily exhausted. In this village called Ke, after inbred marriages had made one clan illustrious for several generations, at a certain time that clan began its decline. And then another clan adopted the same pattern to attain an illustrious position and become aristocrats with a pure blood relationship. They had the biggest flock of sheep and the biggest herd of dairy cattle. And their house emitted the longstanding smell of foodstuffs eaten by insects. This somewhat pungent, somewhat sweet and sour smell stimulated people’s nostrils and throats, producing a stifling feeling. At such a time, 48

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the declining clan’s last child would like some strange things. For example, this infant liked fish. Fish seemed mysterious, and people were in awe of them. Only one kind of fish lived in this region’s rivers. Along the shore of this river, people spoke different languages in the many quiet villages between the deep forests. But they all used the same word for fish: jiuyue. The sound “jiu” was low and deep; the sound “yue” was mild and light and then slowly disappeared into the cracks between one’s teeth. And so, the feeling of awe and mystery was fully displayed. The warm sun was shining on the fish as they lay quietly beneath the water. Under the sunlight, the water flowed slowly, rising and falling slightly. The surface of the water looked like silks and satins. The smell of fish came from the water. It was as if this smell came from the rotten grass in the water. This fishy smell, along with the muddy odor from the river water, was even stronger than the noontime shade of trees. The mud-colored fish didn’t have scales or shells. Their heads and upper bodies similar to those of snakes, the fish were lying in the silt and grass at the bottom of the river. Turning slowly on their sides, they revealed bellies the color of pale tea. The infant chortled happily. In the river, the eggs laid several days earlier had hatched. Like sewing needles, the large and small fry were swimming quickly. They seemed happy and timid. Clouds bringing a slight chill to the air and wind bringing the smell of mud could make them flee in a hurry. As they gradually grew up and headed to maturity, the first thing people noticed was the bulging eyes—bright and innocent, along with a heavy inherited sorrow. The eyes of the infant who watched the fish for a long time would become like the eyes of the fish.

-2 It was the summer of 1958. The infant watching the fish was a posthumous child. His father had died in battle on the grasslands. His uncle had named him Dukar. His uncle didn’t know what the name meant. When religion had been more influential, newborn infants were all named by profoundly learned lamas proficient in the written language. But the standard Tibetan language was 49

Ti b etan S oul seldom like the local dialects. As life settled down, the religious influence gradually waned. In choosing names, people no longer relied on the lamas, but they still used names that had been around earlier. And they knew the meaning of the names. In the standard form of address, the clan’s name should precede the given name. The infant watching the fish was called Modo Dukar. But after this he would be called Fish-eye Dukar. As Fish-eye Dukar—head bowed—scrutinized the school of fish, he gave a carefree, happy laugh. His chuckling sounded much like a wooden bowl that had slipped out of one’s hands and was rolling down steep, narrow stairs. Just then, his mother Chüchü’s nipples felt as painful as if a sharp awn of wheat were stabbing them. Chüchü was pulling weeds in the cooperative’s wheat field. The wheat was unusually sturdy; this was the cooperative’s first season of crops. She gazed at the deep blue sky overhead: news of her husband’s death in battle had come from that distant horizon. The blue sky seemed even more remote. Once more, she bent down silently and pulled up the strong bitter wormwood artemisia. Because of her longing, Chüchü didn’t have a very strong female scent. Tears were on the verge of spilling from her eyes. After her tears disappeared, the corners of her eyes itched from the salt they left behind. The wheat fields were linked with a distant expanse of dark green grasslands. Everything she could see was deserted again. No one had ever told her in so many words how her husband, who was also her cousin, had died. In her imagination, her husband had died more than once. Again and again, he had come back to life, then died again. Chüchü had also personally experienced the feeling of death more than once. When she imagined that her husband had been killed by bullets, her heart would be grazed by a burning hot, sharp hard thing. When she imagined that her husband had been killed by a knife, a snake would wind around her neck until she turned ice cold from terror . . . The uncle who had named Dukar was taking a catnap under the shade of the sheds. In a haze, he felt that the fish were swimming into his brain. This emaciated young guy sat up, feeling distracted. He got up and walked toward the riverbank. As he walked past the trees, the shade washed over his head like water, then flowed down to his heels. He took an indistinct path from the waterlogged low-lying grasslands beside the crop lands. Single-petaled yellow 50

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flowers filled the low-lying land. The spongy turf under foot was giving off the smell of fish crowded together in the water. He traversed the land soundlessly, as if he were someone else or a group of people walking in a dream. When he glanced back, the grass he had just stepped on was slowly springing back. When the accumulated water beneath the turf sounded gugu, he thought it was the cries of fish in his dreams. Gugu, gu. Gugu. Sorrowful and untroubled. After he walked through the low-lying land, the solid ground cleared his head. He recalled people saying it was unlucky to dream of fish. When his shadow was thrown toward the surface of the river, the little fish turned around abruptly and scurried toward the center of the river, almost making him smile. When the babies on the riverside grass saw him coming, they all slowly pulled their thumbs—clean from sucking—out of their mouths. His nephew Dukar was lying on his tummy facing the river. He trotted over and gave him a hug. In an instant, he sucked one of his uncle’s fingers—sucked for all he was worth. There was a lot of thick saliva in the infant’s mouth. The baby’s toothless gums were grinding back and forth. Immediately reminded of the mouths of fish with no visible teeth, he hastily pulled his fingers out of his nephew’s mouth. The infant started crying—loud and clear, disturbing the fish for quite some time before they eventually calmed down. Earlier, the fish had straightened up their dorsal fins, dragged their tails on the bottom of the water stirring up silt, and stretched their backs taut in preparation for a fast escape. They kept this rigid posture as they listened attentively. When they realized that the sound of crying carried no threat, they slowly relaxed and sank to the silt at the bottom of the river. When Uncle bent his head to examine the child who had suddenly stopped crying, he saw that Dukar’s eyes bulged just as fish eyes did. He felt the water light ripple before his eyes, and he couldn’t hold back his terror. It was as if he had carelessly touched an ice-cold fish—like a snake. The sun was already overhead. The women who were weeding turned around and came over to the riverside. Carrying the baby, Dukar’s uncle walked to the side of the wheat field. He was watching the women continuously stretching out their dark sturdy arms to poke the wheat aside so they could make their way out. The flowering, fragrant heads of wheat scratched the women’s bare arms and rammed 51

Ti b etan S oul their soft, warm bellies. He couldn’t help but sway like the wheat. He even imagined that his dead brother’s wife was as pure and fresh and likable as her name, Chüchü. Just then, someone snatched the child from his arms. He saw an ugly face in a towering rage. A bare chest revealed breasts like two tiny pockets, covered with traces of blood from scratches from wheat awns. It was this winter that Chinese newspapers, books, picture books, and some documents had begun to show up in the village. These things didn’t appear in an instant. Rather, at first a few appeared, and then gradually a lot more. A few years later, the bright Fish-eye Dukar would know quite a lot of Chinese characters, and he would notice that his mother’s face was identical to the faces of landlords’ wives in the picture books. Even children not as bright as Fish-eye Dukar could figure this much out.

-3 In a towering rage, Chüchü had whisked her son from the arms of the young uncle whose eyes were closed and who was swaying as if inebriated. When she stuffed her nipple into the child’s mouth, her milk poured out automatically, straining places deep in her breasts. Chüchü held her breasts up and kneaded them lightly. Sonam’s mother and Shangba’s mother, who had given birth the same year as she, made the same movements—holding the baby with one hand, while lightly and slowly kneading the breasts with the other hand. Chüchü still didn’t know her future destiny. But she knew that after her milk had been completely sucked dry, her heart would be hollow again. She thought destiny was a wonderful thing that people could never touch with their minds. When she was young, she thirsted for love. When she didn’t get normal love, she thirsted for love that was immodest. Her family was comparatively well off, but because she was ugly, she knew she didn’t have any prospects. She realized that landlord families were among the “bad elements,” thus making it even harder for her to make a good match. Chüchü saw her young brother-in-law standing in front of several nursing mothers, and she couldn’t stop herself from flying into another rage. “Bah!” She spat out the grass she’d been chewing. Its juiciness had turned her saliva a disgusting green color. The saliva drowned two ants. She spat angri52

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ly again, frightening both the child at her breast and her young brother-inlaw. Then she calmed down a little. Young brother resembled her husband who had died in the war on the grasslands, but this was like the similarity between wheat that had just sprouted and wheat ripe for the harvest. Young brother was fifteen. The downy hair on his face, his tiny nostrils, and his thin eyebrows all showed that he was still a child. But in her imagination during this last year, her dead husband had become even older. She imagined that someday in the future, young brother would no longer be so small. His delicate skin, fingers, wrists, and Adam’s apple would grow big and strong and solid, and he’d have a head of thick curly hair. Then, he would inherit all of his elder brother’s property—house, son, some family heirloom jewelry, the cattle and the vegetable plots that they still owned after the cooperative was organized, and even the large fox-skin cape and the otter-skin cloak that the elderly had especially warned should be saved, and even a few rare Russian carpets. Naturally, he would also inherit a badtempered, well-intentioned wife. Chüchü couldn’t stop tender feelings from surging up in her heart. She visualized the time six years ago when she had pressed his head down on her breast. No one could yet detect on Chüchü’s body the special odor associated with old women whom no one is interested in. It wasn’t the same as the smells of fresh mud and her own flesh that clung to her now, but was a cotton cloth odor and the bland odor of dry dust. Her little cousin Shaja who rushed around her all day smelled of clean water and green grass. Shaja was afraid of fish. When Chüchü set him down at the edge of the field, he sat obediently under the cool shade of the cypress tree or the clouds. Shaja’s mother had died giving birth to him. He was a pitiful baby. At least Chüchü could remember how her mother had looked when she died. She had lain quietly under a coarse ox-hair blanket, and before she died, her face—crow-black from suffocating—turned fair and clear. Lice climbed up from her gradually cooling body—climbed very quickly, lending a panicky feeling to death. After the lice disappeared, death became peaceful and serene, with the power to comfort human melancholy. Later, when Chüchü heard the news of her husband’s death, she didn’t say a word. She heard her heart beat over and over like the sound of cold earth falling on her mother’s coffin when she was buried. In a flash, Chüchü also recalled a summer five years earlier. Back then, people still worked their own land. Chüchü was twenty-sev53

Ti b etan S oul en and already had an old woman’s eccentricities. When she pulled weeds, she took along her little cousin Shaja who was like a son. She kept her distance from fellow villagers who were coming up to help with the work. Suddenly feeling the swift and fierce soughing of the wind, she looked up and saw an eagle—holding its wings back tightly, raising its sharp talons calmly—plunge to the surface of the river and grab a large fish. Under the strong sunlight, the fish became a ball of white light. When the eagle spread its wings, it covered the sunlight, and the fish became a fish again—a suffering, struggling fish. When the eagle flew overhead, the little cousin who was playing screamed, and the fish slipped out of the eagle’s grasp. Like a pool of mucus, it hurtled down in front of Chüchü with the sound pada. It arched its back once and made a great effort to assume the posture of swimming in the water. It failed in this effort, and only tossed its tail a few times: pada, pada, pa—da, pa———da———da, each time with less strength than the time before. Then its belly swelled up and it died, and a transparent sticky substance slid from its body onto the wheat awns and grass. Chüchü walked away hurriedly and screamed in shock. Only when people ran up to her from distant wheat fields did she stop up her mouth with her fist. Her father was the first to reach her side. Her father helped his daughter to sit in the shade of a tree at the edge of the field. He also snapped off a cypress twig so that she could inhale its pure, fresh, clean fragrance. He was unusually patient as he listened to her cry. Then he asked if she had finished crying. I’m better, Aba. Then turn and look at me. Father said, After I die, you must arrange your marriage. I promised my brother I’d consolidate these lands, cattle, and sheep. They used to be joined, Father said, and now they must be merged again, and you must let Shaja’s elder brother marry you. Father said, You must add a relationship to the relationship; it’s like . . . it’s like adding sugar to milk. Chüchü, you aren’t beautiful, but you can give birth to sturdy sons. Naturally, by then, I will have already died. Father, you cannot die. Back then, that was how she implored her father. Now, Chüchü changed to the other breast for the son in her arms, and said, None of our fathers can die. Tears trickled slowly from her eyes. Through misty eyes, Chüchü saw her father uncross his legs again, support himself with both hands, lift his rear end up from the grass, kneel on 54

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one leg and press down on his kneecap, open his mouth wide and gulp down a lot of fresh air, and then—his cheeks bulging—he struggled up and swayed for a moment. After regaining his balance, he said he had promised his brother the marriage just before he died last year. Chüchü was watching Father turn and walk away from her. He began swaying again. But, step by step, he walked into the distance, then disappeared into the waves of wheat. When Father was found, his body had already stiffened. He lay on his side in the wheat, his body stretched out and relaxed, but his face half-stained with mud. After the mud was washed off, you could see the cuts where the wheat stalks had scratched him. A thread of fresh red blood seeped out and flowed into the mud. That night, Shaja dreamed of his uncle. In the dream, Uncle changed into a fish, and kept opening and closing his mouth, saying nothing. His face was stained with mud. Twice, he nearly told his aunt that Uncle had changed into a fish in the river. But in the end, he held onto this secret. In Ke Village and even bigger regions, fish shapes were not considered aesthetically pleasing. The shapes even disgusted people. Fish were like a lot of mollusks—for example, toads, earthworms, lizards, snails, and leeches. Yet, they also deserved pity. A nationality that hadn’t yet had a zoologist didn’t know what they ate. So they thought that since they were living and yet had no food, they were sometimes tormented by hunger. They must be animals that had incurred heaven’s punishment. In previous incarnations, they must have sinned too much: they had amassed too much wealth through excessive taxation, had been much too cruel and deceitful, and so forth. Fish were also pitiable. People took similar attitudes toward the treatment of fish and the treatment of a beggar suffering from leprosy. The fish grew more gigantic by the day. An ominous feeling overcame people when a dark mass of fish spread out and filled a bend in the river where the water flowed quietly. In this respect, fish resembled crows. The next day, while everyone else was sacrificing and praying to Uncle, Shaja went to look at that dead fish in the wheat field. For the rest of his life, he never understood why he had made the effort to conquer his fear to look at that fish. A fish, after all, was just a fish.

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-4 In the twinkling of an eye, Dukar reached school age. Dukar, Sonam, and others of the same age became the first group of children to attend a Chinese-medium school in a nearby village that was larger than Ke Village. Every day, their lunches in hand, they went to school. Dukar’s father had been forced to marry his cousin, who was eight years older than he, and later he had left home to take part in the rebellion and had died in battle on the grasslands. At the same time, Sonam’s father, whose family was poor, had driven draft animals and transported cannon balls and fodder for the People’s Liberation Army. After the war ended, he had brought home a lot of hardtack, canned food, and boat-shaped hats, and even some seemingly light and interesting stories about death. In the several years when all of China endured the torment of hunger, Ke Village continued to enjoy good harvests. Every year, Sonam’s family also had one fat pig they could kill. Back then, the breed of pig had not yet been improved, and domestic pigs were exactly the same as wild pigs—thin, small, and vigorous. Most weighed only thirty or thirty-five kilos. But Sonam’s family’s pigs were always about forty kilos when they were butchered. An old steelyard was used to weigh the pigs. The paint on the steelyard’s beam had worn off, revealing the glossy, smooth, fine grain of the wood. Dukar’s family owned the only steelyard in Ke Village. Its sliding weight, forged of pig iron, had long since been lost. For as long as they could remember, all the villagers had gone to Dukar’s home to borrow the steelyard. The sliding weight of the steelyard was now a solid pebble. The steelyard was used most in spring and autumn. Spring was the season when people exchanged all kinds of seeds for crops. Autumn was the season for killing pigs and slaughtering sheep. Sonam remembered that when he was four, his family had killed another pig. He knew his father would tell him to borrow the steelyard again, so he sneaked off. At the entrance to the village, he ran into Fish-eye Dukar. “Our family killed a pig.” Looking sad, Sonam spoke cautiously. “Your family killed another pig?” Dukar asked. “I’m going to the riverside.” “I want to go, too.” 56

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“I won’t let you. My fish would be afraid of you. Tomorrow, the fish won’t show themselves. As soon as there’s a frost, they go into a hole.” Sonam still remembered that he asked him what the fish ate in the grotto—the grotto filled with ice-cold water. Fish-eye Dukar said he didn’t know, either; his tone was utterly ashamed. A few years later, one day during class, Dukar suddenly told him, In the winter the fish must burrow down to another side of the globe. Since the teacher said when it was night here it was daytime there, then winter here was summer there. A bright child, Sonam raised another question: a very deep hole must be very black, so how could the fish see? At this, the sensitive, shy Dukar’s head drooped. Sonam noticed that Dukar’s neck was slender and his veins distinct. He promptly finished the assignment to write a sentence using “It is just like . . .” He wrote: I made him bend his head. That was just like breaking the bones of his neck. But that happened later. Back then, he stood obediently where he was. He was watching Dukar bend down and make his way between the sheds and go into the wheat fields, and then, all of him disappeared into the wheat fields, leaving behind only some heavy wheat stalks and some scarecrows wearing shabby, tattered clothing and swaying lightly in the wind. From the village behind them came the rooster’s noontime crow and the creak of a courtyard gate being pushed open. He turned and walked toward the village. When he had almost reached the entrance of his family’s courtyard, he changed his mind and went to Dukar’s home. The sunshine outside was strong, so—once inside—he couldn’t see anything at first. He only heard the ugly village woman say in a soft pleasant voice, “The steelyard is behind you.” He turned around and fumbled for it, and suddenly—with a clank—he ran into the steelyard’s pan. When he steadied the steelyard in his hands, the lingering sound reverberated in the room. By then, Sonam’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light indoors. On the walls and on the cupboard, smoke had yellowed the pictures of longevity—shining like the sun and the moon—that had been hung up at New Year’s time. Dukar’s mama stood next to the cupboard. She smiled. “Your family’s pig must have very thick fat.” “This thick.” He stretched his small hand out. “The pigs our family killed every year used to have fat that thick, too.” 57

Ti b etan S oul “Aren’t the pigs you kill now plump?” “We haven’t killed pigs for three years. We have none.” Chüchü’s expression turned suddenly strange as she smiled, “When my husband died, I didn’t see him die. Land was distributed to people with little land, but I could still see the wheat on the land. Take a look out the window. In the past, most of that land belonged to Father and to my husband’s family.” “For three years,” she said again, “we haven’t killed pigs . . . Take the steelyard with you.” Sonam wanted to say a little something. “I saw Dukar. He said he was going to the riverside to watch the fish.” “Let him look—the pitiful thing.” Sonam didn’t know if she was saying the fish or her son was a pitiful thing. He turned and went downstairs. The strong sunlight forced him to shut his eyes. Just then, he heard a woman’s gentle, lovely voice call his name: “Sonam!” Opening his eyes, he heard another call. Turning, he saw Chüchü’s ugly face at the window. “When you get home, tell your aba,” her voice became indignant and pressing, “I don’t want the steelyard. I’ll trade it for a piece of pork. Dukar and I are about to forget that flavor.” And she banged the window shut.

-5 Chüchü was satisfied: the window had closed with a neat and tidy sound. She sat down, poured a cup of tea, put it on the place of honor at the fireside where men generally sat, and then assumed a man’s posture when she sat down on the carpet. She drank the tea as if drinking a large cup of alcohol—and with a rumbling sound. It wasn’t proper for either men or women to eat or drink noisily. Only when men were very hungry and very thirsty and had done something that justified showing off would they deliberately make a lot of noise. The strong tea left a bitter aftertaste. This ugly woman—this widow—fantasized that she had become a man whose wife didn’t need to raise pigs and could still eat pork. Couldn’t this be so? The half-new three-foot-square carpet under her bottom could be traded with that money-grubbing guy over there for a large, fat sheep. Could it be that in this village’s loftiest and most imposing house there 58

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weren’t enough things to trade for delicious food? There were. There was her own family property that had been amassed slowly over the last several generations and had not yet been dispersed. In fact, all of this was the will of God, not man. Now the family had arrived at its predestined time of financial decline. Since fate had decided that a woman squanders just as a man does—well, then, go ahead and squander, even if she was an ugly woman whom no one loved! Chüchü stood up. With another pattering sound, she opened another window, and shouted toward the stockade across the way: “Hey! Shaja! Shaja! Sha———ja——” Her brother-in-law appeared on the rooftop terrace. “Are you calling me? Sister-in-law!” “If you know I’m calling you, get yourself over here right now!” “Immediately?” “Yes!” The young man’s shiny head dropped down through the stairs. He was frail and shy with pale, smooth skin. Like a girl. Chüchü knew he wasn’t a girl. But just as she had fantasized being a man, something deep in her heart stubbornly thought that Shaja should be a girl—a sentimental and vulnerable, delicate and graceful girl. To get here, Shaja had to go downstairs first. He was always cautious going downstairs, and then he went through the courtyard. Finally he came through the courtyard on this side, and then up these stairs. This took a little time—and he could take even more time than anyone else. While Chüchü was thinking, she deftly removed her old, tattered, unpresentable gown. She pulled a long woolen maroon-colored gown down from the clothes rack, put it on, and fastened it with a watergreen-colored belt. In the courtyard below, there was still no activity. She ran her eyes unhurriedly over the clothes rack. This thing that we called a clothes rack was a smooth cypress tree trunk whose strong scent could repel moths and other insects. It was suspended on the left side of the room, and clothes hung on it. Hanging on another wooden pole were some brand-new carpets and bedding. The remaining pole could hold all kinds of air-dried meat, but at present, it held only some dark grease spots. Chüchü was looking at the pole with no meat on it—recalling that in the past a whole sheep had hung on it, and a whole side of pork. She recalled that the pork back then smelled unpleasantly of clams. Just then, someone pushed the courtyard gate open. The gate creaked 59

Ti b etan S oul three times. The person seemed to be hesitating. Chüchü sat down at the fireside again. When she heard a step on the stairs, she shouted loud and clear, “Come on up. Don’t be scared.” At the same time, she realized she needn’t talk in such a loud, clear voice. But no sooner had the young brother’s head appeared at the entrance to the stairs than she said in the same loud, clear voice, “Come and sit down. Don’t be scared!” “I’m not,” young brother murmured. Actually, Chüchü didn’t know, either, what young brother would be scared of. Still, she repeated, “Sit down. Don’t be scared.” “Okay. I’ll . . . sit down. I’ve sat down.” “Are you sitting down?” “Sister-in-law, what’s wrong with . . . you?” “Me?” Chüchü looked at herself. She was wearing her dead husband’s clothes. Looking down, she also saw the tip of her broad nose. “What do you mean?” Young brother didn’t say anything. At last, he noticed that his sister-inlaw was wearing new clothes. “Ask me. I’m wearing new clothes—are they pretty?” Hard pressed, young brother looked down at the tips of his toes. “Pour a bowl of tea for me. The bowl is here. Good. Pour a bowl for yourself, too . . . Ah, you drink tea so noiselessly. Only cats drink water that way . . . Afterward, make however much noise you want. If no other girl loves you, and you want to love someone, think of me as that girl, and do whatever you want.” Chüchü was gazing comfortably at the young fellow whose head was hanging low. He was holding the tea bowl—not knowing whether to lift it up or set it down. “Today, we’re having tea. Later on, we ought to have some alcohol. In the past, when your elder brother drank alcohol, it seemed a waste to me. The old folks all said that drinking alcohol dissipated the family property.” Tears welled up slowly and spilled from her eyes. “Your elder brother didn’t love me.” “He loved you.” “Then why did he go and fight a war that didn’t concern him? Tell me, what was that for?” “I, I don’t know.” Her tears slowly flowed back again. Chüchü’s tears never overflowed. 60

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They all flowed from the inside to the outside, then cycled back from the outside to the inside. More and more salt was concentrated in her tears, so that each time the tears brimmed over, they stabbed her eyeballs. Chüchü had heard that the salt formed in Thousand-Year Lake in the northwest was like the beautiful needles of frost before dawn on a winter day. She was trying to touch her eyeballs, but she didn’t feel anything like that. Young brother was staring blankly. What could he see? Could he see deep into a woman’s heart? She smiled, “Come over and have some meat this evening.” “. . . . .” “I traded the steelyard—that old steelyard. I reckon that between us, we have a lot of things we can trade for food.” “I remember Father weighed things with a steelyard whenever he lent anything and whenever he was paid back.” “All right! Your nephew is at the riverside watching the fish. Go tell him to come home!” Shaja went down the stairs. Burning hot tears welled up in Chüchü’s eyes again. By this time, the sun hanging down in the west was near the mountainous land, its rays shining almost straight into the window—falling on the floor and walls, turning everything rusty red. At a certain stage of weathering, some rotting wood and rocks were this shade of red.

-6 “Shhhh——” Fish-eye Dukar heard footsteps behind him. By this time, the setting sun was reflecting on the water, so that it blazed color. What was visible was the metallic light on the surface of the water. Everything underwater was invisible. But he still sensed that the rather small fish that had gone underwater had already left the shore. They had simply left when the wind blowing over the river had grown chilly. Even smaller ones had begun leaving more than ten days ago, then hadn’t come back. A light wind carrying a chill from the snowy northwest mountains blew over the river. After the wind-crumpled water surface had calmed again, the fish that had been quietly hiding at the bottom of the water reappeared. The little dark fish had already swum away. The rising river water had also dropped a lot. The medium-sized fish and the several large fish that were in 61

Ti b etan S oul the minority remained in their summer habitats. They became visible only in the depths of autumn when the river was clear and shallow. Just then, a gust of wind sent the fish disappearing under the tightly woven ripples. Shaja shivered. “Dukar.” “Shhhh——” ”Your mother . . .” “Shhhh——” “told me to tell you . . .” “Shhh!” “to tell you to go home.” In spite of his nephew’s shushing, Shaja persisted in finishing what Chüchü had told him to say. He just matter-of-factly passed Chüchü’s words along—without any sense of urgency. Shaja stood cautiously next to his nephew and watched the fish that, though stupid-looking, could also generate dread in people. Shaja felt that if it weren’t for the fish with these snake-like colors and bodies—fish that constantly made a show of chewing the clear water and spitting it out—then the waters of autumn, the stones and sand at the bottom of the autumn river, and the drops of autumn sunlight that fell like golden coins to the river bottom would indeed be more beautiful than the river of summer. What was beautiful about summer was the agreeable coolness of the grassy riverbank, and the clouds, the cypress trees, the willow trees, and even the birches. The waters of summer weren’t one kind of pure thing. The smell alone seemed too much of a mixture. The summer river carried the smell of women like Chüchü. Eyes bulging like fish eyes, Dukar said, “These fish will leave today and come back next year.” He asked, “Uncle Shaja, where do these fish go in the winter?” “Your mother wants you to go home for a meat dinner.” “As soon as the fish leave, winter comes.” “Your ma traded the family’s old steelyard for meat.” “The steelyard? Only that fish can be called old.” “Pork.” Shaja spoke emphatically, and at the same time heard himself swallow a mouthful of saliva. He actually tasted the appetizing flavor of pork and felt his mouth fill with tasty pork fat. 62

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“Uncle, look at that fish’s beard.” “Which one?” “The large floundering fish with a beard like spiders’ legs.” Suddenly, Shaja’s heart filled with soft, gentle pity for this fatherless child. Something bitter was irritating his nose so much that he almost began sneezing. “We’re not watching the fish, we’re going home to see your mother. She’s waiting for you.” As he gazed at the golden light on the river, a different kind of tenderness welled up in Shaja’s heart, and he added, “When she waited for your aba, he didn’t come back. You can’t make her wait for you all the time. Let’s go home.” Dukar pulled his thumb out of his mouth, placed his index finger vertically at his mouth, and once more made a shhhh sound. Standing on tiptoe, he whispered, “They’re going to leave right away.” The big, long-bearded fish kept opening and closing its mouth. It was as if they could hear the fish’s mouth clucking. Another gust of wind passed over the river, blowing a lot of invisible ice-cold foam into their faces. They shivered. This is merely to say, after the harvest, the scent of wheat disappeared quickly from the air, and winter arrived. For several winters, Dukar—eyes bulging and pooled with tears because of the cold wind, eyes resolutely investigating everything—asked all the men: Where do the fish go? The question he asked the women was: Are the fish cold? Rubbing their ice-cold fingers, the women felt an ominous premonition rise in their hearts.

-7 Three more winters went by in this way. A lot happened in three winters. The ones related to this story are: one of the Modo family’s two houses was expropriated. In the spring 1965 political movement assigning people to class categories, his family became landlords. Referring to the last generation’s Dukar and his fish eyes that appeared weirdly ominous, the Ke villagers all said that this family had already used up its fate. The rise and fall

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they had come into the village, then had strolled slowly into the courtyard that they’d looked at for so long from the opposite shore, where in summer great burdock and poppies blossomed and where now it was frozen solid. Without exception, they were wearing blue overalls. Watching the Tibetans kill a pig was like watching sacrifices to the gods. A mystical expression appeared on their faces. In the village, not much was known about these people. People knew only that they had come to fell trees, and that they belonged to a nationality that ate fish. But after one summer had passed, they saw that the workers had only dug up vegetable plots and built houses. Now, they lived in a row of orderly wooden houses that were low and long, and even curved. Now, peasants and workers—these people who were curious about each other—silently took one another’s measure and maintained a certain distance. But on this severe winter morning, the white breath they exhaled mingled in the air and became inseparable. Watching, Dukar had trouble understanding the significance behind this phenomenon. He saw that as the sun rose and the sunlight grew more intense, the curling fog disappeared. He saw Sonam’s father’s strong, healthy arms and puffed-up cheeks. He was straining to lift the clean pig upside down. In a loud voice, he told his son to fetch the steelyard. Sonam brought him the steelyard. The fat pig was unloaded and divided into the head and four limbs—five pieces altogether. After weighing it, he told Sonam to hand the steelyard through the wattled fence. Dukar took the steelyard. The smooth, icy cold steelyard made him think distractedly again of the fish whose whereabouts he didn’t know. Sonam said that his family’s pig weighed fifty-four kilograms. “Weigh your family’s pig, and see how heavy it is,” Sonam said to Dukar. “My aba told me to tell you.” Shaja glanced anxiously at the steelyard, as if it weren’t a steelyard but some other thing—something sinister. “We don’t want to.” “What are you afraid of?” Chüchü asked. “I’m afraid our pig isn’t as heavy as theirs.” “I’m not afraid. Don’t you know that coming here has brought an end to this family? Haven’t you heard the saying that a family lasts a hundred 65

Ti b etan S oul years? I’m not afraid that our pig won’t weigh as much as other people’s. I’m just afraid that the men in my family aren’t as gutsy as other men. Or as energetic.” As she scolded young brother, she hung the two halves of the pig on the steelyard hook and came up with its approximate weight. “Twenty-eight kilograms, twelve ounces.” When Dukar took the steelyard back, he said, “My ma Chüchü said the pig weighs twenty-eight kilograms, twelve ounces.” “I know. When I heard your pig cry louder and clearer than ours, I knew.” Indeed, when a pig was near death—even though ordinarily it rarely made a sound—it gave a high-pitched howl. Not the same as sheep. Sheep bleated all the time, but when they were slaughtered, even if it was a large flock, silence reigned. All of a sudden, Dukar asked Sonam’s father, “Where did they go?” “They?” “The fish. Them.” Dukar noticed that he looked like all the other people he had asked— disgusted with him, and with his clan that was doomed to wither away . . . and with the fish. “Oh, I don’t know. Young fellow, what kind of brain lies behind your strange eyes? I’d sure like to open it and take a look.” Clamping Dukar’s little head with his big strong fingers, he pressed with all his might. “Ah, do your eyes always bulge like this, or is it because I pressed so hard that they’re about to explode?” Sonam’s father relaxed his hands—wet with pig’s blood—and said, “Say thank you for letting go of me.” Dukar said, “Thank you for letting go of me.” But it seemed he only moved his lips. He didn’t hear his voice. He just heard the buzzing sound brush past his eardrums when the blood surged back to his head. Along with this rapid rushing sound, a shadow of a multi-colored rainbow fluttered before his eyes. He walked slowly to his courtyard, where he overcame his dizziness and nausea. He passed Sonam’s father’s final words on to his mother and uncle: “For each pig, one has to turn twelve and a half kilos over to the government.” In a weepy tone, Chüchü said, “Ah, the government, the government.” Dukar thought it was in just this way that she chanted his father’s name when she was grief-stricken and had nowhere to turn. Uncle squatted next to the large pot of hot water and sorted out the 66

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pig’s tripe and chitterlings. Turning the pig’s belly over, he slit it open and squeezed the shit out of the guts. It ran onto the snowy ground—pitterpatter. Lots of white tapeworms—still mixed into the steaming watery shit—wriggled briefly, then were quickly frozen stiff. The family sat beside the fireplace. Chüchü and young brother Shaja were surreptitiously sizing each other up. Dukar sensed all the ingredients of impatience, including trembling with fear. Suddenly, he heard his own words break the rare, relaxing silence, “Sonam’s pa doesn’t know, either, where fish hide in the winter.” He licked his lips. “He told me to ask those Chinese people.” “Did you?” “Yes, but they didn’t understand what I said.” Mama interrupted, “Dukar, don’t bring up such strange ideas. Your uncle has quite a lot of stuff in his head already without your adding weird ideas to it. Now the two of you need to sleep in different places so you won’t muddle his head while he’s sleeping.” Just then, from the building opposite, came loud crying and hearty laughter from people who’d had too much to drink. During the People’s Commune movement, that house, including a lot of its valuables, had been expropriated. All young brother could do was live with his widowed sisterin-law. Back then, when he’d come over with empty hands and not a clue about what he should do, he could hardly keep from throwing himself into Chüchü’s bosom and weeping bitterly. But at that time, her hair was disheveled. And she was glaring and spitting at him. This wasn’t how a young brother of the same generation should be treated; rather, it was how a harsh stepmother treated her predecessor’s sons. Dukar blinked his fish eyes several times: “Then, am I going to sleep with Mama?” Chüchü smiled. She stared sternly at the young brother. “Your uncle will explain, my son.” Shaja knew what would happen in the end and knew all the villagers thought it was already happening. He knew it would be tonight. He knew he had to cross this strategic pass. Since everything—others’ good fortune and the Modo family’s misfortune—was unfolding, well, then, just get on with it. Shaja said, “If your papa were here, he would have told you long ago to sleep apart from the adults.” 67

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-8 Chüchü put his bed in the left wing. In the darkness, Shaja sensed that the widow had taken all her clothes off before burrowing under the wool blanket. The moment she lay down, she said, “Let me look at your body, let my hands look at it.” Chüchü’s hair fell over his face. This was really comfortable. At the same time, the hot air in her mouth rushed at his face. This was thick and sticky. Shaja thought, he wasn’t Dukar’s young female teacher who would find this odor disgusting. Chüchü had already peeled off his undershirt and white cotton underpants. Her hands stopped for a moment at his chest, and then slowly slid down. “Ah, Shaja has already grown up.” When he was ten or eleven, she’d said this all the time. Back then, she hadn’t yet married, and he’d followed her around all day, smelling the sweet fragrance of her body, just like a son following his mother. Back then, she frequently slid into the bend of the river to bathe. Shaja was always with her. First, Shaja drove the fish away with stones and twigs, and then stood watch for her. “You aren’t allowed to turn around,” she always admonished him. He could hear clothes dropping to the ground, strained breathing, and bare feet walking through the grass and sand and entering the water. When she emerged from the water, he always looked at her legs and her belly. Drops of water rolled down one at a time—glistening, translucent light. Back then, she was pretty. Beautiful. Her laughter was both joyful and shy, her eyes sparkled, and her long black hair hung loose. Of course, her face and her worker’s hands were another matter. She also wanted him to kiss her on the mouth. Whenever she bathed, it was like a ritual. She cared tenderly for Shaja. Each time she said, “Look, you’ve grown up a little more.” This came to an end the summer she married his elder brother. Sisterin-law said, “It’s time to take Shaja to bathe.” Elder brother smiled, showing even, pure white teeth, “You think you’re still a girl, Chüchü.” “I just want to take a bath.” In front of Shaja, the elder brother grabbed Chüchü’s breast. He looked as if he were playing a practical joke. “But I want to sleep. The sun is so warm. Just like we did last time, woman, on the floor warmed by the sunshine. Take a bath? What is there about his little cock that’s worth looking at? Come on, just like last time.” 68

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Little Shaja was horrified. He almost burst out screaming. But a little embarrassed, Chüchü turned around and said, “Go by yourself, Shaja. I have something to do.” Elder brother said mockingly, “Go on. We have something to do. Otherwise, the Modo family might die out.” Chüchü’s eyes were brimming with tears, but she still forced a smile. This made her face even uglier. Shaja had gotten only as far as the door when he heard a scream and then another sound. Glaring sunshine filled his eyes. That winter, elder brother left. Then he died. Chüchü’s hands stopped stroking. Stopped at that place. Her body was pressed close. “Look at a woman—with your hands, with your hands.” She drew his hands to her waist. Then Shaja’s hands slid down slowly, and he saw again his still-unmarried cousin bathing at the riverside. He was trembling all over. Chüchü began to cry. She propped her head up in front of Shaja’s frail, thin, small chest. “If your brother had treated me this way, it would have been great.” “I love you, I want you,” Shaja said urgently. But when it really began and then ended, he felt only tension. Nothing else. Now he left the widow’s body and started to loathe her body. The widow fell silent for a little while and then began chattering nonstop. She complained of her fate and cursed his dead elder brother, “He was so handsome. When I saw how handsome my cousin was, I was really honored. Back then, our Modo family was still the richest family, but I couldn’t have imagined I would marry him. He was a damned handsome beast. His white teeth reminded me of the devil.” By then, Shaja was itching unbearably all over. He had never slept naked under a wool blanket. When Chüchü scratched the itch for him, he grew excited again. “Men are just like colts. When they pant like colts exhausted from running, I know something wicked is about to happen.” Shaja mounted her again, as if riding a large horse. He heard himself say, “I want to make you . . . I want to make you . . .” “I want you to give me a beautiful son,” the mare said, gasping for breath, “just like your elder brother!” It took just this one sentence for the whole scene to vanish like a dream. In an instant, Shaja rolled off like a straw man. He was aware only of the ice69

Ti b etan S oul cold sweat on his body. Under the blanket was the rotten sweet smell left after the frenzy—just like what came from memories. What was it that had already rotted at the time his memory began? Certain clans—at the time his own generation’s memories began—were beginning to rot from the inside like big trees. After some cautious inquiries, Chüchü finally understood and then curled up and began to sob. And that confiscated house opposite: from Sonam’s home came the sounds of men’s hearty laughter and women’s screams. Over there, the banquet was in full swing. After slaughtering pigs and sheep, all dignified, well-heeled people gave this kind of banquet—entertaining guests with sausages of fresh pig’s blood, the fattiest pork ribs, and alcohol mixed with honey. They also received tea, alcohol, tobacco, towels, and other gifts from the guests. Hearing that sound, you knew the banquet had already started. Probably everyone was chatting and laughing while savoring the wild, prickly pears—tart and sweet after the frost. But in this house the only sound was the widow weeping. Shaja felt that he must have changed, because his heart had turned ruthless and fearful. Otherwise, how could he enjoy this weeping, or even worse, feel comforted? The weeping sounded like summer’s dragonflies hovering at the riverside, or like honeybees among the flowers. Later, the banquet over there broke up. In the wintry night came the song of a man laden with anxieties: While I was crossing the snowy Kala’er Mountain, my boots rotted. So what if my boots rotted? Mother will sew another pair. Mother, Mother—ah! My boots have already rotted.

After the song ended, there came the kaka sound of the river freezing— and Shaja realized he was shedding tears. The tears were like the sparkling crystal-clear icicles on the willow branches next to the river. Foam splashed up from breaking waves, and when it stuck to the tree branches, it turned into icicles fixed in place. As he was drinking tea in the morning, Dukar grumbled that he couldn’t get warm when he slept by himself. Chüchü said, “Do you think your uncle has internal heat?” Actually, Shaja felt an icy bone-penetrating chill on his back. He looked at 70

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Chüchü. This ugly woman smiled at him, but her smile was helpless and cold. “I,” Dukar suddenly said, “I dreamed of fish.” “Fish?” Chüchü’s hands shook for an instant, and some of the tea spilled out from the bowls she was holding. “I dreamed they told me they were living in the Crystal Palace . . . you know, where the Dragon King lives.” Chüchü interrupted him savagely, “Your fucking fish. You bastard, after you finish eating, go off to school.” When Dukar went downstairs, he swore, “Bitch of a landlord.” But Chüchü didn’t hear him. When Shaja followed him downstairs and reached the courtyard gate, Dukar turned around and Shaja saw that his eyes were filled with tears. “Hey.” As he went on to ask his question, he had the feeling that he was treading on a layer of thin ice on a deep gloomy pool. “Did you say the fish are under the ice?” “They told me they were living in the Crystal Palace, and that their leader was a human fish.” “A human fish?” “The teacher told us a story about a fish like a woman. A woman’s body, a fish’s tail.” Dukar left. Suddenly, Shaja recalled how smooth Chüchü’s thighs were when he stroked them. Was that the human fish’s tail? He just stood there, like a very old man without a new life. Behind his hollow, perplexed eyes, only foggy worries—derived from his recollections—were bobbing up and down. He stood there. It was as if his frame couldn’t support his body, so he finally stretched his hands out and supported himself with the cross-piece of the fence.

-9 It was spring. In the sunlight, the split logs of the fence emitted a faint smell, because the wood contracted in the cold, thus allowing a delicate fragrance to burrow out from the inside. It also brought the cool, pure, fresh smell of morning dew. This proved that inside the split logs the ice had begun

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Ti b etan S oul to quietly melt. At the same time, the back of his hand—positioned on the split logs—also felt the sun’s warmth. From the vast country came a sound—soft and dense, as if it were the sounds of more than ten thousand birds walking. It was the accumulated snow melting and slowly caving in under the sun’s heat. The warm sunshine made him a little tipsy. He had a splitting headache, which nearly made him cry. Suddenly and soundlessly, the new owner of his house appeared and opened his big mouth. “Good neighbor. Your Dukar has eaten enough pork.” “. . . . . . . . . ” “Don’t ignore me. Our Sonam likes that kind of thing.” “Dukar does, too. My family’s Dukar does, too.” “‘My family,’” the hamal of the past and the accountant of the present roared with laughter: “‘My family.’ Then he’s your son. Haha, hahaha . . .” “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong? Accountant.” “No, no.” With one hand, he wiped the tears away from his broad face, and with the other he pounded him on the chest. Shaja staggered backward under the force of this pounding. Finally, with great difficulty, he steadied himself. The accountant’s laughter sounded like the quacking vibration made by wild ducks on the summer river. At such times, the wild ducks threatened the schools of fish that were silently chasing each other. The accountant’s eyes narrowed, and he pressed steadily forward. He said maliciously, “Own up to it, you’re so weak. You sleep with Chüchü every day. You sleep with her every day, don’t you?” “No, no. We don’t.” “Come clean!” Grabbing Shaja’s chest, the accountant yanked at the front of his jacket. Shaja was having trouble breathing. “Last night. Just last night.” “After eating pork?” “Yes. It was after we ate. We love pork. You eat it, too, don’t you?” Chüchü suddenly thrust herself between the two of them. “I heard you laughing, you bastard! Do you want to sleep with me—a landlord’s wife? Bring your pork over in trade.” “Chüchü,” the accountant began laughing, “I was kidding him. The two of you surely wouldn’t sleep together. Shaja wouldn’t do anything like that.” 72

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“Someday, I’ll kill you.” “Good-bye.” Narrowing his eyes, the accountant tipped his hat, “Goodbye.” By this time, Chüchü hoped this guy who was walking backward and whose eyes were alight with sinister fierceness would fall down in the snow or run into the fence. But bending over, he opened the courtyard gate with his duff, buckled his felt hat back onto his head, and turned and swaggered off. That was when Chüchü heard young brother crying. The sunshine was getting warmer and warmer. In the sunlight, smoke from kitchen chimneys mingled with the fragrant smell of mountain forests. On the highway in the distance, the shadow of a stranger appeared in the glittering, glistening heaped-up snow. The winter when the war had just ended, Chüchü had often stood here gazing at the winding highway in the snowy wilds, hoping to see her husband’s familiar silhouette. Even though in the winter of the previous year she had already received unmistakable news of his death, she still hoped that some fluke would give her a miracle. She also knew that her husband hadn’t loved her, and then had taken up weapons and gone off to war. If young brother had had the misfortune to be her husband, he’d have been different. In fact, she’d been hoping all along that a man would come back who could continue the family. Now the person was walking closer and closer. At first, Chüchü and Shaja saw the big, tall, sturdy figure only indistinctly. Only gradually did they notice his thick tangled mustache and an eye-catching scar running from his cheek to his neck. The scar tightened his eyebrows, eyes, and mouth—skewing his whole head slightly to the right. But the expression in his eyes was unruffled and even hinted at a little ferocity. His old and heavy worn-out boots kept moving ahead; unable to avoid the mud and waterlogged depressions, they made a gugu sound. Chüchü reprimanded young brother hastily, “Don’t cry! Someone’s coming!” By then, the new arrival had reached the fence, and had raised his hat a little. “God. Ngawang Chogyal. You’re Ngawang Chogyal.” Chüchü had already recognized him. He had absconded from the village with her husband. Now, when everyone had already forgotten him, he had suddenly appeared with a scar and a big mustache. His blind mama had died years ago. “Your mother is dead,” Chüchü blurted out without thinking. 73

Ti b etan S oul The arrival’s eyes flashed a rather strange look that was difficult to fathom. At last, from behind his thick mustache, came vague words, “A lot of people have died.” “Are you Ngawang Chogyal?” “I’m out of jail.” As he said that, his enunciation became much clearer. Although his answer was irrelevant, presumably that was because he had talked so little for such a long time. “Whom do I report to? They told me to report to the new government. Do I report to you—this woman?” Extracting a few pieces of paper from his chest, he waved them at Chüchü. “No,” this time Shaja chimed in, “No, our family has been classified as landlords.” The man smiled. “I thought so. I know all about landlords. That’s why I didn’t ask for hot tea, even though I’ve been on the road a long time. Nope, it’s not necessary. I’ll go report.” Retreating a step, he removed his hat completely. “I know. You’re Chüchü. Your devilish husband told me to come back and marry you.” Panic-stricken, Chüchü said, “God!” He said to Shaja, “I bet you still haven’t married your widowed sisterin-law.” “What makes you think that?” “Someone on the road told me.” He brought his feet together again, and touched the heels of his worn-out, mud-wet boots. “See you later, folks!” “God!” Covering her forehead again, Chüchü seemed to be fending off an attack that had come out of nowhere.

-1 0 That night, the village had a struggle session. The main one struggled against was the rebel Ngawang Chogyal. Other targets were Chüchü, a landlord’s wife and part of a rebel family, and Shaja, part of a family that was both landlord and rebel. The newcomer came close to transforming the struggle session into a hero’s welcome. No sooner had everyone finished shouting slogans than they heard him say across the fire to the people sitting below, “Greetings, fellow villagers!” “Rebels have no fellow villagers!” “Confess to your crime of counterrevolution!” 74

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But it was as if he were attending someone’s birthday party, or as if it were his own birthday. It was as if he were greeting guests at the front door of his home: he kept smiling. What’s more, he drew sympathetic sighs from the old people and the women. He said he would make a clean breast of his fighting against the PLA. This drew even more cheers from the youth and the students. Still, it was difficult to tolerate a counterrevolutionary as reckless as this guy. Several people charged up and knocked him to the ground. Shaja heard clubs, fists, and feet falling onto the fellow’s body. Shaja was shaking with fear, but he was happy, too, because when the guy arrived, he had talked so rudely to Chüchü. Shaja had already vaguely sensed the threat this fellow represented. Beginning last evening, an endless, dizzying string of things had been coming out of nowhere. He’d lost his bearings. Next, everyone retreated, and before long, the session broke up. This was in the small village square. From the wilds on all sides came a chacha sound again. It was a clear night. By the light of the big bonfire, Shaja saw that half of Ngawang Chogyal’s face was soaked with dirty, black blood, but even this couldn’t cover his scar. Chüchü knelt beside him, one arm pillowing his head. Shaja was at a loss. Looking up again at the twinkling stars filling the sky, he sensed that the stars were slowly spinning overhead. Ngawang Chogyal groaned a few times and slowly opened his eyes. He saw Chüchü and Shaja, and laughed through his pain. Then he propped himself up, stood, and said, “Let’s go home, let’s go home!” And that’s how he came to be part of this impoverished family. He said, Chüchü’s husband had incited him to join the rebellion. For that, he’d been jailed and his family property confiscated—so if he didn’t live here, then where would he live? As soon as he entered the house, he walked over and sat down in the master’s seat, and the words in his mouth never stopped for a rest. “Any wine?” Chüchü shook her head. Shaja said, “So many words. It’s as if you didn’t suffer a painful beating as soon as you came back.” Ngawang Chogyal said rather disdainfully, “So many years, at each new place I’ve moved to, I’ve always had to accept this kind of present given on a first meeting. How could I possibly not have come back? Now, my friend’s wife and son are beside me. Isn’t it a fact that I came out of the freezing 75

Ti b etan S oul cold cement jail cell, and now I’m sitting next to a warm fireplace?” His indignation conveyed his true feelings. Hot tears filled Chüchü’s eyes, and even Shaja was touched. But this person didn’t want people to feel moved. His tone turned sly, “It’s just that there’s no wine. It’s just that this woman hasn’t yet said she’s my woman.” Then he became fully absorbed in tackling the food in front of him: a roasted wheat-flour bun; a pot of tea; a little butter; a few cloves of garlic; and a few boiled potatoes, with a small plate of salt on the side. After finishing everything, he said, “Don’t look at me like that. If you have the strength of an animal, you have the appetite of an animal. Farmers are strong, and so they eat heartily.” If his tone wasn’t bantering, then it was moving and husky. After a brief silence, he asked, “Who do I sleep with?” Chüchü pushed Dukar over, “With him.” With one big hand, Ngawang Chogyal pinched the child’s scrawny arm lightly, and with the other hand he covered the blazing fire with a chimney. He looked up and down. When he looked at Dukar’s bulging fish eyes, he sighed quietly. Naturally, he knew all sorts of legends about the rise and fall of clans in Ke Village. And of course, he knew what these fish eyes implied. His voice turned husky again, “His son?” “Yes, it’s his son, Dukar.” “Okay, Dukar, get your bedding. I can’t sleep in a pitch black room,” Ngawang Chogyal said. “I’ve always wanted to sleep beside a fireplace.” Then, head lowered, he waved his hand, dismissing Chüchü and Shaja. After going to bed, Chüchü kept straining to hear the activity outside her room. First, she heard the fellow moaning, and then her son’s voice reached her, “Did you know my papa?” “Yes.” “I didn’t.” “Because he had already died.” Chüchü heard Ngawang Chogyal say, “Your papa was very handsome, even on the day he died. He was riding a horse, and when the rifle sounded, he waved his hand and fell down and died. He really did wave his hand.” Chüchü’s hand resting on Shaja’s waist waved involuntarily. His mouth on Chüchü’s breast, Shaja began to push himself up. Chüchü shoved him away, and then biting her fingers, she started weeping. “Uncle,” Dukar asked another question, “where do fish hide in the winter?” “Hasn’t anyone told you? No wonder. If I hadn’t fought in the war, I 76

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wouldn’t know, either, that in the winter the fish are under a sheet of ice. One time, the Liberation Army was pursuing us and firing its cannon at us. When we ran to the riverside, the exploding shells blasted the ice. The broken pieces of ice and the fish that died in the explosion fell onto our bodies and in front of our faces. The fish flew up to the sky, their bodies perfectly straight, just like silver birds.” Chüchü couldn’t hear what they said next. In a haze, she saw again the fish of years ago that had flown up with an eagle, then fallen dead before her. Now she saw the fish’s eyes: they seemed quite familiar. She woke up. She heard the beams of the hundred-year-old house chattering endlessly. And so it was that she waited for morning’s first light to climb up to the window lattice. When she got up, Shaja was sound asleep. Only in sleep did his expression lose its anxious look. He was still a baby-face. When he dreamed, he sucked his lips like a child. Chüchü already regretted seducing young brother, her beloved little cousin. You’ll be a little child forever. You slept with me two nights and you almost became a man. What kind of little child are you? she wondered silently. At some indeterminate time, Ngawang Chogyal had quietly pushed the door open, and was intently watching Chüchü tenderly care for the sleeping young brother. Chüchü wasn’t aware of him at all. When she turned around at the sound of a strange laugh, she saw the door close softly. Not until then did she begin pondering what significance this man’s sudden appearance held for her. Just when her head had cleared a little, it blurred again from the sound of her son and the man talking in the other room. As the first rays of the morning sun appeared, she heard her son’s happy voice that was filled with curiosity. She felt doubly happy. Tears slowly filled her eyes. It was this morning that she suddenly began to consider their future, although there was no future for this waning clan that she was supporting. When the tears slowly retreated from her eyes, she fell asleep feeling both happy and worried. The morning light seeping across the windowsill brightened and reflected on her face, which had always looked spiteful and resentful. Her expression always made people believe that a certain kind of miracle had occurred. Now her wrinkles had smoothed out and a faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. 77

Ti b etan S oul By the time she woke up, young brother was awake. She said, “Was I dreaming?” Young brother shook his head, “I don’t know. I just saw you smiling.” “I was dreaming.” She told young brother that, as in the past, she’d been hiding in the river and bathing, stark naked. “And you, too. You stood guard for me, but someone in the woods still stole a look at me.” “Who?” “It was . . . I don’t know who it was. There were also a lot of fish.” “Fish?” Young brother’s expression instantly turned uneasy. “How could you dream of fish? Dreaming of fish isn’t a good omen.” “Forget it!” Chüchü got up at once, and carelessly threw her clothes on. She looked spiteful and resentful again. Right up until she finished brewing the morning tea, she didn’t utter a word. Even when the family drank the tea, no one made a sound. Dukar’s wide-open fish eyes looked by turns at the three adults’ taut faces: they showed no sign of relaxing. He looked dismal. With great caution, he picked up the tea bowl in front of him, fished out the milk residue from inside, and chewed it slowly. When Ngawang Chogyal noticed that he and his uncle alike were grinding their molars quietly, not daring to make a sound, he stroked Dukar’s head tenderly and lovingly with his big hand. He was staring at the child’s mother. “Milk residue is hard and crisp. How can it make no sound?” He patted Dukar’s head, “You need to chew forcefully so that the sound explodes!” Then he turned to Shaja, who was looking submissive, and said, “Even if there’s nothing in your mouth, you still have to chew with an explosive sound!” Listening to talk like this, Shaja and Dukar were even more confused. They ground their molars more and more slowly, and eventually stopped. They simultaneously stole a look at Chüchü. A deeply aggrieved look had replaced her usual spiteful, resentful expression. She said through tears, “I dreamed of fish.” After repeating this, she sobbed broken-heartedly. Once more, she poured out all the hardships she had suffered after her husband left. It was as if he had truly loved her and had left home against his will. Now, this man had suffered as much as any man could, and he took his place next to her again. This man—this bandit, this ex-convict—said, “The fish you dreamed 78

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of—when was this?” “When I was young. When I bathed in the river.” “Didn’t you dream of anything else?” “What?” “Didn’t anyone sneak a look at you bathing?” “When?” “Whenever.” “I dreamed that a person was sneaking a look . . .” “It was me.” “It wasn’t you. Shaja was standing guard for me.” Ngawang Chogyal laughed heartily. Shaja and Dukar lost no time in going downstairs. From outside the door, they could still hear his uninhibited boorish laughter.

-1 1 Actually, in the turning of human affairs, a lot of changes begin quickly. By the time people discover the change, it has become fact. I’m using Chinese here, but in the Ke Village dialect, all of this can be conveyed only by using the past tense. This spring, as people were just noticing the forests beginning to disappear, a lot of mountain slopes were already bald. And the virgin forests on the mountain slopes all around were vanishing at an even faster rate, just as the remains of snow on mountain peaks melted rapidly under the summer sun. In the summer, food was plentiful—and because their forest habitats had been destroyed, leopards and black bears roared with hunger, thereby attracting hunters’ knives, guns and bullets, and even bows and arrows. Day and night, logs floated on the abundant river water. With too much pine resin and fast-rotting tree bark mixed into it, the river stank. Villagers began discussing how to find new, pure, clean drinking water. Fish-eye Dukar often slipped away on his way to primary school in a neighboring village, first because Sonam and other little classmates said they’d heard an adult say that his mother Chüchü slept with his young uncle and a bandit at the same time; and second, because he always thought it was time for the large school of fish to appear next to the shore to spawn. Day after day, he sat on the shore from morning till night, waiting calmly for those

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Ti b etan S oul schools of fish—those feeble yet sensitive, confused, and quiet schools of fish. Dukar sat there quietly. But his fish eyes gazing at the river bulged even more. His nostrils also moved now and then, catching the rotten smell of waterweeds accompanying the school of fish’s arrival. And each time his fish eyes moved from the river, before they filled with disappointment, his black-and-gray pupils reflected an endless stream of logs floating toward the lower reaches. He no longer saw the perfection of the large river of past years. When the school of fish didn’t show up on schedule, he felt as if he’d lost his soul. He couldn’t think. Sitting at home, he didn’t make a sound, either. It was an early Sunday morning. Dukar was waiting at the riverside again. Unexpectedly, at the place where he had frequently stopped before, he saw a logger holding a bamboo pole and standing still for a long time on the shore. From the tip of his bamboo pole, a fine line seemed to have dropped into the water: the line quivered lightly like a piano string. The river today seemed to be on vacation: no one was frantically scurrying and barging around in the water to load the floating logs. Dukar stopped and looked carefully, but it was still difficult to see what the man was holding, or what he was using it for. Now, the person pulled the bamboo pole, and the very long fine line that was hidden underwater came out along with the pole. Dukar saw two fine, small ink-black iron hooks at the end of the line. The person clasped the bamboo pole to his chest and held it in place with his shoulder, attached two wriggling earthworms to the iron hooks, and then threw the baited hooks back into the water. Dukar’s eyes dropped— not tracking the iron hooks thrown into the water, but fascinated instead by a bamboo basket at the person’s waist. When he smelled the fish putting up a last-ditch struggle, he could also smell a lot of slobbery, slippery matter on their bodies. Sure enough, one fish was still struggling for its life in the narrow bamboo basket. Dukar was shocked. His head was buzzing, and he felt a cool gloss oozing from his body. His only thought was that he wanted to throw himself into the water, and receive the full implications of the water’s gentle consolation and oppression, and even lie quietly beneath the water. Undoubtedly, just then, his feeling was the same as that of the fish in the basket. Just then, the school of fish quietly showed up. Dukar murmured over and over, “They’ve come, they’ve come.” But he hadn’t realized that in an instant fish would fill the river before 80

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him. It was only when the person flung the bamboo pole and tossed a fish in front of his feet that Dukar grew alarmed. The person came over swiftly, and laughed—haha. But Dukar—mouth wide open—saw the person take the fish off the hook and effortlessly put the fish into the bamboo basket. He finally understood what the bamboo pole was for and how the fish went into the bamboo basket at the person’s waist. This was the first time he’d seen someone catch fish. And fishing with a pole was the first method he’d seen humankind use to catch fish. The person saw more and more fish in the water, and—just like hunters spotting herds of animals—he let out a signal. Before long, several dozen fishing poles densely covered the river. The fishing poles rose and fell. The sounds of fish rising out of the water and the sounds of fish soaring into the air and then being flung to the shore rose and fell, too—patterpattering. By this time, Dukar had forgotten where he was. He was feeling all the suffering that the fish were enduring, as if he himself had opened wide his hopelessly foolish mouth and swallowed earthworms whole, and the earthworms were still wriggling in his stomach and giving off a strong warm smell of soil mixed with blood . . . When Dukar closed his mouth, his confusion had already given way to clear-headedness. By this time, people saw that their fish baskets were full, and their bait used up. Even though the river was still thick with fish, they had to stop. Someone patted his head. Dukar already had a splitting headache, but this pat cleared his head a little. The fishermen went back fully loaded. Laughing and joking, they walked off into the distance. And, as if in a dream, Dukar gazed at the silly fish hidden from view at the bottom of the river. These things actually had to eat things, he thought, and he couldn’t help feeling slightly nauseated. They’d eaten such ugly, feeble earthworms. Yet, earlier, the grown-ups had said fish were pathetic things that consumed only water. They’d said they were clean and mysterious. But today, with his own eyes, he’d seen them swallow earthworms and give up their lives in vain. It was now almost dusk. Above the water, scattered mosquitoes were fluttering, and the fish had begun leaping. Dukar was familiar with fish leaping at dusk—he’d witnessed it countless times—but it wasn’t until today that he saw that, when their bodies soared the highest and they opened their toothless mouths, they were catching the flitting mosquitoes. 81

Ti b etan S oul Dukar murmured, “Mosquitoes, too. Mosquitoes, too.” When he got home, Chüchü asked, “What’s wrong with you?” “They actually eat earthworms. Mosquitoes, too.” “They?” “The fish.” “You’re crazy.” Mother said sternly, “Who has seen . . . eat those things?” “They ate them.” Mother noticed his dull-witted appearance and shouted sternly again, “You mustn’t say such crazy things.” Shaja turned to Ngawang Chogyal, willing him to stop Chüchü. Clasping Dukar to his chest, Ngawang Chogyal said to Chüchü, “Something has frightened him badly. You mustn’t frighten the little guy still more.” Chüchü turned around and wiped away the tears flowing from her eyes. Ngawang Chogyal told Dukar to drink some tea to warm up. Only when the boy’s light shivering had slowly subsided did he ask Dukar to tell them what had happened. Ngawang Chogyal laughed, “You saw people fishing. Child, people fish and eat fish in lots of places. There are very few places where people don’t fish and eat fish.” “But the fish ate earthworms. Mosquitoes, too.” Shaja and Chüchü finally tumbled to what had happened. They felt ashamed—Chüchü because of her contrariness, Shaja because of his ineptitude. Their eyes betrayed gratitude and admiration for Ngawang Chogyal. Stroking Dukar’s pale, bony little hand, he planted a kiss on his lips, lowered his voice, and said, “Dukar, you’re amazing. You’re the first person in Ke Village to discover that fish eat things. Back when I was fighting the war, I saw a lot of fish slowly devouring cows and horses, just like ants devouring injured thrushes. Back then, when I was fighting the war . . .” He cut himself off abruptly. He looked up at the ceiling—pitch-black from years of being exposed to smoke and singed by fire. He thought of saying that he’d also seen fish nibble people’s corpses, that he’d seen fish so hungry that they’d eaten dead people. Just then, a light breeze blowing in from the opposite shore slipped through the window, bringing an aroma that he was quite familiar with. The others also smelled this aroma that had come out of nowhere. Their faces showed surprise. 82

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He walked over to the window, and saw that on the opposite shore, the lumberyard’s kitchen chimney was spitting sparks and dense smoke into the still night. He turned around and said, “They’re cooking fish. That’s what we smell.” No one said a word. He went on, “Fish is delicious. I ate it when I was in jail—with lard, scallions, salt, and the fresh ginger that’s available only in other places.” No one responded. In the reflection of the fire, their faces were now bright, now dark. The aroma of fish was now weak, now strong, depending on the strength of the wind. Chüchü lifted her hand, looked at it closely, removed a ring, and gave it to Shaja. She said, “Go over to Sonam’s house and trade this for a kilo of candy for Dukar and a flask of wine for you two men.” Sonam’s father—besides being the brigade’s accountant—had opened a commissary for the supply and marketing cooperative, selling candy, wine, pipe tobacco, novel flashlights, colorful and pretty nylon socks, and strong poisonous pesticides. Shaja left obediently. “You really don’t have to do this,” Ngawang Chogyal said to Chüchü. “Trading a ring for food isn’t a good deal.” Chüchü smiled sadly, “I don’t suppose anyone will be around to inherit these things.” Ngawang Chogyal sighed, unable for the moment to think of any soothing words. But Chüchü said, “After you came here, we’ve had an easier time of it. I’ve thought it over and over and I’ve concluded that I can’t go on being miserable forever, even if this family dies out. Anyhow, with a man like you, this family has now become a family.” He had never imagined that such a perverse woman could come up with sympathetic, reasonable words so befitting her position. For a while, he couldn’t find the right response. He just scratched his head and laughed. Chüchü said abruptly, “I’ll go and make up Shaja’s bed. You don’t know: he’s a useless, pathetic person. He can never become a man. Not in a lifetime.” With that, she turned around hastily and disappeared into the dark interior where the firelight didn’t reach.

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-1 2 When Shaja woke up in the morning, he had a splitting headache, and his mouth and tongue were dry. He was fleetingly unaware of where he was sleeping, and his widowed sister-in-law Chüchü wasn’t beside him, either. Slowly, he realized that he was sleeping in the storage room, but—except for him, the bearskin and bedding under him, and the quilt over him—all that was left in the so-called storage room were the clothes one had to wear for holidays and visiting. And several pheasants that Ngawang Chogyal had killed when he went hunting. He had personally plucked the feathers out of those pheasants, picked out the innards, and hung them up there. Now, the meat was already air-dried, and they were swaying slightly in the air. Shaja’s heart was empty. The cavity in his heart seemed like a brilliant, splendid abyss. His body—along with the whole outside world—was falling gently like a feather. This bottomless abyss made the falling person feel that he was hovering. He thought, Dukar liked fish so much, and this hovering feeling turned at once into the feeling of fish floating with the stream. He felt as if he were sound asleep again, and a weary yet happy smile appeared on his face. His lips wriggled, just like a newborn baby searching for his mother’s nipple. His unlined adult face was as smooth as a baby’s. He dreamed that he had hovered near the bottom of the abyss, where he’d seen smooth gravel at the bottom of the water mingled with the silvery white radiance refracted from the pure white quartz and bits of mica in the gravel. As he looked for traces of the fish underwater, a scream awakened him with a start. After determining that he wasn’t the one who had screamed, Shaja laughed with relief. Ah, death was actually also a light matter—so much so that it was rather beautiful. It was like feathers soaring aloft or like fish drifting with the current. He heard the scream again. It was his widowed sisterin-law Chüchü’s scream. And then he heard the man’s comforting voice. Chüchü began weeping, the sound resounding more and more. The room grew lighter and lighter. A new day arrived like this. Shaja gazed intently at the shadows shrinking back toward the corners of the windows and then vanishing. He smiled again and turned over. He pricked up his ears and listened. Chüchü had stopped weeping. Shaja got up and slipped quietly out of the room. Dukar was standing at the door to his mother’s room. When Du84

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kar saw his uncle, his fish eyes bulged even more intensely and he almost started screaming. Warning him with gestures and looking furtive, Shaja came over quietly and planted his ear at a crack in the door. Chüchü was telling Ngawang Chogyal, sleeping beside her, of the nightmare she’d just had. She’d dreamed of the premonition she had before her father died— the fish that had dropped down beside her when she was pulling weeds, the big fish that had been caught by an eagle and dropped to its death beside her. She said: in my dream, after the big fish rotted, its odor turned into a weight that pressed tightly against my chest. “Right here, feel it with your hand. Yes, right here.” Shaja felt another headache coming on. The blood vessels in his temples were throbbing madly—like a hammer pounding. “You have to be good to me,” he heard again, “and you have to be good to Shaja and Dukar, too.” “Of course.” “Take your hand away, you.” Ngawang Chogyal’s self-satisfied laughter—as if he were intoxicated— came out from the crack in the door. It was low and a little husky—much like the laughter of a conceited man. He had no sooner stopped laughing than he asked, “Is it true that Shaja can’t do what men do?” These words crashed against Shaja’s eardrums. Horrified, Shaja deserted his post at the door. Dukar had left earlier. Trembling, Shaja steadied himself in front of his bed. Dukar came in quietly, touched the hand at his side, and said, “Let’s go look at the fish.” There were no fish in the river. The river was shrouded in heavy fog. Without a word, uncle and nephew took seats on dew-drenched rocks. They could still smell the faint odor left behind by the school of fish. They waited patiently. The school of fish was hiding in the deep water. They would emerge only when the sun came out and broke up the fog and when the silt at the river bottom grew warm. Without looking at each other, uncle and nephew sat woodenly for a while. It was as if their souls were responding to each other, or as if they had simultaneously taken orders from something mysterious. The two of them stood up at the same time and left the riverbank. When the row of wooden houses at the lumberyard appeared before them, Shaja said to his nephew, “Fish eaters live there.” Uncle and nephew went through the square surrounded by wooden 85

Ti b etan S oul houses. A basketball backboard was set up there. Those people playing ball, those washing their faces, and those standing around shooting the breeze called the two of them fellow villagers and gave them friendly smiles. In the roomy mess hall, they smelled the aroma from the night before. Uncle and nephew sat there, captivated by this aroma. Someone gave them a plate of steamed bread and ladled out two bowls of soup. “We’ve finished all the meat. Have a little soup.” He went on to say we have to strengthen the solidarity between workers and peasants, and the solidarity between the nationalities. Uncle and nephew ate their fill. When they left the mess hall, they could still taste the soup: it had been indescribably delicious. They looked up to see the accountant’s son Sonam shooting baskets with several classmates. Every day on the way to school, they detoured to play here for a while. One pal told Dukar to go to school, too. Shaking his head, Dukar dodged away. Sonam said, “Don’t pay any attention to that son of a landlord!” The cook was seeing Shaja and Dukar off when he happened to hear this, and asked, “He’s the son of a landlord?” At the answer, he looked regretful. “What a waste of my fish soup.” Sonam said, “They ate fish?” “No. It was the broth from boiling fish.” Sonam said, “I’m going to tell Aba and the teacher.” Shaja was so stunned that he had no idea when the students and the others left.. For a long time, he listened to his heart pulsing—thump-thump. It seemed his heart would break out of his chest. He actually thought he’d eaten a fish that was now struggling to come out. He felt ice-cold all over. It was Dukar who came back and led him away from the square. Dukar said, “Come on, Uncle.” With this, he led his distracted uncle— face paper-white—over to a garbage dump. By this time, the sun was out, and the garbage smelled foul. The strongest odor was the stench of fish. A lot of fins sparkled in the sunlight, and a lot of fish bellies were covered with flies. When the two human shadows moved a little, the flies dispersed with a buzzing sound. They hadn’t flown far, though, before they pounced again, their wings glistening with silver light from the fish fins. Playing with two swollen air bladders that he had picked up, Dukar paid no attention when Uncle Shaja walked off on his own. On the way home, he saw the loggers erecting a bridge between the village and the lumberyard. In the morning, uncle and nephew had crossed at this spot. 86

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Now, these people were placing planks on the bridge. Most of them saw how Shaja fell into the river. It was somewhere between losing his footing and deliberately committing suicide. They also noticed that Dukar wasn’t the least bit aware of the adult falling into the water. He was enthralled with the fish bladders. After crossing the bridge, he walked into the middle of a large expanse of level, velvety green wheat fields. Several beautiful wild pigeons danced in the sunlit air, and cuckoo calls rose and fell.

-1 3 After Uncle died, Dukar stopped going to school. Every day, he wandered around distractedly. He learned how to dig up and take care of earthworms from the loggers who liked to fish. Below the dark, dank wall, he dug out an area the size of a fireplace, collected stones and cleaned them, then went all over in search of rotten garbage, mixed it carefully, put the earthworms into it, and covered it with sod. After two night rains, the grass in the sod was growing more emerald green and more uniform than elsewhere. Contending with the burning hot sun, he also tied willow twigs together to fashion an exquisite fence around the sod. He had turned the place for raising earthworms into a superb stage for children’s plays. But the villagers all said, Dukar—the landlord’s fish-eye child—has gone mad. Now it was mid-summer. The wooden bridge linking the lumberyard and Ke Village was finished and named Solidarity Bridge. Its surface was level, and its two sides beautifully decorated. The people on the two shores frequently crossed back and forth. If it hadn’t been difficult for the Ke villagers to accept the workers’ fishing and eating fish, the relations between the two sides would surely have drawn even closer. In the entire village, Dukar and his de facto stepfather, Ngawang Chogyal, were probably the only ones who didn’t mind this. In accord with local customs, Ngawang Chogyal and Chüchü’s style of marriage was one that everyone could approve of. Not one villager knew that it didn’t conform to China’s marriage law. But, instigated by higher authorities, the village authorities convened 87

Ti b etan S oul meetings three times in a row to criticize and denounce Chüchü and Ngawang Chogyal for the new crime of undermining the marriage law. Dukar wasn’t very brave and didn’t dare stay home alone at night, so he took part in the large meetings, too. Fish-eyes bulging, he smiled sheepishly at everyone who stared at him. Sonam had already learned Chinese and was the leader of a Communist youth group. Each time, before the criticism and denunciation, he came out and read an article from the newspaper. At this, everyone compared the two children’s behavior and intelligence, and sighed with regret over one family’s decline. We didn’t understand political changes. We knew only how the constellations of fate revolved. No one could be found to speak out at the last criticism and denunciation meeting. In the end, the officials talked a lonely old woman into speaking. She said, actually in the past everyone knew if widows wanted to find men, this was the way to do it. The crux of the matter was that they didn’t take care of this child. He didn’t go to school and he didn’t work hard. They let him tend earthworms. Like fish, earthworms were clean and pitiful creatures that didn’t eat things. They were even more pitiful than fish. Fish had eyes, and they could see a lot of scenery and events, but earthworms were like ill-fated old women—things that burrowed into the earth and saw nothing at all. The old woman choked with sobs. At last, she exhorted Ngawang Chogyal to be a responsible foster father and do a good job of disciplining this child. This suggestion brought sounds of approval from the old people. The criticism and denunciation meeting ended amid sighs, conversation, and young people’s laughter. Following precedent, those who had been criticized and denounced stayed behind. They had to extinguish the campfire and sweep the ground clean before they could leave. As Chüchü wielded the broom, she cursed her fish-eye son in venomous language. She intended to hit him hard with the broom to vent the anger in her heart. A lot of villagers heard the shua-shua sound of the ground being swept, and the sound of vicious cursing. She cursed all of the world’s animate objects and all of its inanimate objects, she cursed fate, she cursed the son she’d given birth to, and she even cursed her dead husband. Many people regretted having spoken at the criticism and denunciation session: they thought even if she died right then, she could still return as a ghost’s evil spirit and 88

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bring them endless harm. People also heard Ngawang Chogyal slap her face viciously—one slap after another. It was a warm spring night, but the slaps resounded like the winter sound of ice breaking up in the river—crisp, clear, and resonant. People from Sonam’s family and several other families climbed atop roofs to watch. Ngawang Chogyal slapped Chüchü repeatedly, sending her spinning like a windmill. Her hair and clothes flew up in the air. Ngawang Chogyal didn’t utter a word. Not until Chüchü turned from swearing to weeping and wailing did he stop slapping her. Chüchü lay down in the small village square and cried her heart out. Ngawang Chogyal sat down, lit a cigarette, and said, “I just don’t want you to curse for no reason. If you want to cry, go ahead. When women have cried enough, they feel a little better.” Chüchü still lay in the dust and wept. The campfire gradually died out, and the moon gradually rose. The faint radiance of the small crescent moon enveloped the village, as well as the wheat fields and river outside the village. The mountain’s flickering shadows grew silent and still. Everything was like an illusion, like the mysterious background in a mythical drama. Looking up at the sky, Ngawang Chogyal noticed that the moon was bringing huge circles of mist, portending a windstorm. But the night air lacked the oppressiveness usually associated with wind and rain. The night dew fell. The moon rose even higher. The logged mountain slopes had lost their forest cover, revealing rocks and glistening silvery shifting sands—like the face of a savage ghost. When Ngawang Chogyal looked down, he saw that Chüchü had stopped crying. She had lifted her pallid face and was looking at him. He said, “The night dew has come up.” Chüchü said, “Let’s go home.” Then Ngawang Chogyal said, “The year when we were being pursued and we were hiding all over, we spent the night in the open, looking at the stars and looking at the moon and watching the dew come up.” He suddenly lowered his voice and laughed, “I also watched salt grow slowly out of my beard. Back then, your dead husband cursed the weather. Why does your whole family always have to swear at something?” Chüchü shook her head, her expression blank. “It was even harder to get through those days,” he said. 89

Ti b etan S oul “You hit me.” “I might hit you again.” The first light of dawn had appeared. In the blink of an eye, cotton-like clouds filled the sky. Before long, these light gray clouds turned into a sky filled with a magnificent early morning glow. Suddenly, Chüchü said, “My son——where did my son go?”

-1 4 When Chüchü and Ngawang Chogyal got home, they discovered that Dukar had destroyed the place where he was raising earthworms, including the neat emerald-green sod and the ingenious fence. He had also left a wide-mouthed glass bottle next to the hearth. Dukar had selected all his cans and bottles from the garbage at the lumberyard. First, Chüchü heard a slight gurgling sound—delightful, yet strange. As morning’s crimson sunlight shone through the window, Chüchü almost thought she was hearing the prelude to the legendary immortal music coming from heaven. Not until she looked for the source of the sound did she notice the glass bottle of earthworms. At once, a look of dread appeared on her face. The tiny pink earthworms climbed up high, looking for a way out. When they ran into the bottle lid, they instantly dropped hopelessly to the bottom of the bottle. She was intrigued, for when their soft bodies fell to the bottom of the bottle they made a delightful sound. In a flash, she covered her eyes. She utterly detested this half-crazy, halfdull-witted son who was so consumed with such disgusting things. Chüchü remembered that when the recently deceased young brother Shaja was a child, his voice and face were always smiling. This moment seemed the same as many years ago. She thought of him as her son. Through the cracks between her fingers, Chüchü saw the shadows stored up and left in the corners, and she saw the sorrow in her heart. It was difficult to dispel that sorrow. She tried hard not to look at these things. She turned toward the window and looked at the clouds—the pure white clouds. When Ngawang Chogyal placed the bubbling hot morning tea in her hands, she smiled at him. “It’s better this way,” he said. She said abruptly, “If my son weren’t Dukar but had instead been Shaja,

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that would have been great.” Ngawang Chogyal was silent for a long time, watching her lost in thought as she gazed out the window at the clouds floating in the sky. Then he said, “But Shaja is dead.” “But why did he eat fish?” “Fish are edible. Most people consider fish delicious. I’ve eaten fish, too.” Chüchü said softly, “What’s this all about?” Ngawang Chogyal moved his lips, then swallowed back the words that had been on the tip of his tongue and didn’t answer. Just then, the door downstairs creaked open. And then cautious footsteps sounded on the stairs—cat-like footsteps peculiar to Dukar, who, once upstairs, went over to the fireplace. Ngawang Chogyal noticed that he was trembling from excitement, but he deliberately ignored him. Dukar’s fish-eyes sparkled with light, and his cheeks were flushed. But recalling his mother’s stern criticism, he made an effort to restrain himself and made no sound while eating breakfast. He didn’t look as distracted as he used to, though. He set his bowl down very quickly, and—for the first time—followed his mother’s instructions and wiped his mouth. Only then did he blurt out, “I saw the fish.” Chüchü had seen that he was in high spirits, and she had also noticed that this time he ate his breakfast the way normal people did. She felt a welcome change beginning in her heart—and in her son’s. She lifted the kettle and poured bowls of hot tea for the robust man, herself, and her son. Just then, Dukar had said what he had said. She was about to flare up. She’d heard old folks say, a bad temper is a tiny finger-sized person living under the left side of one’s chest. Chüchü pressed on the left side of her chest and said dryly, “Don’t you go to see the fish every day?” Ngawang Chogyal laughed, “You need to know that the river is so full of damn wood that the fish aren’t there every day.” Dukar whispered, “The fish I saw weren’t in the river.” Chüchü couldn’t keep from trembling as she remembered the fearful scene of the fish dropping down beside her from the eagle’s talons. Her voice shaking, she asked, “Where?” “In a big water hole.” Ngawang Chogyal had been on the verge of saying something when the bell calling people to work sounded dangdang. The two adults stood and 91

Ti b etan S oul took up tools for hoeing weeds. When they left, Chüchü locked the door. She didn’t want Dukar to go out again. It was hard to keep ominous feelings from rising in her heart. It was a sunny day, yet the faint rumble of thunder was coming oppressively and constantly from somewhere behind the mountain ridges. It seemed there would be a heavy afternoon rainfall. When they hoed weeds in the fields, people kept sympathizing with them for suffering criticism and denunciation because of living together. If the day hadn’t gradually turned overcast and the air hadn’t become increasingly oppressive, Chüchü would surely have been happy. The clouds began turning black, and—like mountain peaks of varied shapes—gradually towered aloft in the far reaches of the sky. More often than not when the cloud mountains collapsed, it was when the rain came, but today the only sound was the oppressive rumbling of thunder. The steam on the bare mountain slopes rushed straight up to the skies. With their signs of approaching rain, the clouds were catapulted anew to higher air. Towering aloft again, they took the shapes of steep precipitous cliffs, furious lions, and fierce dragons. In this abnormal weather, people felt an unaccustomed terror. Someone rushed back to the village entrance and struck an abandoned steel pipe—the signal to knock off for the day. Thunder began rumbling again, and lightning plunged like arrows into the cliffs and the few surviving solitary big trees. The acrid smell of gun smoke filled the air. The Ke villagers were the same as the multitudinous Chinese: they experienced, recalled, and told the next generation of these unpredictable, yet inevitable, circumstances. First, the cloud mountains had never before collapsed like this and then towered aloft again so many times. Second, the burning smell of saltpeter in the air had never been so strong. While the adults hid panic-stricken in the houses, the children crowded out of the houses, assembled in the small village square, and shouted gleefully. When Chüchü entered the house, she found that the glass bottle packed with earthworms had disappeared. One by one, she checked each room— those that housed people, as well as those that didn’t. Dukar wasn’t in any of them. The sound of thunder rolled down again from the recesses of the sky. When Chüchü looked up, she saw a bolt of lightning lashing down, as if it were a heavy, swift, fierce golden whip—as if it had twitched her heart. 92

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Chüchü screamed. Her back sticking to the rough old stone wall, she slipped down and sat on the ground. She murmured, “Son, my son.” Hearing her voice, Ngawang Chogyal came over and put his arm around her shoulders. He wanted to comfort this pitiful woman. He coaxed her to look up and was frightened by the ominous look in her eyes. Her expression was gleaming, and hollow. He was familiar with this distinctive expression. It was the gently weak and silent expression of the fish. It was the expression in Dukar’s eyes. It was the expression in the eyes of the late Shaja when he was grieving or indulging in a certain kind of fantasy. And now this expression had appeared on the face of this woman who refused to submit to fate. He felt as if the rainwater that was like a churning waterfall in the recesses of the sky had already poured down. The sky was growing darker. He said, “I’ll go and bring him back.” When he went through the large wheat field in front of the village, there was a strong smell of mud. It was as if he were going far away from his home village. He felt confused. It was the first time he had heard himself speak with despair, “Where are you? Where are you?”

-1 5 Another clap of thunder reverberated, but Dukar was unaware of it. What he heard was merely the muffled sound of the slapping of his palms. He was imitating the fishermen’s movements—something he’d practiced countless times. Now he was slowly extending his fingers. Thin, long, and pale in the joints, his fingers might have been an artist’s. A tender earthworm that had been slapped by the wind stretched itself out in such a way as to become ominous bait on the fishhook. Because he’d practiced it lots of times in the air, Dukar wielded the fishing pole with great facility. The fishhook and sinker dropped precisely into the two-meter-square water hole. The water hole was in the center of a willow grove. Although it was now noon, it seemed like dusk because of the increasingly dense layers of clouds. It was even gloomier and darker in the willow grove. As he held the stolen fishing pole, Dukar was unaware of the changes all around him.

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Ti b etan S oul Ever since yesterday, when he’d discovered that the person at the lumberyard—the one who had designed the plans for bridge repair and road construction—had left the fish here to breed so that he could make a profit later on, he’d been in a state of heightened excitement. Now, he dropped the tasty bait down. He wanted these things that had tasted earthworms once to taste earthworms again—and after they had swallowed one sharp ingenious fishhook, to swallow another sharp ingenious fishhook. But affected by the oppressive, suffocating air and the vibrations from the rumbling thunder, the fish lay quietly and unmoving in the silt. And of course they paid no attention to how weak and limp the fisherman’s frail hand and wrist had become. Dukar’s calm expression began to be replaced by bafflement, anger, supplication, and despair. Finally, he threw the fishing pole away, opened his mouth, and started crying soundlessly. By then, the oppressive thunder had finally ripped open the heavy black clouds, and after an explosive sound that shook heaven and earth, the torrential rains pelted down. The rain struck as violently as whips. Willow leaves fell in profusion. Each raindrop could soak through clothing upon contact. When people felt the iciness and weight of the first raindrops, it was as though their skin had been peeled off. Dukar suddenly began screaming—each sound more piercing than the last. When he stopped to listen closely to the echo of his voice, he could hear only the clamoring rain—a powerful, overbearing sound filling the world. By this time, the flowing torrential rains had flooded over his feet. Floating on the water’s muddy surface were dry, decayed tree limbs, insects whose nests had been destroyed, and some once glossy and magnificent feathers. The water grew more and more turbulent. Even the mud underfoot and the broken stones began flowing. At this moment, Dukar noticed that the fish in the water hole had floated up one by one. Many had already emerged from the water hole and fallen with thuds into the rapidly flowing silt. Finally, he found a wooden club. He jumped up and clubbed the fish with it. He was thrilled by the thuds of the fish. As he beat the fish, he felt scared and weak. This was making him even crazier. This heavy, violent rainstorm continued for a very long time. If Ngawang Chogyal hadn’t found him just then, this fish-eye youth would surely have died of exhaustion on the spot. Ngawang Chogyal wrest94

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ed the wooden club from him and clasped him to his chest. Watching the dead fish turn over time after time in the muddy water, he thought they still seemed alive. One moment, they were arching their dark backs; the next moment, exposing their white bellies. In this way, one by one, the dead fish vanished from view and converged in the big river with all the other things washed away by the storm. The sound of thunder gradually grew distant. The rain finally stopped. Leading Dukar by the hand, Ngawang Chogyal went through the willow grove. By then, the sun was casting golden rays through the cracks in the layers of clouds, and the world was filled with the sound of turbulent flowing water. After being washed by the rainstorm, the bare mountain slopes were a mottled brown, as if they had been plowed under. “Let’s go home. Your mama is waiting for you,” Ngawang Chogyal said gently to the badly frightened child. “I don’t want fish anymore.” “Okay. Okay.” “I don’t want them.” Even more sunlight poured down, and the scattered birdcalls coming from behind them seemed especially refreshing and lingering. The muddy river water that had suddenly risen flush with the surface of the bridge was made metallic by the reflection of the sunlight, and it sounded powerfully wild. All of the smells of all the mountain wilds surged up from the river water.

-1 6 Ngawang Chogyal and Fish-eye Dukar never made it back to Ke Village. Along with the newly built bridge, they vanished from sight. The one who had designed this bridge and who liked to fish was sentenced to a prison term, because the bridge had not lasted nearly as long as his design had promised. Two years later, the lumberyard moved away, and the bridge could never be restored. When I went home this year, I ran into Sonam, the dead Dukar’s neighbor. Back then, Ke Village had no school, and he and Dukar had both gone

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Ti b etan S oul to school in our village. When we ran into each other, he and two of his men were painting slogans in red on the power poles, buildings, and flat cliffs. The slogans prohibited indiscriminate logging of the forests and indiscriminate catching of wild animals. One of them prohibited blowing up the fish in the river. Because more and more people ate fish now, there were fewer and fewer fish in the river. When we talked of fish, we talked, too, of Dukar’s family. Not long before the central government announced that landlords would no longer be struggled against and would now be rehabilitated, Chüchü had died. Sonam said, “After everyone in her family died, her disposition improved instantly—and remained so right up until she died.”

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I

am writing this thing in June of 1992 in the place where this story happened. I am in the guest room of the monastery. It is quiet on all sides. If you look up, on the ridge of the roof of the main hall you can see copper deer standing without ever getting tired and sleepy. They stand there to guard the Wheel of Law. Between these glittering creatures and me is a grassy meadow filled with small yellow flowers. This is also the source of a famous large Chinese river, and the fragrance of its clean waters suffuses the clear air. I can’t help but smile as I write a swarm of bees fluttering. I’ve barely finished writing this when I sense flickering rays of light and hear graceful music coming from an unknown source. In this state, I begin my story.

Rainbow or Buddha Light This room was once Mr. Sang Muden’s. After Sang Muden went to America, the monastery’s Management Committee and the Living Buddha jointly decided to use it as a guest room for visiting scholars. Everyone said that Sang Muden was an intriguing figure. While he was still in middle school, he was renowned for his intelligence and indolence. The story begins when he was young, on a day when he and a group of classmates—both boys and girls—went on a picnic. The vast grasslands had finally begun to welcome the transient summer, and because Sang Muden was interested in mathematics at that time, he compared the grasslands’ vastness with the brevity of the season. “These things are essentially fucking out of proportion!” They had inadvertently chosen an important day for their picnic. It 97

Ti b etan S oul was on this very day that the incarnation of the Living Buddha—dead for seventeen years—had been predicted to appear. Thus, when the students set out early that morning, the Buddhist monks from the monastery where I was now staying were setting out at the same time. They traveled at top speed the whole way and reached the shores of Sacred Lake at noon. Pure white gulls whirled around above the water, and in the distance, a column of blue smoke ascended to the azure sky. Naturally, the monks considered all of these signs auspicious. Below the column of smoke—rising like a ladder straight toward heaven—were the picnicking young people. Nearby, a herd of horses roamed, and two of the middle-school boys each caught a white one. As their admiring companions watched, the two boys galloped toward the horizon. At the shores of Sacred Lake, one of the boys was recognized by the monks as the incarnation of the Living Buddha. Sang Muden rode back alone, a sad look on his face because—he said—the monks had chosen his best friend and not him. He said to the herdsman putting the horse out to graze, “The new Living Buddha rode off on your white horse. Later, I’ll tell him to compensate you for it.” Alarmed, the herdsman covered Sang Muden’s mouth with his hand, and then this handsome fellow prostrated himself and began kowtowing in the direction of Sacred Lake. Sang Muden had not become a Living Buddha, but he was young, happy, and free. After graduating from college, Sang Muden became a mathematics teacher at a middle school. He started to grow a beautiful but flyaway beard, though he himself was not flighty nor was he the sort of person who chased after happiness in all directions. His work was very much welcomed, but he himself was preoccupied. Finally he said to the principal, “I want to resign.” He said to the principal, who thought he was joking again, “I want to find a place to learn a little something about the sutras.” So it was that Sang Muden came to this very monastery. He set up the bookcases that stand behind me now, and worked at the table where I sit writing. The Living Buddha had been his classmate and good friend in the past. But in Sang Muden’s tonsure ceremony, the Living Buddha pretended not to recognize him. In a sincere and emotional voice, Sang Muden called his good friend’s name, saying, “I thank you with all my heart.” The Living Buddha said to me, “I don’t know why I wasn’t happy that he came.” 98

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I said, “Actually, you do know.” The Living Buddha said, “I told him he could not call me directly by name. It seemed as if his beard had ridicule in it, so I told someone to shave it off.” After his beard was shaved, he looked sincere. A little apologetically, the Living Buddha said, “You are not an exception. I also need to give you a religious name.” “I don’t want any religious name. I didn’t come here for your kind of career. I just came to learn a little something about the sutras.” These words were unusually rash and ill-mannered, yet they aroused the interest of the most learned scholar Geshe Lharampa. This scholar had been the Living Buddha’s tutor in the classics for more than ten years, and gradually he had begun to feel disappointed in his student’s lack of understanding and natural talent. Geshe Lharampa said to Sang Muden, “Study Buddhism’s basic teaching of the inner light with me. It is grand and profound, and infinitely abstruse.” That day, the geshe lectured on Long Shu’s “Middle Theory.” He said all things and all phenomena were nothing but emptiness, and yet this “emptiness” was not nothing. The Living Buddha listened for a long time but didn’t get the main points. He seemed to lack the ability to think metaphysically. Sang Muden said, “Gee. It isn’t as difficult as mathematics.” He also said to the living Buddha, “Back when we were schoolboys, you weren’t good at math. You have to slow down.” After that, the Living Buddha refused to attend classes with Sang Muden. Sang Muden sat at the desk where I am sitting now and opened a sutra that Geshe Lharampa had not yet studied completely. Sunlight shone through the window, and the characters written in gold powder sparkled. Smiling a little, Sang Muden put on tinted glasses, and the golden light immediately disappeared. All that remained on the paper was the sutra’s wisdom. He talked softly to himself. Feeling regretful, he thought: In this world, no one can finish reading these books; therefore, they are filled with an essential wisdom that is wasted. The geshe was heavy-hearted, for the Living Buddha had refused to attend philosophy classes, turning instead to medicine, and in his living quarters he hung charts for diagnosing illness by using the body’s main and collateral channels of energy. Just as Sang Muden was thinking that no one could thoroughly research all the sutras, the geshe arrived. With a sigh, the scholar said, “Your talent proves that we made a mistake back then when we chose the Living Buddha.” 99

Ti b etan S oul “I couldn’t think of being the Living Buddha.” “That’s right. Back then, you were unwilling.” Back then, it was two elegant young men riding white horses and appearing suddenly beside the lake, and the monks who believed in predictions didn’t know which one to choose. Back then, Sang Muden rode away on his horse. Sang Muden wrapped the sutras carefully in their yellow silk, put them back on the shelf, and said, “Let’s go see him.” As he left the room, he picked up the bag he had brought with him to the monastery, locked the door, and put on the gold watch that he had stored away when he first arrived. It had stopped two years earlier. The geshe asked, “What are you doing?” Sang Muden didn’t answer, but took long strides toward the main hall. When he reached the entrance, the geshe wanted to tell him to stop there. The geshe felt that since a monastery had only one Living Buddha, and since there was no way to replace him, it was necessary to protect his dignity. People were supposed to make appointments to see him. Yet, Sang Muden walked straight in. The geshe stood outside the entrance to the main hall, looking at the sunlight glistening on the flowers. Some gorgeous bright-colored wild honeybees hovered over the blossoms and fanned their diaphanous wings. Just then, the Living Buddha and Sang Muden emerged side by side from the hall. As he was walking, the Living Buddha instructed his attendant to find a radio, saying, “Mr. Sang Muden’s gold watch doesn’t know what time it is in Beijing.” The attendant monk took off with small running steps. The Living Buddha, Sang Muden, and Geshe Lharampa stood together in the sunlight, watching the clouds irregularly and unpredictably change their shapes. The young monk soon returned, and imitating the serious tone of the broadcaster, he said, “At this time, it is four o’clock pm Beijing time.” This made all three of them laugh. As Sang Muden set his watch, the Living Buddha gestured as if to pat him on the shoulder, and then turned and went into the main hall. In the cypress grove not far away, several monks were—wuwu wawa—practicing on their horns. Only then did the geshe realize that Sang Muden was about to leave. Picking up his bag, Sang Muden said, “This is truly a beautiful place.” Sang Muden added, speaking to the scholar, “I’ve been to your hometown. It is also very beautiful. In the summer, honeybees are singing everywhere.” 100

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As they talked, the two men passed through the wall encircling the monastery. The limpid brook babbled and flowed. Sang Muden shouted, “Ah-ha!” In the twinkling of an eye, he had stripped stark naked and thrown himself into the brook. This person of profound learning flopped around in the clear, shallow water. He sprayed water—pululu—like a happy colt snorting. He thrust his head all the way underwater, his strong back arching out of the water like a large fish. Finally, he stood up abruptly, joyfully shouting ah-oh as he shook his head. The water was flung from his head and became a cloud of silvery mist. In this moment, everything in the world stood still. Although the birds were still calling and the breeze was still moving from this shore to that, the whole world had indeed suddenly come to a halt. Geshe Lharampa gazed at the cloud of mist surrounding Sang Muden’s head, saw it illuminated by the oblique afternoon sunlight, and watched as it changed magically into a miniature rainbow. My God! The Light of Buddha! The geshe’s knees grew weak, and he almost knelt in front of the person frolicking in the water. Just at this moment, the rainbow vanished and time flowed forward once more. Sang Muden calmly stepped onto the grassy shore. He was jumping, waiting for the sun to dry him off. From high places all around, lamas and monks broke away from their studies to come out and watch. The wind blew against their sedate, full purple-red garments, the crackling sound like the fluttering of countless flags. When I’d written this much, a shadow fell across my desk, blocking the bright light. It was Geshe Lharampa coming to see me. We ate cheese and drank tea together. After that, I read aloud the story I’d written. He said, “Ah, oh. Such feeling! It seems you are now about to write of the horses.” While no one was looking, two horses had crossed the low mountain pass. Someone was riding one; the other horse’s bare back was glistening like satin. Everyone was watching Sang Muden, who had changed into fashionable city clothes. He lifted his gold watch to his ear and listened to its ticking. When the people turned around, the two horses had reached the opposite shore of the narrow brook. Sang Muden waved at the person on horseback and said, “You’re very punctual!” The rider bowed. “Mount up. It will be ten o’clock before we can reach the car that will meet you.” “Fine. We’ll ride alongside the lake in the moonlight.” 101

Ti b etan S oul Riding the sorrel, Mr. Sang Muden left without looking back. The wind set the rows of copper-plated prayer wheels spinning. A moment later, splendid golden light shone everywhere. Geshe Lharampa walked back toward the monastery. When he approached the main hall, he saw the Living Buddha dressed in apricot yellow; he was standing on the stone steps, gazing out. The geshe couldn’t help thinking that the dignity granted this person was for his title and not for his learning. The scholar extended both hands, saying “Here are the rosary and vestments that Sang Muden returned.” “Did he really leave?” The geshe didn’t answer. His gaze traveled over the top of the Living Buddha’s head to the image of Miao Yin, the goddess of poetry and song in the Buddhist world, holding her stringed instrument. Looking up at the goddess, Geshe Lharampa suddenly wanted to write a poem about the rainbow or the Buddha Light. As soon as he thought of this, he heard a clanging resonance. It was Miao Yin plucking the pipa. There was only one tone, but the lingering sound was long, graceful, and bright, as if filled with enlightenment—as if produced by the flapping wings of honeybees extracting nectar from flowers. For a long time afterward, the sound continued to reverberate in Geshe Lharampa’s ears.

A Swarm of Bees Fluttering Before autumn, the news came that Sang Muden had obtained a doctorate in the capital city. It was said that when Sang Muden defended his thesis, he didn’t answer a single question posed by the philosophy professors. Instead, he was reported to have said, “The question you have asked is both easy and difficult. If you don’t believe this, just let me, standing here, ask one question of you, sitting over there.” But the truth was that Sang Muden had obtained his doctorate by writing a book about sophistry in religion and philosophy, and by filling in gaps in the discipline of systematic learning. These days, a farfetched comparison considers the monastery’s academy, which imparts esoteric learning, to be a university, and considers the title of geshe, given to a monastery’s leading scholar, the equivalent of a Ph.D. The geshe believed that he him102

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self was a Ph.D.; however, he had received this title only after reaching old age. So he sighed in admiration, “He is a very gifted person!” The Living Buddha said, “Tashi Palden.” Tashi Palden was a person’s name. It is also the name of the god who protects Buddhism at this monastery. Some Tibetan Buddhist texts state that Buddhism spread in the region of yaks and highland barley—a region surrounded by snowy mountains. As Buddhism spread here, gods were constantly proliferating. For example, during its expansion, Buddhism subdued a host of local demons and ghosts in order to protect its law. Three hundred years ago, Tashi Palden was a geshe—that is, a Ph.D. But because he had too much learning and too many doubts, he was heretical. Therefore, after he died, he could not become a Buddha and instead became an evil spirit. Eventually, he was subdued by the Living Buddha of that time, who was profoundly efficacious in such matters. As a result, Tashi Palden became a guardian of the sutras. The Living Buddha asked, “That day, what did Sang Muden say?” “Which day?” “The day he left.” “He asked me if my hometown was more beautiful in this season than it is here.” “Do you think it is?” “I think the flowers bloom earlier, and there are more honeybees.” “Ah, oh!” The Seventeenth Living Buddha in the history of this monastery said Ah, oh! This meant he wasn’t very satisfied. Geshe Lharampa had refrained from telling him of the rainbow or the Buddha Light. Now he decided he would never speak of it. After this, the days grew quiet. The Living Buddha began to apply himself to his studies. Without Sang Muden there, the Living Buddha was able to keep up with the other students. He also became kinder. The beautiful season on the grasslands faded quickly, and the falling flowers were replaced by flying snow. Snowflakes fell everywhere across the golden yellow open country. Yet, there wasn’t the slightest feeling of melancholy. No letters passed back and forth between the monastery and the city where Sang Muden lived. But people could always get news of him. They knew that he was in the midst of learning marvelous notations that could transcribe the phonetics of any language in the world. It was also said that 103

Ti b etan S oul he was writing a book about the Inner Light and the lamas’ methods of cultivating it. This was precisely Geshe Lharampa’s area of specialization. That book being written at a faraway desk became an obstacle to the geshe’s meditation. He thought he, too, should write a book like this. But he had numerous pupils, and he had to devote himself to guiding them in acquiring a thorough knowledge of the sutras. Even the Living Buddha’s eyes had begun to glimmer with the radiance that came from comprehension and the thirst for knowledge. It was early in the season, so sometimes when the snow fell, there was still a faint scent of flowers everywhere. Above the voices of the students reciting the sutras, a graceful sound could be heard. The pupils all looked up, searching for the source of this splendid voice in the sky. All of them turned their gazes toward the image of the celestial Miao Yin in the mural. Only the geshe realized that the sound came from a wild honeybee hovering between the low-hanging cotton curtains. Formerly, everyone had been familiar with this kind of sound and would have recognized it. It came from a colorful kind of bee that lived only on the grasslands and built its honeycombs in cavities in the earth, under the grass. The sudden snowfall had prevented this particular bee from returning to its honeycomb, so it had flown here. The scholar was moved from pity to praise, “Good!” The pupils also spoke from their hearts, and they praised it in unison: “Good!” That they didn’t say wonderful! wonderful!, but just said good was not at all what they—as well-educated persons—meant to say. The sun cast its light through a high window and shone on all their faces. Behind the rays of light, snowflakes were falling. The geshe settled down on the yellow satin dharma seat and closed his eyes. He certainly wasn’t surprised that he had seen that person with a rainbow on his head, but the person had quickly concealed himself. So when the geshe saw a person again—possibly, it was just he himself walking amid the flowers, his hands wet with honey, his bare feet stained with the scent of flowers. The swarm of bees fluttered! Geshe Lharampa heard a loud crash, and the eye of heaven opened! He felt that the thick and heavy walls of the solemn main hall had vanished, and the clothes he was wearing had also flowed away like water. Now he found himself in the pure, flying snow! Penetratingly cool, the sweet104

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smelling snowflakes fell all around him. And the swarm of bees fluttered, and the sound of chanting magically changed into a lotus throne, supporting him as he began to ascend lightly.

Sang Muden’s Nightmare For the entire winter, Geshe Lharampa secluded himself and cultivated quietude. In the spring, when he reappeared before everyone, his forehead had become high and bright. The middle of it, protruding as if horns would emerge, emitted detached rays of light. Not only had the geshe’s appearance changed greatly, but his disposition had turned amiable. He no longer hoped that everyone would follow him in studying scholasticism, and he was no longer stern with his pupils. The Living Buddha said, “Formerly, the geshe talked a lot and at length.” The geshe said, “I dreamed of Sang Muden.” “Does that mean he is coming back?” The Living Buddha had discovered that he himself missed Mr. Sang Muden. He didn’t know if it was because he had voluntarily returned to the secular life or because he had acquired a Ph.D. The Living Buddha saw again the scene from many years before—a group of boys and girls going on a picnic. He wondered whether those two white horses had descended from heaven. They were such a pure white, so peaceful and elegant that they should not have been ordinary, earthly creatures. Back then, though, none of them had thought of this. They cherished only the agility and skill of youth, as well as their joy in mounting such fabulous horses and dashing toward the shore of the azure lake, which shone like a precious stone. The lake’s tranquility made it seem as if an expanse of sky had fallen to Earth. The two youths had called out in delighted astonishment. The Living Buddha said to me, “I can still hear how I called out, and I remember Sang Muden’s voice, too.” Looking intimate and grave, the Living Buddha came to see me every day. Following behind him was the fine-featured attendant, carefully carrying a pitcher of milk. The Living Buddha gave me the milk and watched me drink it in one gulp. As I gazed into the mouth of the pitcher, I suddenly gasped. Inside, it was if the boundless universe was responding. Then he asked, “How far along are you in the story?” “Where the two of you called out because of the beautiful scene.” 105

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“We—Sang Muden and I—called out. Then the lamas rushed toward

Like troops who have laid an ambush, the lamas dashed out of the grove of small-leafed azaleas. Perhaps because the floral scent was exceptionally heavy, they were swaying as if intoxicated. Afterward, they said it was because of their great joy. The lamas had received a portent that the Sixteenth Living Buddha who had died long ago had been reincarnated. The Seventeenth Living Buddha would be an elegant youth astride a white horse and appearing next to the lake at the beginning of summer. The lamas threw themselves down in front of the horse and knocked their heads on the soft, grassy land. When they looked up, they were stupefied. In front of them were two youths riding two white horses! Everything else matched the prediction: fresh flowers gave off an unusual scent; and gulls flew up from the lake’s surface. It seemed they had to choose one. Geshe Lharampa’s hand reached out to the youth who appeared more intelligent and more handsome. But Sang Muden lifted the reins and called out, “No!” Then he fled, and—with a tata sound—the horses’ hooves swept over the lakeshore. So, the huge yellow umbrella opened up over the head of the present Living Buddha. Under the blessing of that cool shade, the youth embarked on his clerical career with a very impressive and dignified manner. The Living Buddha was now recalling these past events. Naturally, he also covered up some embarrassing parts. He always said in the tone of a religious leader, “Sang Muden became a Ph.D., and I felt comforted by this. I still need to pray for him.” It wasn’t easy for me to express either opposition or approval, so I just smiled warmly. He added, “I really do miss him.” He said the same thing to Geshe Lharampa. The scholar said, “Just wait. He’ll come back within twelve days.” It was thirteen days later when Sang Muden returned. This time he brought a tent, a sleeping bag, a camera, and tins of food. And he no longer lived in the room where I now stay, but instead set up camp outside the monastery on the grasslands where mushrooms grew. His appearance had changed. He no longer looked supremely intelligent or completely carefree about everything. I think it was because he was now a Ph.D. In his tent, he treated the Living Buddha and Geshe Lharampa to a meal of tinned pears, lichees, pineapple, and red bayberries. He wore a cap with a long bill and carried a camera, with which he took pictures of statues, murals, musical instruments, and everyday articles. In his spare time, he lay on a case of 106

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tins and wrote a book. The Living Buddha availed himself of a time when Sang Muden wasn’t around to look at the title: “Between Paradise and Earth—My Brief Life as a Lama.” So, he always came back to this world. He had gone partway in the direction of paradise and had turned around. A tender feeling surged up in the Living Buddha’s heart. In the evening, the Living Buddha went to see his friend of former times, but Sang Muden was already asleep. All around the tent rippled the sweet smell of fruit from the tins Sang Muden had opened. Moonlight shone on his face. This happy man seemed to be having a bad dream. His eyebrows were taut and creased. The Living Buddha said a prayer for him, and then Sang Muden sighed and his eyebrows relaxed. As the Living Buddha walked back to his lodgings, the dew moistened his feet. The next day, when the Living Buddha went to the tent again, Sang Muden wasn’t there. The Living Buddha recalled the little tricks that he and his former classmate used to play on one another long ago. He found a few stones the size of a fist and stuffed them under Sang Muden’s bedding. The geshe saw all of this. He said the Living Buddha had achieved the state of mind appropriate for approaching the real, eternal, and unchangeable truth of Buddhism. It was when the Living Buddha detained him for a meal that the geshe said this. Just then, Sang Muden came in, and said that the night before he’d had a nightmare in which he dreamed that the Living Buddha had hit him—one blow after another. Geshe Lharampa laughed. Then the Living Buddha really did hit Sang Muden: “Was it like this?” “It didn’t hurt at all, but I was really being hit.” Then the geshe said, “I think you’re going to leave us.” “Yes.” Sang Muden lowered his head and said, “I’m going to leave.” It was silent for a long time, and then the Living Buddha said, “In the past, I had the same kind of dream.” Back then, it was always Sang Muden who stuffed something under his friend’s bedding. When the friend’s body ached from pressing against it, he dreamed someone was hitting him. As soon as the Living Buddha said this, Sang Muden understood and his face turned red. The Living Buddha said, “I’ll let you photograph something you haven’t photographed yet. You know we do not allow outsiders to look at the god who protects Buddhism.” The Living Buddha opened the cabinet door 107

Ti b etan S oul where a beautiful picture was hanging. Inside, a group of four masks was radiantly lit. They were all of the same person, Geshe Tashi Palden who long ago couldn’t become a Buddha because of his learning and doubts. Three of the four masks were ferocious and terrifying; they showed him as an incarnation of the god who protects Buddhism. One mask showed his true appearance. Although Sang Muden didn’t know that the Living Buddha had already compared him with Tashi Palden, he was familiar with Tashi Palden’s story. Through the camera’s viewfinder, the stubborn eyes of that person with doubts pierced his heart. Sang Muden would go to a distant foreign country. He would take with him everything he had obtained here and would go to a foreign country to teach the mysterious philosophy of the East. But he also had the sense that he was forsaking something. When he took his leave, the Living Buddha said, “I’ll see you off.” Geshe Lharampa, his appearance growing ever more unusual, sat silently with his back straight and a smile on his face. As if he had already turned into a carved statue, he looked out through a shaft of sunlight that was like a sheer curtain. Sang Muden knelt and bowed to his kind teacher, feeling the softness of the green grass and smelling its sweet fragrance. The Living Buddha then entered Sang Muden’s tent and removed the stones from under the bedding, saying, “I won’t hit you again.” The two friends of former times laughed aloud. In the evening, Sang Muden tossed restlessly in bed. When he fell asleep at last, it wasn’t a restful sleep. He kept feeling water pouring over him. But when he awoke, he saw that it was the moonlight. When he fell asleep again, he had a nightmare in which he saw the full moon pressing down from the sky like a millstone. It twinkled a moment, and then turned into the face of Tashi Palden. Shouting “Hit him!” the rebel of three hundred years ago intruded on the sleep of the rebel of the present. Small fists attacked from below: hit, hit, and hit. In the dream, Sang Muden tried to rise from the narrow sleeping bag, but kept falling back on the pounding fists. Sang Muden—ordinarily so happy and proud— groaned and pleaded in his sleep. Just then, the Living Buddha stepped into the moonlight and pulled his old friend out of the nightmare. All around them, the air was heavy, and the mushrooms on the grasslands were breaking through the ground. In fact, it was a small group of mushrooms pushing up under Sang Muden’s sleeping 108

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bag that had caused the nightmare. In the tranquil moonlight, the Living Buddha and Sang Muden lit a fire, and soon the sweet fragrance of mushrooms cooking in milk was everywhere.

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s I followed the map’s blue curving line north toward the upper reaches of the Dadu River, I could feel the light breeze blowing gently in the shadow of the large mountain. I had the sense that I had already embarked on a journey—that I had taken the first step on my way. I could see myself passing between the mountains’ huge shadows and the sunlight’s brilliant beauty. I saw myself going through many places on an endless road. I saw differences in people’s clothing, skin color, accents, and even their temperaments. In response to all of this, a lofty sentiment grew in my heart—that I was throwing myself spontaneously into life, into the vast world, into art. This surely was a serious thing. This journey, as well as this story, begins in Luding, where I had been attending a meeting of the writers’ group PEN International. When the meeting ended, my literary friends boarded the bus back to Chengdu, but I took another bus and began the kind of solitary travel that I was accustomed to. It was July, and at the bus station, clouds of dust rose with the hubbub of voices. The smell of overripe apricots mixed with the odor of rubber tires. Now, I saw my indifference when I parted from my literary friends. Just as I was listening to the departure schedule being announced, a young guy wearing cheap sunglasses approached me. With a trembling hand, he tugged at my cuff, and asked under his breath, “Hey, do you want to buy some jinzi?” I said I didn’t want any jingzi, thinking he had just offered to sell me some sunglasses. He looked like an itinerant peddler from Zhejiang. “Not jingzi,” he said. “Jinzi. Gold!” “How much do you have?” 110

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“More than ten pounds of placer gold.” I knew that smugglers more often than not came to these places to buy gold, but they certainly didn’t peddle it at places like this. I shrugged my shoulders and walked away. Just then, the bus to Chengdu started up. Amid the roar and exhaust of the engine, he caught up with me again. He wanted me to find a secluded spot to look at his wares. He said very pigheadedly, “Come on. Take a look.” The expression in his eyes was greedy and crazy. Disappointed that I wasn’t interested, he finally left me alone. He was just like certain others suffering from mental illness. He looked stupefied, talking on and on about the thing he had little chance of possessing—the thing that has made us Chinese lose our reason and our self-respect: gold. As I set out on my journey, the sky was unusually lovely. Travelers heading this way, however, are tormented by dust and the cruel intensity of the sunlight. I can still distinctly remember the way I looked when I reached the Rongdrak County seat. The town and I looked alike—smudged with dust and so broiled by the sun that we seemed lifeless. I saw myself make my way through the narrow streets at four o’clock in the afternoon, walking past empty shops that yawned lazily, houses releasing the day’s heat, and the cool shade of solitary trees. A deep, quiet, dark lane attracted my attention. I heard the sound of my own footsteps echo in the silent lane. At the first door I approached, a middle-aged man with a dull-witted lifeless expression stuck his head out. The expression in his eyes was even emptier; there was nothing there. I passed his door and walked back and forth in the lane twice without seeing any sign advertising rooms for rent. When I made my way out of the lane, I noticed that I was the only one standing out in the open under the sunshine. I gazed at a row of windows, whose paint had faded. A frail child appeared in front of me and asked if I needed a place to stay. He extended a hand with very distinct blue veins and led me back into the lane where I had just been, to the door of the person who had stuck his head out. “Aba, we have some business,” the child called out in an experienced tone. The door creaked open, and the man stretched his head out again. “I thought you were coming to stay here, but since you didn’t say anything, I 111

Ti b etan S oul just let it go at that.” “It’s really hot. This weather.” “I had some time just now, but you didn’t check in. Now I need to go out to get some soy sauce. Just wait for me. I’ve been waiting for customers for a long time, and no one came. I’ll be back in about ten minutes.” I watched him go slowly through the dark, cool lane, and emerge into the splendid faintly wavy sunshine. As soon as his shadow disappeared from view, my nose was filled with the smell of planks and cobwebs not yet illumined by the sun. It seemed this was the smell of a certain kind of lifestyle. The child timidly tugged at my clothes again. “My ama—she died. So did Grandpa and Big Sis,” he said quietly. I put my hand out to stroke his thin hair, but he dodged away. “What was your grandfather like? Was he like your aba?” He shook his head slightly. “No.” The child looked down and kicked one shoe off. With his toes he traced the outline of the cracks in the bricks. A ray of light reflected off the pavement and illuminated his thin and slightly transparent ears, which were covered with a soft, silvery down. “My name is Tenke, Uncle. My grandfather killed loba—savages.” His father returned. Eyelids drooping, he walked in and shut the door with a peng! Through the shutters, we heard the noise of the soy sauce bottle being dropped on the table and the sound of the door being locked. The child stood on tiptoe and whispered to me, “Aba has never let people go into our house.” Tenke’s father opened the window facing the lane and meticulously completed the check-in process. When he came out, he was holding a large bunch of clanging keys. He locked his door behind him, no doubt embarrassed to take such precautions in front of the only customer. “Word from the county—do all you can to prevent fires,” he said awkwardly in explanation. He opened a nearby door and pointed out one by one the various articles and furnishings in the room: bed, table, bench, thermos, chinaware basin, black-and-white TV, TV cover. Finally, he pulled back the bed covers and said, “Take a good look. Underneath there are two pillows.” I winked at Tenke who was standing behind his father, and said, “There’s also a lot of dust.” 112

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This ridicule had no effect on the expression on this man’s oily, sweaty face. He turned and exited, leaving me in a room filled with asbestos dust. In the naked rocks all around the county seat, the asbestos and mica reserves were abundant. Many readers must have encountered this kind of low-class hotel. No matter how long its rooms have been vacant, the smells and traces of the previous guests still remain, and this kind of smell only heightens a person’s loneliness in a strange place. The child watched me blankly as I whisked the dust off the bed. He was quiet, and he looked dejected. I asked him to sit down and share some soft drinks and cookies. “Why aren’t you in school?” His mouth full of cookies, he shook his head. “It can’t be that there’s no school here,” I said. When Tenke finally swallowed the cookies, he told me the town had a kindergarten, primary school, and middle school, but his baba wouldn’t let him go to school. “Did you go to school?” I nodded my head. “What’s your name? I told you mine.” “Alai.” “I have an older cousin named Alai.” “Then I’m your older cousin.” Suddenly, he began laughing. His laughter was dry, yet clear and melodious. “No. Our clans’ surnames aren’t the same. Our surname is Sidor.” “Ours is Roba.” “My older cousin died. Our village is gone, too. You know, first the trees were all cut down, and then the mud and rock slides buried the village and a lot of people. My older cousin, Mama, Big Sis . . .” I didn’t know how to console this child whose heart bore such scars. I opened the curtains, and a shaft of strong light immediately illuminated the room and glinted off the bits of mica shaken down from the curtains. These lovely bits, flashing with silver light, floated in the air like some intermittent silent words. In the strong light, Tenke’s eyes were the soft gray color of sheep’s eyes. When I had parted the curtains, he had put up his hand to block the strong light. Now his slender hand slowly dropped. “What are you thinking, Uncle?” 113

Ti b etan S oul “Uh . . . I’ll give you something, okay?” I asked. “No. In the past, Ama wouldn’t let us take things for nothing. In the past, wild fruit was often left by loba at the entrance to the village. We wouldn’t take it. The loba let only my grandfather take it. If other people took it, the loba came into the village at night and lost their tempers.” Suddenly he changed the subject. “Do you know how to turn on the TV?” I don’t know why I shook my head. “Then I’ll do it for you.” In an instant, he became happy. He climbed up on the bench, connected the antenna, turned on the TV, and then adjusted it to get a clear picture. While he was dealing earnestly with the TV, I took a pile of photos of Jiuzhaigou out of my pack and put them down in front of him. “Did you take these?” “Yes.” His finger traced the ancient mill in the brook. “Is that in your village?” I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t our village’s mill. He picked up the pile of photos and then put them down awkwardly. “Aba says we can’t take gifts from others. If we take gifts, other people will want to come into our house. They’ll make jokes about our poverty.” Only when I promised I wouldn’t go into their house did Tenke accept the photo. Then he politely took his leave. I had just locked the door when I heard what I thought was a small, gentle dog scratching at the door. I opened the door, and Tenke timidly stuck his small head in again, and said, “I forgot to tell you where the toilet is.” I waved my hand and said, “See you tomorrow.” “Tomorrow . . . tomorrow, I’ll probably be sick.” His expression, like that of someone familiar with sorrow, touched me deeply. “Aba says no one can recognize me when I’m sick.” This kind of child—bright, polite, sensitive, and possessing a delicate, aesthetic feeling—more often than not has experienced some kind of misfortune. “I like you. You’re like my little brother.” “I have an older brother. Did you see him on the road?” When I didn’t answer, he said softly, “I’m leaving.” I saw him off with my eyes as he went through the lane where the light gradually dimmed. The sun had already set. At dusk, a strong wind blew from the north side of the distant river valley. I had heard this kind of wind before. In all the large gorges where forests 114

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have been indiscriminately cut down, the unprotected land grows hot, and when the cold air passes over it and across the river, windstorms are generated. Dust and sand are blown heartlessly into humankind’s homes—both in villages and towns. When the wind leaves, it carries off the detritus of human lives and pollutes what had formerly been the pristine and beautiful open country. I lay on the bed. On the TV was the serial “River Elegy.” The announcer’s deep, sorrowful voice matched my mood, and like a big, strong hand, it caressed me to sleep. When I woke up, it was midnight, and the TV screen was flickering uncertainly. I knew I had been dreaming because for a long while I continued staring at the snowy spots on the screen. I opened my parched mouth and waited for the snowflakes to fall. By then, the wind had stopped. In the silence, I could hear the Dadu River surging and flowing rapidly near the city wall. Suddenly, a frightening scream cut through the darkness. Then everything was still again. In the silence, I heard the faint sound of low silent sobbing. This sound reverberated in the nearly empty hotel. In the morning, Tenke’s father brought me hot water. His eyelids were swollen, and his face dark and gloomy, as if he hadn’t had enough sleep. “Last night?” I inquired cautiously, watching his face. He sighed. “Tenke got sick again last night.” “What’s wrong?” “The doctor says he’s been scared so he isn’t normal. Tenke must have told you about what frightened him into getting sick.” “I’d like to see him.” He was quiet for a time, and then said, “Okay. He said you like him. A lot of people like him, but when they learn of his illness, they no longer do. Our house is terribly dirty. I’m embarrassed.” The house had almost no furnishings. The floor, stove, and bed were all covered with dark grease; the heat was suffocating. I was once quite familiar with all of this. In the forested region of my childhood, the verandah of our wooden house was dry, fresh, and cool in the winter, and filled with dim sunlight. But in the summer, the heavy, moist air from the forest wrapped around the house, and wild animal skins dried in the sunlight on the verandah. The blood from the skins attracted swarms of flies. The house 115

Ti b etan S oul reeked, not only with blood and flies, but also with the odor of rotting food and of people who rarely bathed. In this dark and gloomy environment I had listened to the elders tell legends about the loba—the savages. Back then, I’d been as sensitive and frail as this child before me, and as susceptible to fantasies. Now the child’s head rested on a messy heap of clothes. As I looked at his sparse hair and the distinct blue veins on his forehead, he slowly opened his eyes. At first they were devoid of expression. Gradually he became aware of me, and a faint smile floated across his pale face. “I dreamed of my older brother.” “Your older brother?” “I haven’t told you yet. He ran away from middle school. He didn’t tell Aba, but he told me. He said he wanted to make money and then come back and cure me of my illness. When I get sick, it’s like a dream—a dream that scares people.” Little Tenke was struggling to sit up. A mysterious expression appeared on his thin little face. “After he makes money, he’ll build a house for Aba. If he doesn’t make money, he’ll come back and take me away with him. We’ll go to a forested place, and use Grandfather’s method to capture a loba. Uncle, if one turns a loba over to the authorities, there’s a big reward—ten thousand yuan!” I placed a softened biscuit in his hand, but he didn’t even glance at it. He scanned my face for a reaction to what he was saying, but I kept my face expressionless. Little Tenke, however, became excited by his own words. He blushed and eagerly narrated legends he had heard about loba. “In the past, my grandfather . . .” The stories were exactly like the ones I’d heard when I was young. The loba in the legends always wanted to be close to humans and imitate them. They came to the edge of the field and the entrance to the village to watch people work and play, and imitated them in amusing ways. But rather than finding this amusing, the humans sought to hunt and capture the loba. The greedy humans knew that loba couldn’t be directly attacked. Legends had it that each savage carried a smooth circular stone under his armpit and could hurl it with extreme accuracy. Moreover, loba were as swift as birds and had inexhaustible strength. The way to hunt loba was to lure them by lighting bonfires near the trails they were known to use. When the loba came close, the hunters would first give grotesque imitations of the loba’s expressions. The loba, in turn, would imitate the hunters imitating them, thus producing a comical scene. The hunters sang of the moon, and the loba sang along with them. The hunters 116

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laughed heartily, and the loba imitated their triumphant laughter. When the hunters drank wine, the loba began to dance. It is said that the first time a loba drank this powerful wine, his face became distorted, as if he had drunk a raging fire. But because of the desire to be like humans, the loba continued drinking. The loba sat on the ground in a daze and watched the hunter begin to dance by swinging a sword that flashed in the icy moonlight. Finally, the hunter whistled, thrust the sword toward his chest, and fell to the ground. The loba, of course, did not realize that this was a trick and that the hunter had only pretended to stab himself. The wine made the loba’s head spin and his senses go slack. He was with mankind and so he felt extremely happy. Under the moonlight, the robust loba began to dance, too, beside a river that shone like a satin ribbon. The loba picked up the sharp sword, and imitating the hunter, aimed the tip at his heart. Because the loba was extremely strong, his thrust was swift and deep. The legend also says that when this hunter was near death, he was impelled to cry out, like the howling of a loba. This was a distinctive way for mankind to forgive itself for its wrongdoings. .

After he’d finished retelling the legend, little Tenke appeared languid. The sun shone though the window lattice. The frightening steam of the place began rising again. Tenke said, “Aba says people aren’t good.” “It’s not that all of them are bad.” Tenke smiled, revealing his small, snow-white, even teeth. “Elder brother says no one likes bad people, but no one likes poor people, either.” His father’s return broke off our conversation. I couldn’t help but kiss the child’s little forehead as I said good-bye. “If you see my elder brother, tell him to come back,” Tenke said as I was leaving. His father said, “I know you told this uncle everything, even though there are some things you won’t tell me.” Desolation and helplessness were in his voice. Taking out the photograph I’d given him, the child asserted, “Look. The mill in Uncle’s hometown is exactly the same as the one in our village.” The muddy Dadu River water flows turbulently from north to south. The county seat was built beside a tributary at the foot of a hill. This area 117

Ti b etan S oul hadn’t been built up for very long. The layout, colors, and even the quality of construction all bore the marks of slapdash haste and eagerness for short-term success and quick profits. Although this was my first time here, I was familiar with this type of settlement, because I’d seen several towns like it during my travels in this mountain range. Its disorder and confusion also happened to coincide with the way we think. In just a little more than half an hour, I walked back and forth twice on the narrow winding street. The first time I went to the bus station, I was informed that the highway had collapsed. The second time, I looked for a shoe store. By the third time I walked around town, people’s faces were already familiar. Finally, I headed for the bookstore to buy a book to get me through these endless days of waiting for the highway to reopen. But, at eleven-thirty in the morning, the bookstore was already closed. “How can the bookstore close in the middle of the day? This damn place!” The dust, the glaring sunlight, and the blocked road ahead made me lose my temper. In the end, I went into a teahouse and took a seat. The interior was just as I’d expected. The décor, the dust, and the listless atmosphere were typical of sun-baked regions like this one. Only the well water for steeping tea was clean. I watched the tea leaves unfold and opened a book I’d brought with me, The Mystery of the World’s Savages, written by an Englishman. The material at the beginning of the fourth chapter came from a Sunday Post article, “Chinese Soldiers Ate a Savage.” The newspaper had drawn its information from my own nation’s archaeological journals. As I read, my imagination quickened. Apparently, a hundred years ago the place where I sat drinking tea had been completely forested, and savages—loba—had roamed about in search of food and water. The occasional deep, long yawns that I heard in this quiet teahouse were perhaps identical to the deep, long yawns made by loba in the past. Just then, I realized that someone had sat down across from me, and I sensed his eyes focusing on my book. When I looked up, I saw that his gaze was fastened on a photograph of a savage’s footprint. The man looked familiar. He had the same rough, swarthy skin, muddy eyes, and straight nose that most people of this region had. “Loba!” he said delightedly. “Is it your book?” he asked. “Yes.” “Ah—is it you?” “It is, but who are you?” 118

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“You don’t recognize me?” An enigmatic expression on his face, he leaned toward me, and his hot breath rushed at my face. I dodged a little. He said, “Gold!” I remembered. He was the person who’d approached me at the Luding bus station, the one who’d said he had more than ten pounds of gold. And he had a special interest in loba. I knew a little of who he was. I asked, “Are you Tenke’s older brother?” He looked startled. “How did you know?” “I also know you don’t have any gold. You’re just waiting for a chance to bullshit.” I don’t know why I suddenly spoke harshly to this youth. “There’s also your daydream of capturing loba.” I took an arrogant tone in order to stand up for the feelings of loba. “They can’t be captured!” “They can be captured. Use a thick bamboo tube—the method my grandfather used.” He smiled smugly. The crazy flames of his fantasy burned again in his eyes. “I want to go home and see my little brother.” I watched him vanish quickly into the sunlight. The asphalt surface of the road had turned soft and bulged with blisters. As I left the teahouse, a hand suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. “Pal!” It was a fat guy wearing a uniform. Smiling lazily, he said, “You’ve got a high-quality camera.” “The Pearl River brand isn’t any high-quality camera.” “Let’s go sit in the shade.” We walked toward the deserted parking lot near the river. The lone truck there looked as if it hadn’t moved in a very long time. I sat down with my back against the truck’s tire and faced the surging Dadu River. The fat comrade was joined by a skinny one, also in uniform. They left me alone and conversed with each other—clearly with something on their minds. “Yesterday morning, we got a report that a gold peddler had come here from Luding. He was selling his goods at the bus station when someone overheard him.” “He’d be easy to find. Not many people come here, and the road is impassable.” The fat guy kept looking at the river. The skinny one, though, was looking intently at me, and not the least bit politely, either. He said, “I think we’ve found him.” Both men had their hands in their pockets, and I knew that both were grasping menacing metal instruments. I could smell the truck’s tires and 119

Ti b etan S oul paint broiling in the sun. Showing the men my press card, I said, “People everywhere who claim to have more than ten pounds of gold are just fantasizing that they are that rich.” “You’re saying that in fact that peddler has no gold?” The fat guy shook his head in disagreement. “Hey, do you know the legends of the loba?” “A little.” “I heard that not long ago there were still loba in Truba Village. Even children have seen them.” “Truba Village?” “This village doesn’t exist anymore.” “Mud and rock slides destroyed that village, and also that female loba.” I asked about using a thick bamboo tube to capture loba. What was that all about? This method, they patiently explained, was related to loba wanting to imitate humans. The hunter prepared two thick bamboo tubes. After approaching a loba, the hunter slipped one thick bamboo tube onto his own hand, and the loba would pick up the other and do likewise. The loba couldn’t know that inside was an ingenious mechanism that locked around the loba’s wrist. Disabled by the bamboo tube, the loba could be easily killed. “In the past, killing loba was done mostly to get the precious stone they kept under the armpit.” “Did they eat the flesh?” “No. How can people eat human flesh?” They also told me unequivocally that a loba’s stone was worshiped at a temple a little more than ten kilometers away on the highway along the river. Then they took their leave and went off to look for the gold smuggler who didn’t exist. I went again to the bus station to ask if the highway was open. I was told to check back in three days, and if it still wasn’t open, to check after another three days. With this, I decided to leave on foot. Back in the hotel, I was bored, looking at the things I’d packed and thinking about what the next day’s trip would be like. The matter of the loba weighed on my mind. Just then, the door opened, and Tenke walked in with his older brother. I considered cracking a joke to lighten their very serious expressions, but then thought better of it. 120

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“I’m leaving tomorrow.” They said nothing. “I want to learn about the loba and the incident that occurred in Truba Village.” The brothers told me about the dead female loba and the village that had been destroyed. Truba Village used to be small, with only seven households. They emphasized again that the loba had been female. She had often wept and had been friendly to men and children. For their part, the villagers had been sympathetic to this lonely female loba. Later, it was said that the female loba had had an affair with the brothers’ grandfather, which apparently was true. “Grandfather had a really long beard.” Later the woods all around the village had been felled by more than a thousand loggers in a few years. During the logging operation, the female loba had vanished. After the loggers also left, she came back. Because she was starving and because it was hard to approach Grandfather again, the loba often wept. The sound of her uninhibited weeping frequently cast a black cloud over the village, and the villagers felt this was ominous. The villagers were already struggling with poverty caused by a drought. And so the villagers began to hate the loba and schemed to kill her. As the respected elder in the village, Grandfather had no choice but to do his duty as the village’s best hunter. Grandfather prepared carefully, but as if the loba had had a premonition, she disappeared for a full two months—until the day of that incredible rainstorm. It rained hard for an entire night. At daybreak, people heard her howling. The sound was extremely frightening and unsettling. Instead of pacing up and down at the village entrance as she usually did, the loba ran around the village, howling and waving her hands in the air. At one point, she effortlessly picked up a dog that had been barking at her and killed it by dashing it to the ground. Now people felt that Grandfather had to kill this loba. As soon as she had disappeared, the long hoped for rain had fallen; now her return would infuriate Heaven into withdrawing the rains in time—before disaster struck. “Ama knelt in front of Aba—in front of her aba, our grandfather—and said if he killed this female loba, every woman in the village would surely love him.” Holding a thick bamboo tube, Grandfather appeared in front of the loba. By then, in the rustling of the rain people could hear the sound of the hill sliding. It rumbled like the thunder that portends even more rain. From the windows of their homes, everyone watched Grandfather and the loba. Grandfather danced 121

Ti b etan S oul time after time, and finally provoked the loba into smashing the bamboo tube. She screamed suddenly, then squeezed Grandfather under her armpit and rushed out of the village with him. The two brothers followed closely. On a slope outside the village, the loba released Grandfather. She had a silly smile on her face. Rain dripped from her wispy hair, and she spread her arms out as if to shield Grandfather from the rain. Just then, though, Grandfather plunged his sharp sword into the loba’s chest. She let out a long, agonizing howl. The howl was still lingering when the loba grasped Grandfather in her long arms, lifted him very high, and then threw him against a tree stump. Then the loba slowly collapsed. By this time, the mud and rock slides had already submerged the village below. Tenke said, “The mill was gone, too—the mill like the one in your hometown.” “Places everywhere have mills like this,” his older brother told him. The next morning, I left on foot. Along the way, I inquired about the temple where it was said that a loba’s stone was worshiped. Large walnut trees grew on all sides of the temple. A Buddhist monk stood on the roof, blowing a conch shell. The sound was low and deep, like the sound of the ocean. The monk said there wasn’t such a thing in the temple. “Stones?” He said, “Here we don’t have fetishes and such.” Three days later, in another county seat on the bank of the Dadu River, I wrote this experience down.

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heavy floral scent made a sudden, surprise attack. On this ordinary night in May, Sherab really didn’t know where he was. When he awoke from a dream, he suddenly felt it was much too quiet. He breathed in the thick, heavy floral scent—the fragrance of the locust blossoms. Sherab tore the woolen blanket off his legs and stood up. The joints of the bed frame and his body were creaking. He stood bent over in the sentry box, the sound of his coughing shaking the window glass. Glass was all around him—sixteen panes of rattling, shaking glass encircling him. Above the glass were pinnacles made of sheets of iron. When he switched the light off and lay face up on the bed, the top of the sentry box turned into a deep, quiet cup hanging upside down—a cup whose inside had been poured full of the smell of past events. He always sipped quietly and carefully. He said to himself: This is very good. He used the tone that his son used in talking to him. When his son had asked him to live in this kind of house that was at once like a bird cage and a wine bottle, he had said, this is good, this is very good. When he sipped past events, he was cautious not to let his lips touch the edge of that cup—to avoid tasting the iron flavor from its being painted, rusted, or corroded by greasy dirt. In this parking lot that he looked after, most everything was like this: door bars, discarded auto parts, and steel cables. Hanging at his chest like a protective talisman was a whistle to sound alarms. The floral scent made another surprise attack. But when he listened closely, like hunters smelling some odors, his nostrils—much wider than those of ordinary people—flared. The lightly shaking glass was breaking his concentration. Adopting an original ap123

Ti b etan S oul proach, his son had built the small room as a sentry box for him to watch over the parking lot. What’s more, it was a storied sentry box. Sherab took off the plank covering the entrance to the top of the building, and descended the seven steps welded out of steel tubes. The lower story had no glass. There was a small hole in the cement wall. Underground were a small fire pit that he had recently dug out, and a few cooking utensils—a wooden spoon, several wooden bowls, and a copper tea urn. Among the things his son had given him, he wanted only the casserole for cooking rice. When he squeezed his big, broad, clumsy body out of the narrow entrance, he was reminded of a bear emerging from a cave. He remembered he had raised the rifle and taken aim. This time, he was enveloped by thin rays of light: he thought it was the dim moonlight, but the overcast sky held no moonlight. What was shining on him was the midnight lamp this city shone on the night sky. The lamplight covered the city sky like dust lifted up by the wind on a sunny day. The lamplight was diffuse; it had no direction. Under this kind of lamplight, the several dozen trucks in the parking lot all changed into dusky shadowless things. He was a little dubious about how these things that could make high rumbling sounds and that delighted in speeding could be quiet and shadowless like this. His gaze strayed beyond the gray wall of the parking lot; those buildings—row after row of them—were sparkling like wet mollusks with the same kind of pale, dark, and gloomy lamplight. He relied on the sentry box as if it were an immense solitary mushroom. This mushroom had no fragrance. He recalled the nights when he’d gone hunting. At midnight, he woke up under the fir tree where he was sleeping. A fragrance gradually rose, and mushrooms broke through the ground all around him. This portended good luck for the hunter. When he turned around, he noticed the trees next to the river outside the wall. The floral scent came from those locust trees. On this ordinary night in May, the locust blossoms had suddenly opened. The river breeze sent the sweet floral scent wafting over to him. “They’ve blossomed. The locust flowers have blossomed.” Trying to get close to the trees with the floral scent, he walked straight to the iron-barred gate at the parking lot exit. The trees and he were separated by only a road and an iron-barred gate. At night the gate was locked, and in the daytime opened. He didn’t have the key. Disappointed, he just wanted to listen to this enormous silence. The dusky lamplight was shining 124

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everywhere his vision reached—and all was silent. However, the night of the woods, fields, and hamlets where the lamplight didn’t reach was filled with sound—the sound of life. Wild animals were walking around, birds were talking in their sleep, plants and trees were growing, the wind was blowing, and young men and women had their lovers’ rendezvous and caresses . . . As he gazed at the fragrant locust trees, Sherab was thinking fondly of his elder son, who was already dead, and of his several beautiful illegitimate daughters. The illegitimate children he had had with another woman were all daughters. With his wife, he had had only two sons. His wife had died, and his elder son had died when his rifle fired accidentally while he was hunting. His younger son had become the local police chief. This son had noticed his loneliness and arranged for him to leave farming and obtain official approval for city residence. This hunter who used to be renowned everywhere became a night watchman at a parking lot. His daily wages were three yuan, plus half a yuan for his midnight meal. The shrill siren of a police car cut through the silence. Had his son and colleagues caught a thief or some other scoundrel again? Sherab was worried for that kid, even though he knew the kid wasn’t in the city. He lay on the bed, a woolen blanket covering him. All four sides were glass to make it easier for him to keep watch. What he yearned for was a real night, real darkness; the lamplight, however, streamed in from all sides. The darkness he yearned for brought peace to people’s hearts, for it carried with it the smell of trees, mud, and water. It certainly wasn’t this kind of rude, strong smell that people had to breathe—the odors of the parking lot’s rubber, paint, gas, and steel corroded by rust. When he closed his eyes, the kid walked toward him. His protruding front tooth gave him a childlike appearance. The first time they’d met, he’d wanted to warn him to be careful. Careful of what? Careful of cars or careful of traffic police? But without shedding the childishness, the kid had pretended to be experienced, talking in a casual tone of being unexpectedly rich and having seen the world. He said, “Hey, old chap, here’s the parking fee. I don’t need a receipt. Take yourself out for some wine!” “Hey, old chap, want to hear of some novel things?” “Hey, old chap, want a girl?” “Hey, old chap . . .” 125

Ti b etan S oul Yet, Sherab felt a father’s love for this kid who knew nothing of manners. So while he was talking casually with him, he really wanted to slap him a few times—give him something to remember. But instead, he said as if humoring a child, “Be careful when you park the car, be careful.” After parking, the kid got out of the car, and Sherab warned him to put his things away, close the windows, and lock the car. He and the kid talked in their hometown dialect that very few people understood. People in this city spoke Chinese and standard Tibetan. Each time, it wasn’t until the kid had walked far off that Sherab suddenly realized, God—the hometown dialect! The old man hadn’t spoken the hometown dialect for a very long time. What’s more, apart from the hometown dialect, he could speak only a few sentences of disconnected Chinese that had to do with watching the cars. So he had lost nearly all opportunities for talking. He slept in the daytime. At night—well, this lamplight was never as light as daytime. He was awake in the night that was like twilight, and guarded the trucks that no one could move anyway. But when he had just come to the city, he didn’t live here. He lived with his son and daughter-in-law. It was he who wanted his son to find work for him. He had nothing to complain about. His daughter-in-law was Chinese, a soft-spoken woman who wore glasses. Sherab especially liked her even, pure white teeth. The women he had been in love with had all had teeth like that. His daughter-in-law gave him a room of his own. The bed was low and soft. Hanging on the wall were the firelock he couldn’t bear to sell; a pair of dried antlers with many branches; several long sharp wild pig’s teeth that were as smooth as jade; and several particularly beautiful pheasant feathers. Beneath the window was a recliner with a bearskin spread on it. When he was lonely, it was in this room that he recalled events of the past. He thought fondly of the forest and the relatives who had died, and of hunting dogs. His daughter-in-law often let colleagues and higher-ups come and look around the old hunter’s room. They gasped with admiration. In the end, Sherab gradually realized that the gasps of admiration weren’t for him, but for his daughter-in-law. They gasped in admiration because she showed filial respect for this eccentric-looking, simple, and slow father-in-law of a different nationality. The end result was that she became leader of the Women’s Association. That day, there was a banquet in the home, with strong liquor, beer, red wine, and a lot of food. After eating, his daughter126

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in-law cleaned the spaces between her teeth with a toothpick. She broke several toothpicks without accomplishing anything. She opened her mouth wide. Just then, all of her upper teeth fell out. Sherab was silent. He knew he’d been duped. His daughter-in-law’s lovely teeth were false teeth. She was humming a song as she put the false teeth into a cup and added salt water. Sherab said to his son, “I can’t stand it.” “Why?” “Your wife has false teeth. Did you knock them out?” His son shook his head. His daughter-in-law asked her husband, “What are you two talking about? Speak Chinese.” “Father can’t.” “He can learn it gradually.” With that, she picked up the cup filled with false teeth and went into another room. Suddenly, Sherab said loudly, “I want to go home!” His son’s tone turned stern, “That’s impossible. Your residence is here. Don’t you know what ‘official residence’ means? Don’t you know that it can’t be changed easily?” And so he had become the night watchman at the parking lot. When he had just become the night watchman, this special parking lot hadn’t yet been built. Originally, the cars all parked at a secluded intersection. And the night watchman lived in an ordinarily unused secure entryway of a six-story building. The entryway was small, just big enough to hold a bed, a stove, and his large body. Here, he drank a little wine, went to sleep just before the sun came up, and woke up after the sun set. Then the street lamps were already on, and the sound of the national anthem being played just before the seven o’clock evening news came from the windows of the building. Cars of all different makes—both old and new—pulled up slowly, their drivers looking for parking places. Sherab was amused to see how careful these steel weapons were here, when they generally speeded on the highway. Brandishing a big-bellied, slender-necked, flat liquor bottle, he directed these cars to park here, to park there. The liquor bottle was one that a driver had thrown away after downing all the brandy in it. Later, Sherab dismantled the bed which his son had set up for him, and spread the bearskin out on the floor. Complete with head, tail, and claws, it had previously been spread on the recliner. Then, listening to the crackling sound of the firewood in the stove, mixed with the wonderful scent of pine 127

Ti b etan S oul resin, he went to sleep peacefully on the bearskin. The drivers brought him alcohol and food produced in different places. At that time, he got drunk frequently. An old guy who lived upstairs and who was exhausted every day by his twin grandsons, and an old guy who was a garbage collector, often came to see him in the night watchman’s small room. Together, they recalled the days of their youth. The two old guys both envied him for having such a cushy job. Sherab had drunk a lot, and he heard himself say proudly, “My son is the local police chief.” He knew he didn’t mean to contrast himself with even more pitiable old guys by saying this, but he couldn’t control his tongue. “My daughter-in-law is also an official.” The next day, he apologized to his two friends. Before long, the one who looked after the children came to tell him that the garbage collector had died, and that he was going to return to his old village home. That day, the two old codgers drank some alcohol. Sherab envied him for being able to go back to the village. But his companion envied Sherab for being able to stay in the city. And so, Sherab drank several more swallows of alcohol. After they parted, he strolled out of the shortest cross street. The suddenly rising river of springtime appeared in front of him. Filthy foam floated along the shoreline. Because there was too much mud, the river couldn’t churn up the expected turbulent waves. The setting sun reflected on the river water, turning it golden. Carrying the heavy smell of mud, the river water went through the city and finally disappeared into the mountains. The mist in the distant mountains was hazy, and a feeling of desolation and loneliness welled up in his heart. A lot of things were chewing at his heart and bones. Not until the city lights behind him brightened and the distant mountains vanished from view did he leave the riverbank. When he walked back to the night watch spot, he felt very tired. He knew that he was getting more decrepit with each passing day. The weather was changing, and all his joints were aching dully. It was this evening when the young kid showed up. Even though the young kid hadn’t yet shed his childishness, he was swaggering. “Hey, old chap!” “My name is Sherab.” “Old chap. Hey, hey, old chap!” “I’m a famous hunter. Haven’t you heard of me? Go home and ask your ama!” 128

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“Old chap, you’re soused.” Sherab suddenly roared with rage, “I told you to park your car on the right, not on the left!” But the kid shut the car door with a bang, and blew a whistle. Sherab felt deeply wronged. It was as though all the alcohol he’d consumed would spill out of his eyes. He seized the kid by the collar. The kid grabbed his wrist. They were deadlocked. But Sherab knew he was old and his strength had gradually declined, while the kid was becoming stronger and stronger. Then, over his adversary’s shoulder, he saw his son walk up silently with a somber expression. Sherab said, “Let go right away. The local police chief is here!” The kid didn’t let go. When his son shook his fist in the kid’s face, the kid argued loudly and began tangling with the police chief. Sherab pulled his son away forcefully. While he held the kid, his son took out handcuffs and threatened to cuff the kid and take him away. Sherab admitted it was he who had drunk too much and provoked the disturbance. Leaving some dried meat with him, his son took off in a huff. That evening, Sherab prepared food for the kid. He told him to lie on the bearskin and rest. He told him the story of the bearskin. He told him about the beautiful woman with pure white teeth. Finally, he said to the kid, “If you want to find a woman, find a woman with real teeth that are pure white and even.” The kid smiled crookedly. Looking back on it, he reflected that it was almost the shortest night since he’d come to the city. The kid always brought him something: a bundle of dry kindling; fresh cypress twigs, which—after being lit—produced a strong smell to get rid of mosquitoes; candy; sugarcane; snuff; dead pheasants; and even a stack of picture books and a toy pistol. Then he would take his leave, go to eat in town, and play billiards for small stakes. One time, his car pulled up at midnight. The kid got out of the car holding a big bunch of sweet-smelling pure white locust blossoms. When he tossed the locust blossoms onto the bearskin, their fragrance instantly filled the small room. He also took a small bag of wheat flour out of the car, and said, “Let’s make steamed buns, steamed buns mixed with locust flowers—our home village specialty.” This was an exceptionally short night, too. 129

Ti b etan S oul Sherab lit a fire, heated water, mixed it with flour, and mixed very fine crushed locust petals into the dough. The kid was asleep. The sweet fragrance of the locust flowers was curling around in the room. Just when the bun had finished steaming, the kid woke up. His eyes still weren’t fully open when he started to smile. “Is it done?” “Yes.” “Old chap, let’s take a look first at the lines on the steamed bun and see what they predict!” The old man blew his fingertips lightly, and said, “Please make this thing forecast a good future.” The lines on the steamed bun were wide—all smiles. Fragrance spilled over in all directions. While eating this bun, they cooked another one. And it was just the same—all smiles. The kid said, “Good. Tomorrow I can get my driver’s license back.” “Driver’s license?” “They confiscated my driver’s license. Your son was with them.” In the morning, Sherab took his son some steamed buns that were the home village specialty and got the driver’s license back. His son said, “Tell the kid not to cross my path again. The things he’s done are enough to land him in jail for two years.” It seemed that was true. The kid didn’t come over anymore. Luckily, that winter, the intersection that served as a parking lot was quite full and so it wasn’t very lonely. At midnight, drunks were still singing and overturning garbage cans. A woman whose face was white as snow and whose round eyes were dull blue came and went ostentatiously. A wild dog looked for food in the garbage. It was a purebred; its hearing, vision, and sense of smell all seemed so acute that it could have been a first-rate hunting dog. Why did it lead a wretched life in the city—filthy and emaciated? Finally, several drunks ended its life with a length of electric wire. Later, Sherab was informed that whenever he saw drunks, prostitutes, thieves, or hooligans, he had to report it to the local police station. He might be rewarded for this. Later, security patrols showed up. Those drifters of the night then got the hell out of there. And Sherab felt lonely. He sat in his small room and thought fondly of the kid who did bad things, who spoke the language of his home village, and who liked locust-flower steamed buns. The door of his small room was always open. Sometimes he heard a shrill wuwu sound 130

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and thought it was the wind blowing, but then he saw that it was a police car carrying out its duty. Even more often, though, it was the wind sending snowflakes flying up to the lamplight. Not long after the New Year, the new parking lot was finished. It was his son’s idea to build the kind of night watchman’s small room that he didn’t like. But his son’s intentions were good, for this way he could lie on the bed to watch these cars. Now, at midnight, when the locust flowers first opened and the scent was rich, Sherab lay on the bed, in the dusky diffused lamplight, and— surrounded by glass—he recalled the grottoes and shacks where he had lived when he went hunting—the way they felt, and the dense shadows in the moonlight. Compared with them, the place where he was now staying simply made no sense. But he knew that the best houses in the city were the ones with the most glass and paint. He heard himself say, “I don’t like it.” He thought, I’m getting old, I’ve started—without rhyme or reason—to talk to myself. He pulled the thick blanket up and covered his face. He imagined that he was already dead. He was consciously controlling his breathing. The sound of his heart throbbing had gradually slowed. He fell asleep. He dreamed of a large expanse of dark green grass. When he woke up, those green grasses were still swaying and undulating. To see green grass in one’s dream was an omen that one would see a long-lost relative. Who? He didn’t have to dream of green grass to see his younger son. And even dreaming of green grass, he couldn’t see his older son or his wife. “So, it’s him.” He heard himself talking to himself again. He saw the kid who spoke the language of the home village get out of his car. When the kid got out of the car, he adopted the pose of the most experienced drivers. He heard him shout, “Old chap, hey!” Sherab heard himself say, “The locust flowers are blossoming.” Then the buildings forming the city freed themselves from the dim moonlight that was like a dream, yet not like a dream. Sherab got out of bed. That day, he spent a long time making a ladder out of scrap steel. He carried the ladder to the locust tree, and picked a lot of pure white, sweetsmelling locust blossoms.

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“A

ma, it’s going to snow.” In this hazy weather, Gela’s voice was silver-clear as he leaned against the door. Mother was singing behind him, and the tattered sheepskin on the window flapped in the wind. “Ama, the sheepskin and the wind are keeping time for you!” In the small square in the center of our village, the women who heard Gela talking and his ama singing would sigh and say, “So carefree and so shameless! How can she be so happy while leading this kind of life?” Gela was a love child. He lived with his mother in the worst and smallest house in the village, and yet it looked empty. Of even more interest, this woman Sangden was a little idiotic. She wasn’t a native of this village. More than ten years earlier, the village shepherd had opened the sheep pen and watched a flock of sheep file past him. These sheep belonged to the production brigade, so every evening, the shepherd would stand at the entrance to the pen, holding the gate open and scrupulously counting the sheep. The entire flock of 135 sheep squeezed past him, yet one sheep was still sleeping on the straw in the pen. The shepherd walked over and pulled the sheep’s tail, but the tail was part of a sheepskin, under which a woman was sleeping soundly! This person was Gela’s mother—the woman who was presently singing so lightheartedly. Shocked by what he’d seen, the shepherd had uttered “Amitabha” and run off. He had once been a lama, but had been forced to return to lay life when the revolutionaries destroyed the temples. As if reciting a lesson, the revolutionaries all said: Lamas are parasites; they have to be reeducated and earn their own living. Thus, no longer a lama, he had become a shepherd. 132

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A woman whom no one knew anything about was found in the pen! Like lightning, this news brightened the lifeless village. People gathered rapidly at the sheepfold: the woman was sound asleep under the sheepskin. Her face was dirty. No, that isn’t right. It wasn’t filthy dirty, but rather it resembled the greasepaint worn by opera actors. Black paint. Gray paint. It was a morning after a snowfall, and this woman whom no one knew was lying in the straw, sound asleep—as serene as an immortal from heaven— amid the warm sheep smell. The crowd surrounding her didn’t make another sound. Finally, the woman slowly opened her eyes. The crowd stirred slightly, like trees shaken by the wind, and then all grew quiet again. When the woman looked at the crowd surrounding her, the crowd looking down on her, her bright, clear eyes turned turbid. Her thin lips moved as she murmured to herself. But no one heard what she was saying. Her lips moved quickly, but no sound came from her mouth. So of course no one knew what she was saying. Or what she wanted to say. In a loud voice, Ema asked her where she had come from. A shy expression came over her face. She bent her head and didn’t answer. Lowu Dhondup opened her big mouth and said, “Well, will you at least tell us your name?” Ema said, “Didn’t you notice that she’s dumb?” A little laughter came from the crowd. Someone said, “Look, these two meddling big mouths are quarreling.” No one expected that in the midst of the laughter, a beautiful gentle voice would ring out: “My name is Sangden.” The Women’s Association Chair Ema said, “My, what a beautiful voice.” The others said, “It’s much more beautiful than yours.” Ema laughed and said, “Take her to my home. I want to give this poor woman something to eat.” Then she said to Lowu Dhondup, “And yes, I also want to find out where she’s from.” Sangden stood up and carefully picked off the straw sticking to her face and body. Although her clothes were old and ragged, people didn’t consider her dirty and down at the heels. It’s said that just then the former lama uttered a word of praise: “She isn’t an ordinary village woman. She’s an aristocrat’s lovely daughter!” Ema said, “Anyhow, you’re the one who found her. You can marry her.” With a dismissive gesture, the shepherd took off after his flock of sheep. From then on, this Sangden with the unclear background stayed on in 133

Ti b etan S oul Gyas Village as though she’d been here since birth. Later on, people discovered that her singing voice was even more beautiful than her speaking voice. The philandering men in the village also spread the word that her body surpassed all other women’s. In any case, this slightly dim-witted, rather graceful woman stayed on in Gyas Village. People often heard her singing gracefully, but only rarely did they hear her speak. No one knew who had fathered her two children. The older one was her son Gela, twelve this year. The second was a daughter. Before she was even two months old, she was smothered by her mother’s breast as she nursed in her sleep. Just after her daughter died, Sangden frequently went to the small tomb at the riverside and stood there dazed. But in the summer, when the luxuriant grasses hid the grave, it seemed she’d forgotten what had happened. She would often lean beautifully against the door, facing the village’s small square. When people were there, she watched them go into the square. When people weren’t there, who knows what she looked at? Her son Gela had a similar mysterious temperament. No one could detect anything from what Gela said when his mother was singing. Only Gela knew that he was rather unhappy. People with nothing to do always congregated at the village square. At that time, people’s expressions often clouded over. Now a wind that grew ever stronger drove them away from the square: they scattered in all directions, making their way into their homes. A face is a strange thing. It doesn’t matter much if an unlucky face or an unimportant person’s face clouds over, but if a moral person’s face falls, then it’s really serious. And in those times, it’s said that most people set a lot of store by morality. Not only this, but they also held a lot of meetings, getting ready to launch the new morality. It was going to snow. It wasn’t just the sky overhead, but also his aching joints that told Gela this. Twelve-year-old Gela stood at the door. In front of him, Gyas Village’s square was exactly as it had been since his earliest memories. It was encircled by stockaded buildings. The wind whirled around the square, blowing everything from west to east, including the hair on the cattle and sheep, ragged cloths, straw, and the tattered pieces of paper used in the campaign to establish a new morality. And then all these miscellaneous things were pushed once more to the west. Gela smiled at seeing these things. When he smiled, his sharp canine teeth showed. Loud-mouth Lowu Dhondup said, “Look. From looking at his teeth, you know that he lives like a dog. That bitch only knows how 134

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to spread her legs for men to enjoy. She even cries out shamelessly while doing that.” A woman said, “She doesn’t even know that you have to pull a child’s baby teeth.” Those cows—that’s what Gela secretly called these self-righteous women who got angry and made a fuss over every little thing. It was these women who told Gela that when it was time for children to lose their baby teeth, you had to pull the loose teeth out with red silk thread. After pulling them, you threw the lower teeth onto the roof and the upper teeth at the corner of the wall. This was the only way the new teeth would grow in quickly. Gela’s mother Sangden didn’t know this, though. Gela’s baby teeth forced his new teeth to grow outside his lips, where they gleamed brightly. Just like a puppy—a cute, lovely puppy. Gossiping about people who had worse luck than they did made these people happy. One of the women learned to bark like a puppy. Woof! Woof! Woof! This led to many other women barking, especially the young married women. It was twilight. They had pulled their own children’s teeth in time. These children who had fathers led cows back from the pastures in the foothills. The young women were milking the cows. Their merriment drew Gela’s mother Sangden, who had no cows to milk, out of her house, where—leaning weakly against the doorframe—she watched other women milk the cows. Growing nervous, the woman who’d been gossiping just then overturned her milk bucket, filling the twilight with the smell of fresh milk. The next day, the villagers said, “That bitch is pregnant again. No one knows whose man is responsible.” Gela leaned against the doorframe and licked his chapped lips. There seemed to be more moisture in the air; it seemed it would snow soon. He and his mother hadn’t had any milk for a long time. He looked out at the deserted square, not knowing when the first snowflake would fall. He recalled going with Tsedor to the Shajing Monastery to barter rice. They got drunk, and the cart had overturned. Now it must be noon, but it was so cloudy it seemed like dusk. The wind was bringing a little moisture and warmth—harbingers of spring. This snowfall would surely be heavy, and then it would be spring. Gela was growing up, slowly becoming an adult, and he imagined that he was already an adult. Behind him, next to the fire, his big-bellied mother talked to herself and hurried happily to clean the 135

Ti b etan S oul center of the hearth. The flames leapt up with a hu-hu sound. “Gela, we’re going to have a newcomer!” “Today, Ama?” “Yes. Soon.” Gela went inside and helped Mother build a bigger fire. He knew that the newcomer would come from Mother’s mound-like tummy. He was grown up, he understood this much. It was very warm inside. They were so poor they had nothing, but at least they could make the house warmer. Gela was twelve; he could bring back enough firewood. If Mother wanted the house a little warmer, he—his mother’s little helper—could make it warmer. Gela was twelve this year. He’d be thirteen next year. Even Ama said, “You’re not barking like a puppy any longer, my dearest Gela.” Her reckless kisses made him really uncomfortable. Sangden started eating the wheat that was warming beside the fire. There was also a large piece of pork in the food. “Not for you today, son.” Gela sat cross-legged without moving. “I have to eat my fill.” “It’s going to snow.” Mother’s mouth was glossy with grease from the fatty pork. “After it snows a while, our guest will arrive. It will be a clean little snow baby, won’t it?” Gela blushed. He knew what his mother meant. He felt a little unhappy inside. Gela heard his mother’s merry voice again. “Do you want a little brother or a little sister?” Gela felt he ought to smile, so he made a big effort to do so. He used to be just like his mother—smiling idiotically for no reason. But this time, he felt his heart ache, as if something were tearing ferociously at it. “I want to give you a little sister. I want a little daughter who will cling to me like a kitten. Is that okay with you?” Gela nodded his head, but he also remembered what his mother had forgotten—the tiny grass- and snow-covered grave at the riverside. Something tore at his heart again: Gela was worried. “Heat a pot of water for your pitiful ama, son. Thanks a lot, son. Then set a pair of scissors next to me.” 136

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As she talked, she finished eating the large jar of food. Before, when they had good food, she let him go first. Today, Sangden ate it all. Gela was happy that she did. Now the pain started attacking Mother. All at once, she straightened her back and bit her lips. Then, just as quickly, the pain left. Mother said, “Gela, good boy, the guest is knocking at the door. When a woman gives birth, men can’t be present. Go out for a walk.” Then she lay down on the calfskin that had been prepared some time earlier with a thick layer of straw on the mat under it. After that, Mother struggled to smile at him. When he went outside, Gela felt as sad as if he were parting from her forever. Snow. When he went outside, the snow fell at last from between heavy layers of gray clouds. As he stood amid the fluttering snowflakes, Gela reached down for the long knife at his waist. Mother’s screams came from behind him. Gela knew that all the villagers could hear her. The snow falling on his head melted right away, and the heat from his head transformed the snow into a mirage. His mother’s screaming forced him to walk out of the village. Suddenly, Gela saw blood. When he rubbed his eyes, the blood vanished. The light, silent snowflakes still fluttered merrily. By the time he reached the mountain slope behind the village, his mother’s voice had faded away. From behind him came the sound of footsteps in snow and a hunting dog’s excited low growl. People were about to climb the mountain and go hunting in the snow—some proud and arrogant guys a few years older than Gela. They were Keji Aga, the Wangchen brothers, and loud-mouth Lowu Dhondup’s son, the hare-lipped Jigme. You could tell just by looking at them that they’d snitched the adults’ hunting guns. When they passed Gela, they purposely pulled the dog’s thin metal chain, making a hua-hua sound. They disappeared into the snow. Gela pressed ahead, and then they reappeared in the snow. They waited for him, their breath white as they laughed hard at Gela. Gela had prepared himself to hear their foul language, but just then, the sound of Mother’s wild screams—both happy and sorrowful—came from the village below. They were like one flash after another of jagged, dazzling lightning. The 137

Ti b etan S oul guys said, “C’mon. Come hunting with us. The woman giving birth doesn’t have anything to eat. If we get something, we’ll give you a little of it.” “The baby doesn’t have a father. You have to be its father.” Just as Gela was about to answer, Hare-lip Jigme started laughing. The laughter from his hare-lipped mouth was the same as Gela’s mother’s— merry laughter, limpid and shiny like the mountain stream. When he heard it, Gela couldn’t help but laugh, too. Like his mother, he always laughed offhandedly at situations that would seriously worry other people. But when Gela laughed, Hare-lip Jigme’s eyes were exultant because he had successfully hoodwinked someone. Laughing, Gela pounced on this guy, and Hare-lip Jigme tumbled down the snowy slope. Just then, with no attempt to cover it up, the sound of Mother’s agony came again from the village. As she was giving birth to another fatherless child, she shouted loudly. What would the villagers say? Wouldn’t they say: Bitch! Just listen to her gleeful shouting! Gela pounced again and gave Hare-lip Jigme a swift kick to send him rolling faster down the slope. Then screams came again from the woman who reared her own fatherless children and never made trouble for the men who were responsible. Hare-lip Jigme finally stood up. Before steadying himself, he spat out wild words, “You dare hit me?” Jigme was usually like his father, a weak flunky in the village. But just then, he was riled. “Do you dare hit me?” “Laugh just one more time!” Jigme stuck his stomach out, and with a mouth as ugly as a rabbit’s, he mimicked Sangden’s screaming. All at once, Gela’s hatred erupted, and he swept his scabbarded knife heavily across Jigme’s face. Jigme shouted shrilly, and his hunting dog grabbed Gela’s legs from behind. That’s all that prevented Hare-lip from being attacked again. The dog bit Gela’s calves almost all the way through. With a shout, Gela smashed the knife and its scabbard on the dog’s neck. Hitting so hard and so quickly, the scabbard shattered, and scraps of cuckoo-wood began flying. The dog cried out in misery and ran off in the distance. Now, the naked knife was flashing cold light; the snowflakes falling on it were dazzling. Hare-lip Jigme looked even uglier, because he was terrified and because the bridge of his nose had caved in. The others carried Hare-lip, his face all bloody, down the mountain. Gela sat in the snow, looking at the blood flowing from the dog bites on his calves. The blood dripped onto the snow like fresh red flowers. Not 138

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surrendering to either exhaustion or shame, Mother was still shouting. He thought it must have been exactly like this when Mother gave birth to him. Now it was better: mother and son were suffering pain simultaneously, bleeding simultaneously. It was great to turn suffering into bleeding, for other people could see the blood. Aga and the Wangchen brothers, who had taken Jigme down the mountain, invited a few other young guys to come back with them. Gela was placing lump after lump of snow on his wounds. Every time one lump reddened, he threw it away and replaced it with a clean one. As he raised and threw the lumps of snow that were soaked blackish-red, he stared at them soundlessly. These six or seven guys detoured in a wide circle around him. They had brought their fathers’ dogs and were carrying their fathers’ guns as they went up the mountain to hunt. The bleeding finally stopped. Mother’s voice softened a little: she must be tired. The snow fell a little less heavily, and the outline of the village was now visible. The snow had covered everything that had been in disarray, so the rundown village—the dust-covered village—had turned beautiful. As he looked at the vision before him, Gela’s face was wreathed in smiles. Gela turned around, and stepping in the footprints of the guys in front of him, he headed up the mountain. He wanted to catch up with them, just like a dog. Anyhow, his name meant “dog.” If they got their quarry, local custom meant that everyone on the scene would receive a share of it, so they’d have to give him a little of the meat. Gela wanted to take a little meat to Sangden: a woman who’d just had a baby needed good food, but there was nothing good at home to give her. Gela wanted to make her happy. Then he would show her the wounds on his legs: that would tell her that he knew how much pain she’d endured. She was a woman, so she could scream in pain. But he couldn’t, because he was a man. He imagined that her eyes would brim with tears, and then she would laugh merrily. This woman loved so much to laugh. The sound of laughter was even brighter than the sunshine on the brook, but so many people stinted on laughter, just as they begrudged spending money. She still loved so much to laugh. This woman—had he already begun seeing his mother as a woman?—was so beautiful, so poor and helpless, so secretly desired by others and yet so disdained in public, and still she remained so very happy. The villagers said she was either an idiot or a lunatic. 139

Ti b etan S oul Now she started screaming again. When other village women gave birth, they never made a sound. Some even smothered themselves to keep from making a sound. The ones who survived childbirth said that giving birth was as easy as defecating or urinating. This was the way a decent woman was supposed to be, or at least that’s how it was in Gyas Village. But this woman yelled joyfully, and the sound rocked and rose from the quiet, snow-covered village center and went up, up, up, as if it wouldn’t stop until it had gone straight to heaven where all the gods could hear it. But there isn’t a scrap of evidence that the world was touched by this happy and agonized voice. There was no wind. The snow kept falling heavily. Only Gela felt himself being ripped apart by this voice. From this, as a man, he knew that giving birth was a ripping apart of a living person. Gela walked up the mountain, the snow squeaking underfoot—as if moaning from his heart. His tears fell as he thought of his mother giving birth to him with no one there to care for her as he had done just now. When he walked into the woods, he could no longer hear his mother’s screams. Gela found their footprints again. When he struggled to step in these widely separated footprints, his bloody wounds broke open again. The hot blood crawled like worms down his legs, but he still made every effort to take long strides. A smile appeared on his slightly upturned face—a perplexed smile, for he felt happy without knowing why. A shot rang out. A rifle report came from deep within the shady woods. Perhaps because of the dense stand of large trees, perhaps because of the thickly packed snow, the low, dull, hoarse rifle report wasn’t as clear as Mother’s screams in childbirth. For an instant, Gela stood dumbfounded and then he began running fast. He heard another oppressive rifle report. Then another. At first, they came in a sequence, and then opened up with flustered anxiety. Then a sad, shrill, somewhat enraged sorrowful yell reverberated in the woods for a long time. Gela ran faster and faster. Just when he felt he couldn’t keep up with the longest stride, the stride shortened, as if the person had been jittery and hesitated to continue. Gela slowed down and stopped. Not far ahead, a person lay squirming 140

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in front of a hole in a huge tree. A motionless bear lay next to him. These gutsy, inexperienced guys had had the temerity to confront a hibernating bear. Another bear, trailing blood, was chasing them in the snow. All the while, two of them were actually descending, going toward a depression in the land. In our Gyas Village, even women who’d never gone hunting knew that a fierce wounded animal always swooped down in a rage. So, experienced hunters would all run up the mountain slope. But the Wangchen brothers, scared shitless, had headed down. Holding high the rifles they’d had no time to reload, they headed toward a depression in the land. At first, they gained speed going down, and the bear stood still. This hibernating bear, which had awakened with a start when its companion was killed, never dreamed that these hunters could be so stupid. The guys running from danger screamed at the same time Gela did. He told them to stop running down. The Wangchen brothers still held their empty rifles high, racing toward the depression packed with deep snow. The oxhorn ammunition canister and the deerskin ammunition bag swung at a slant from their bodies. The bear was still standing there, as if astonished at their stupidity. Or it might have just been stopping for a second to figure out its next move, the way a crafty hunter usually did. Gela shouted again. Too late. The two guys had already rushed into the depression and were stuck in the deep snow. They threw down their rifles and, crawling, struggled for their lives. Gela rushed over to the guy lying next to the other bear. He picked up the gun. It was the first time he’d ever held a gun, and he trembled all over. He smelled gunpowder and blood everywhere. In Gyas Village, boys who had fathers and older brothers had been around guns since childhood. And under the tutelage of adult men, they had learned how to load and fire rifles. Gela—this fatherless child—had brought only his mother’s carefree laughter. He had observed the other boys, who—because of their experience with rifles—were becoming more like men every day. Now he held a rifle in his hands for the first time. He packed powder into the bore and added the bullets. Then he pressed the powder down with a stick and loaded the fuse. He did this very quickly. He had seen all of this time after time as the adult men in the village taught their sons or younger brothers how to use hunting rifles. And he’d practiced the whole sequence time after 141

Ti b etan S oul time in his dreams. Now he composed himself and raised the rifle like a hunter. At the same time, he smelled the warm scent of the disturbed den. The bear stood at the end of this scent in the cruel rays of light refracted in the snow. Blood dripped from several parts of its body. The wounded bear howled. The sound vibrated, shaking snow from the treetops all around. The bear charged down into the depression, and under the weight of its heavy body, the deep snow on either side parted like water. In Gela’s hands, the rifle jumped. But he didn’t hear the report. He just felt the rifle—as tall as he was— slam against his shoulder. He even saw the bullets enter the snow behind the bear: they plowed up the snow and stopped behind the bear’s rear end. The guy standing opposite the depression also fired. A bullet found its mark, and the bear tumbled heavily into the snow. It sank into the center of the depression. But after howling, it arched itself up again from the snow. It was already very close to the Wangchen brothers. Gela threw his empty rifle aside and shouted: “Woof! Woof-woof!” “Woof-woof! Woof!” His imitation of a hunting dog’s barking sounded happy and clear. It filled the woods; it was enough to provoke any animal that thought it was safe from insults. Even though it was the first time he had fired a rifle, he was nonetheless the best in the whole village at learning how to bark. He’d practiced barking on many occasions, always in front of other people. They would say, “Gela, bark for us.” And he would start “woof-woof” barking. When the bear heard this realistic barking, it turned around. Gela thought it had seen him. Its eyes were as cold as ice, and it was packing a lot of weight. Gela shivered, and then heard himself shout, “Ma!” He turned around, rushed toward the road, and ran for his life down the mountain. Woof! Woof! Gela felt blood coursing down his legs again. Wet, cold wind rushed toward him, and frenzied, bloody wind pushed him from behind. He dashed on, barking all the way. The tall, large barrier of trees ahead of him opened up. It had stopped snowing, and sunlight flashed on the treetops. He didn’t know when he had taken the long knife from its usual position at his waist. As he swung it up and down, it glittered. The branches blocking the road had snapped—shuashua—and fallen to the ground. Gela and the bear had quickly run out from the established spruce and pine woods and entered second-growth woods. Silver birches rushed at them, 142

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and the sunlight grew brighter. The sunlight illuminated this silver-swathed world, shining on one bear and one child running lickety-split through the woods. Gela looked back at the bear. Because of its serious injuries, the beast could no longer even lift its head, but it was still following him and charging down the mountain. Now, Gela just had to make it around a small curve, and the bear would be dashed all the way down the mountain by inertia, for it would be unable to turn its huge body around. It probably wouldn’t be able to climb back up the mountain, either, because it was so seriously wounded. Now, as he ran, Gela grew more composed. Although he had thought of this trick, he didn’t like it. He even wanted to turn around to face the bear. He thought neither of them had any reason to continue hurrying like this. Now, one could see the village from the mountain. The villagers watched Gela and the bear. They watched from the rooftops and from the small square in the village center; they watched the bear chase Gela down the mountain. They were kicking up snow everywhere. Panicked hunting dogs scurried all through the village. In Gela’s eyes, though, the dogs and the running people didn’t mar the beauty and tranquility of the village after the snow. Gela also saw Mother in the beauty and tranquility after the snow. Perspiration glistened on her face. Warmth poured from her body as she slept beside the fire—sleeping peacefully like the snow-covered Mother Earth. Mother no longer screamed in agony. That sound had drifted in all directions. The quiet village remained in the center. Suddenly, Gela decided to stop running. It wasn’t that he couldn’t run, but that he wanted to prevent the bear from running into the peaceful village after the snow. In the village, a pitiful woman was resting quietly after the pain of giving birth. That day, an afternoon after the snow, the villagers saw Gela wheel around and raise his long knife to face the charging bear. Gela had hardly turned around when the bear seemed to completely obscure the sky with its enormous body. But he still aimed the knife at the white spot on the bear’s chest. He felt the knife tip make contact with the bear’s coat. And he heard the sounds of his and the bear’s bones breaking. Blood spurted from the bear’s mouth and from his own mouth. Then the world started spinning, and the smell of blood turned into darkness filled 143

Ti b etan S oul with bits and pieces of golden sparks. Gela had dropped into an abyss. In a shaft of light, he floated up from the abyss. Mother’s face gradually appeared in the light. He wanted to move a little, but it hurt his body. He wanted to laugh a little, but it hurt his face. He saw his mother, lying next to the fire, gazing at him. He was lying on the other side of the fire. “What’s wrong with me?’ “You killed it.” “Who?” “You killed the bear, son. It also hurt you. You saved the Wangchen brothers’ lives. You also broke Hare-lip Jigme’s nose.” As soon as Mother started talking, he remembered one incident after another. He knew that he had bled just as Mother had and that he had suffered just as Mother had. Outside, the light after the snow was really bright; inside, the flames wobbled in the fire. The warm atmosphere overflowed with the smell of his and Mother’s blood. “And the bear?” “They said you killed it, son.” Mother smiled weakly. “They skinned it. You’re lying on the bearskin. The meat is in the pot, already boiling.” Gela smiled weakly. He wanted to move a little, but he couldn’t: splints held his chest and back in place. Mother took his hand gingerly and guided it to touch the bearskin beneath him. She held his left hand so he could feel the left side, and then his right hand so he could touch the right side. He touched it—its claws, its ears. He was sleeping on top with the bear beneath him. The village men had stretched the bearskin tight and tacked it to the floor, so that the person who had killed it could lie on top of it. The person who’d killed it had broken ribs. At the point of death, the bear had grabbed him, leaving deep claw marks on his back. Of course, this person wasn’t tall enough, so the bear hadn’t been able to kiss him and scar his beautiful face. “The bear was a really big one,” Mother said. “I heard you scream. Were you in pain?” “A lot of pain. Did my screaming make you uncomfortable?” “No, Ama.” Tears glinted in Mother’s eyes. When she bent over to kiss his forehead, 144

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she smelled of milk and blood. His whole body smelled of herbal medicine and blood. “Before . . .” Gela stuck out his tongue and licked his lips. “Did I give you so much pain, too?” “Even more, son, but I was happy.” Gela swallowed a mouthful of saliva. Although he was sweating from the pain, he made every effort to let a smile float up on his face. In the low, calm voice that he supposed an adult man should have, he asked, “And what about him?” “Who?” Gela blinked a little humorously as he said, “The little thing.” He thought that fathers used this tone when they spoke of their children. Mother laughed, and red clouds flew to her cheeks. She said, “There’s one thing you must never ask me.” Gela knew she meant he shouldn’t ask who the little thing’s father was. He wouldn’t ask. The little thing had no father. He could be its father. He had killed a bear today, as this child was being born. As for himself, he had to be fatherless forever. Sangden lifted the child from a wicker cradle and held it. The child was sound asleep. Its face was pink, and its wrinkled forehead looked like an old woman’s. The little thing who’d begun its life in the midst of blood and pain smelled of milk. “It’s your little sister, Gela.” Mother placed the little thing beside him. The tiny baby actually had a tiny snore. Gela laughed. Because of his wounds, he had to restrain himself. So his laughter was hoarse. The hoarse laughter, like that of an adult man, reverberated in the room. “Does she have a name yet?” Gela asked. Mother shook her head. “Then let me name her.” Mother nodded her head, her face revealing another joyous smile. “Let’s call her Teba. When she was born, it snowed. Her name should be Snow.” “Teba? Snow?” “Yes. Snow.” Mother looked up, as though gazing steadily in her imagination at a sky full of clean, light snowflakes. 145

Ti b etan S oul Gela said, “You lie down, too. I want to look at the two of you sleeping together—mother and daughter.” Mother lay down obediently next to her daughter, as if obeying a husband’s command. Sangden closed her eyes. At once, the room was silent. Snowlight came in from the window and the cracks in the door, illuminating Mother’s and little sister’s faces. The two faces looked so much alike—both so beautiful, so innocent, so healthy, so untroubled. Gela exhaled: little sister was also like him, like Mother, and not like anyone else. Especially not like any other man in the village. This was the thing he’d been secretly worried about all along. Gela turned his head to look at the sky outside the window. After the snow, the sky was an expanse of bright crystal blue with a rosy border. Over the fire, the bear meat stew was boiling. Sangden, who’d merely been pretending to sleep, laughed and said, “I have to get up. It would be a shame if the meat stew spilled over into the fire.” Gela said, “If you get up, then it will look as though I’m the one who’s given birth. It’ll be as if I, this man, have given birth to a baby.” Mother laughed. And Gela began laughing along with her. It was still the same carefree laughter that our Gyas villagers often spoke of.

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he dry, cold wind rushed across head-on. The grass, yellowed from autumn frosts, was pasted tight to the mountain slope by the wind. When the wind weakened a little, the grasses curved, stood straight again, and then were overpowered by an even stronger gust. The wobbling blades of grass made a shuashua sound. The moisture and the green color concealed in the grasses vanished quickly. As the wind became more cutting, the sere grasses were at last snapped in half. Swirling, they rose to the sky and flew toward high and distant places. For a long, long time, they followed the steep paths covering the mountain ridges. Now, it was too hard to walk upwind; even if the people could manage, the exhausted pack animals weren’t moving. The long-haired man said, “Let’s rest a while.” “Okay,” the bald one answered. They made a small, neat, knee-high circle of their packs. The fox-skin hat kept blowing off the bald guy’s head. Every time he replaced it, it blew off again. Finally, he tucked it in at his chest. They wedged small wooden posts into the ground, hammered them down with rocks, and then threaded the horses’ halters through iron hoops in the posts and tethered the horses—one to each post. The animals then formed a second, larger circle around the packs. Not until then did the bald man feel the pain in his scalp from the wind blowing in. He rubbed it hard a few times and murmured Amitabha. The long-haired guy wore a blue cotton cap with its brim turned down. He pulled down the flaps and fastened them tightly around his chin. From the slight quivering of his beard, the bald guy knew he was secretly exultant about his cap and his hair. He saw the words the other man wasn’t uttering, 147

Ti b etan S oul “Hey! Monk.” The long-haired guy’s beard stopped quivering. He said, “Let’s start a fire.” “Light a fire?” The monk let out a groan. “In this kind of wind, not only would your beard go up in flames, but so would the whole mountain. We’d be roast beef. . . .” Although he hurried to cover his mouth, most of the inauspicious words had already slipped out. Listening to the piercing sound of the wind, he couldn’t help feeling scared. But Long-hair didn’t care a whit about this: “Then I’ll roast you first, for dinner.” “Amitabha. That’s a sin.” “Ah! A sin.” Long-hair mocked him and then repeated, “A sin.” The horses had been nervous for a while, but now they’d calmed down. The men huddled in their leather robes, sat cross-legged, and curled up against the packs. The animals had taken the edge off the wind. With the packs further blocking it, the wind grew even weaker. The dried-up grasses and withered leaves swirling through the sky landed in this quiet circle. It was even quieter inside the leather robes. Hushed. Silence was the most forceful way to resist nature’s cruelty. The sky was covered with ash, hurled forcefully in all directions by the wind. The entire world seemed to have plunged into chaos. And the dumb animals on the mountain ridge bridled toward the sky like lofty, unmoving rocks. They were like mountain spirits about to break out in a rage and start whinnying. At this time, if an eagle had soared to the sky, it could have seen that the blue, white, and red colors of the circle of horses were like a garland of flowers in full bloom in this desolate atmosphere. But it wouldn’t have seen the people. The two men were simply two rocks—two rocks impervious to the elements. The wind had ruthlessly swept away the leisurely feeling of riding alone on a quiet mountain road. Those wonderful poetic lines vanished without a trace. As he walked on, the young mail carrier clung to the horse’s bridle for all he was worth. It was his first time on this mail route, and it hadn’t occurred to him that he would encounter such weather. It sure wasn’t like speeding on his motorcycle on the main road. This was a five-day roundtrip, all on horseback, to a remote village of just ten households or a few more. He didn’t know if it was the smell of gas and grease that he couldn’t bear 148

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or if it was the sight of the old mail carrier’s numb hands and feet: in either case, he’d asked for this remote mail route. Now he not only regretted it, but he also thought that this experience might be related to the books by Walt Whitman which he’d been struggling to read lately. As he considered this, his footsteps picked up a little strength. The youth thought it had to be like this. There had to be this wind so that he could show his magnanimity and courage. When he reached a little cave, he didn’t stop but bent over, and pulling on the reins, climbed the mountain. The mountain ridge gradually opened out. Everywhere, waves of grasses swayed wildly with the wind. The wind was blowing violently, and with no obstruction it swept everything away: it howled like a hungry wolf (this is merely an analogy, for he certainly had never heard a wolf). He felt panicky again, and it became harder and harder to walk. As time passed, only one thing occupied his mind, and the more difficult walking became, the more thought he gave to this: you must not stop. No matter what, you cannot stop. The old mail carrier had told him this. Otherwise, otherwise . . . When the sun rose tomorrow, this would be the picture: gnashing teeth would show between dry, shriveled lips. From a distance, it would look like a grinning face. In fact, it would be a grin frozen in death. The grin would be mixed with misery, even uglier than weeping. As he thought of this, the youth felt sorry for himself and wanted to let tears pour out. But he quickly regained self-control. Men weren’t supposed to cry. Girls would giggle and say, “Heehee . . .What a man!” Of course there were no girls around here. There was nothing but the mountain in chaos. The mountain had concealed itself, yet the people had to keep going. The horse bent its head and sniffed at numerous fresh, unsteady footprints. Its nostrils flared, and then, as if stimulated, it lifted its shoulders even more energetically. Pulling hard on the mane, he rested his head on the horse’s neck and kept walking with great difficulty. Gradually, the mountain ridge became higher, steeper, and broader. The wind attacked even more violently, and the horse’s steps became even more energetic. The wind poured directly into his nose and mouth, choking him so much that he couldn’t breathe. His lips were chapped. The blood on his lips congealed into dark red gore. He moved behind the horse to get away from the wind, held tight to the horse’s tail, and let the horse drag him up the slope. Gradually, he approached the mountaintop. Now the young mail carrier was in high spirits. He thought of the wind, 149

Ti b etan S oul he thought of the horse, he thought of himself. He still clung to the horse’s tail. He felt that the horse’s power, that tenacity, or that nameless something was moving across his fingers and palms and entering his own body. And he felt that this body could fling itself with no misgivings into the mountain that was always beset by storms. “This is really a fucking good horse!” he moaned. The poetry had to be a little crude or it wouldn’t match this scene, he thought. After he crossed the mountaintop and started the descent, it would be much easier, he thought. This mountaintop surpassed anything he had imagined. He scanned the area in awe: the mountaintop was perhaps a third of a mile wide. As for its length, there was no end to it as far as the eye could see: immense waves of grass were swinging wildly. He couldn’t hold back his dismay as he fell onto the ground. The dispirited horse dropped to the ground, too—frothing at the mouth. There was still a long way to go. Not until now did he realize that it had been a mistake to hang onto the horse’s tail to go up the slope, a mistake that he couldn’t correct with words. Moving against the wind, carrying the mailbags, and dragging a young man up the mountain for so long, the horse had exhausted its energy. He supposed he’d have a frozen grin like the one the old mail carrier had spoken of: he wouldn’t feel the warmth of tomorrow’s sunshine. God! He’d tied his reputation to the horse’s tail and not to the horse’s halter. Even the most emotional girl wouldn’t shed a single tear; instead, she’d hide her laughter behind her hand and say, “Heehee . . . what a man.” The pack was askew on the horse’s back. The wind had ripped the bag open: parts of newspapers and envelopes were flapping briskly. The wind was about to tug them out of the bag and send them skyward. With fingers numb from the cold, he clumsily tied the bag. He put on the goggles that had been hanging from his belt. After he spoke the scary word “death” to himself, it had a calming effect on him. He shifted himself forward and hugged the horse around the neck. The horse whinnied twice, and the youth felt like crying, but he didn’t want to do that. Instead, he looked up at the sky. It seemed the ash-colored vault would land on his head at any moment. The monk opened his leather robe a little, so that one ear showed. By then, the wind’s screaming had died away. Rising in its place was a low, imposing “huhu” sound sweeping past his ears. He couldn’t detect any in150

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tervals. “It’s even bigger,” he said, as he touched the long-haired guy gently. “It’s like . . .” “It’s going to snow.” “So it seems.” The long-haired guy stretched his head out. Narrowing his eyes, he yawned. “It didn’t occur to me that it would snow so early this year.” “Me, either.” Long-hair answered and then stretched lazily. The monk frowned and said, “So we can’t make it down the mountain today.” “For sure?” “Can’t you figure out even that much?” “So we’ll spend the night on the mountain.” Long-hair noticed that the monk looked angry and finally said earnestly, “Do we have any peat?” “Yes.” “And firewood?” “Yes. That, too.” Long-hair felt at his waist for kindling materials. He had both a flint and tinder. He stood up and pulled all the dry grasses to his breast. Monk was murmuring over and over. “Hunh . . . Buddha, fire is the Buddha.” Casting a sidelong glance at Monk, Long-hair huddled back into the robe. He would soon fall asleep in the smelly warmth of the sheepskin robe, but the monk rammed him again. “Hey. I say there are a person and a horse behind us.” “Did you see them?” “I’ve got a feeling . . .” “Feeling . . . feeling. You must have already cultivated yourself into an immortal.” “No. This is the day the mail carrier always comes to our village. No wonder I have this feeling.” “Hunh! That old guy is a much better person than you are.” “Oh. Good is rewarded with good. This old guy isn’t like other workers.” “Rewarded with good? If he were like other workers, there’s no way he’d come to this mountain.” “Right.” Monk said dejectedly as he inhaled a pinch of snuff. Good is rewarded with good. This was the only credo he observed. Hard to say if this was a steadfast belief. It’s just to say it was all he knew. Reflecting on his lifelong experience, as well as the long-haired guy’s, he thought this credo 151

Ti b etan S oul had never proved true. But he’d rather think their tragic lives were nothing but a nightmare—transient, like clouds and mist passing before one’s eyes. Only death was real. Only then would they achieve serenity and safety. Monk mulled things over for a while and then spat out another word. “Fate.” “Fate?” “It’s like the sky. Even a wind as strong as this one can’t change it.” “It’s your vacuity that can’t be changed. Death is hollow, too.” The first sentence was a retort, but in the second sentence he couldn’t help showing his despondency. “Death isn’t easy, either.” These words dropped into the men’s grief. “Alas!” sighed Long-hair. “Alas . . .” sighed Monk. He felt the horse’s neck muscles and tendons gradually tightening. Again, the horse neighed twice in a low tone. Lifting its neck, it wobbled and stood up. It glanced at its master, flared its nostrils amiably, and then walked ahead again. He yelled in a panic, “Ah! Ah!” Grasping the bridle, he walked in front. The wind hiked the lower part of his padded coat up. Slightly bent over, he walked ahead, his expression fierce. . . . He walked on. Walked. And, once more, the horse grew weak in the legs and bent over. He took the mailbag down from the horse’s back and carried it himself. A week’s worth of national, provincial, and local newspapers and a scattering of letters couldn’t weigh this much—thirty or forty pounds. The horse’s bag was full of various household articles, all items from the old mail carrier for the villagers. The old mail carrier hadn’t wanted to impose on him, but he had offered to bring these things. He regretted it now. He put the mail on his back and threw the saddle down, and the horse finally stood up again. A sharp tingling stabbed his temples time after time. The sky darkened. Stars fluttered and swayed. He kept stumbling ahead mindlessly, merely moving his legs mechanically. When the wind stopped blowing, he fell onto the ground, dispirited. Snowflakes were falling. The horse fell heavily to the ground, too. Hunger and thirst were scorching him. He opened his mouth wide, 152

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letting cool snowflakes moisten his lips and tongue. When his breathing became a little more even, he took out the only two buns he had left. They were cold. He swallowed a big bite. As he swallowed the second bite, he seemed to be mulling something over. He rubbed the horse’s head, broke the bread into pieces, and put them into the animal’s mouth. After eating the bread, the horse seemed to regain some energy. It lapped at the accumulated snow. The youth couldn’t restrain a slight smile. Light slowly floated into the horse’s eyes until they grew brighter and brighter. He covered the horse’s nose with his frozen hands so that its breath would warm them, and stared into the horse’s eyes. But with one blink of its big eyes, the horse shed a few tears and rolled over. The youth’s warm smile stiffened immediately. He wanted to stand up. The world that had been so insane just now had vanished in the soft sound of the snow. But he knew he couldn’t stand up again. This mysterious world had made him fall. He was—he wasn’t at all afraid to mention this word—dying, in this endlessly tender, endlessly empty snowy wild. Still, he believed the horse had the strength to stand up. Anyhow, it was slowly munching the grass next to it. He removed his coat and covered the mail with it. Then he tied the horse’s reins to his wrist. The moment the horse stood up, he’d let it drag him on. It knew the way; the old horse was a good guide. He’d let the horse drag his body until it was sodden, until it was gone, as long as his hand could still hang onto the reins. It snowed for a long time. Long-hair stretched his head out. The snow was even heavier, now actually falling in chunks. Some of the dry grasses he held at his chest were being soaked by the snow. He hurriedly stuffed the rest—the ones that were still dry—inside the front of his robe. Finally, he took a nip from his small bottle of wine. Hiding in his robe, Monk swore. “What did you say?” Monk stuck his head out and said without looking at the other, “I smell something.” “Old mushroom.” Long-hair swore. He’d picked these words up from an official during a political movement years ago. The words used then were “old-fogey.” But, unfamiliar with the Chinese language, he took it as “old mushroom.” He greatly respected the way the official spoke: what a good analogy. Just such a bald head was now moving on the greasy robe. 153

Ti b etan S oul Wasn’t it strikingly like a fresh mushroom? Monk didn’t answer. Half-kneeling, he placed his hand on the ground, and with a groan he finally stood up. He stamped out a small space in the snow, then covered it with the lower part of his robe. Long-hair had piled up the dry grasses below and set the tinder in place. He added a few more blades of dry grass and was just about to light the fire when Monk suddenly turned to one side. Several snowballs rolled on top of the dry grass and melted. “Now just look what you’ve done, you dirty monk.” “I heard a horse.” “You heard a ghost!” “Is it the mail carrier . . . ?” “Maybe,” Long-hair said. “I have to get the fire going.” As he bent over to light the fire, a long, long plaintive whinnying snapped through the snow. “Quick!” There was no time to collect the firewood. The two of them hurled themselves onto the horse and galloped off into the snowy scene. It was snowing. The young mail carrier thought he was going to fall into a deep sleep. The snow—so gentle, so lovely, but so steely, too—was like a pretty girl who was also arrogant and ruthless. Feeling a little melancholy, he closed his eyes. He felt his body going numb. Was this the kind of numbness that, when it reached its extreme, would last forever? This kind of forever wasn’t so great. It was like a trance, and far from ideal. After struggling a few times, the animal stood up again. It whinnied softly. When it saw that its master wasn’t moving, it rubbed its nose against its master’s ice-cold face . . . At the warmth, its master smiled a little. Heat. It’s the horse. A roaring motorcycle is also hot like this. Sunlight flashes in the rearview mirror. Perhaps, a girl’s kiss . . . But he didn’t know for sure. He knew the mail was covered with his coat. The horse can’t warm me up, though its color is as red as fire. My body isn’t here. I don’t know where it’s gone, either. “Examine these limbs, red, black, or white—they are so cunning in tendon and nerve . . .” It was another line from Whitman, but Whitman can’t save me, either. . . The horse reared up in midair, its hooves spreading slowly like wings. It was whinnying. Like a bolt of lightning, it ripped open the gray sky. Warm raindrops shone brilliantly . . . Bridling, the horse began whinnying, sad and shrill . . . Oh, that merry green-garbed angel, the exuberant 154

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youth riding the sorrel, wanted to lift his legs, too, soar to the sky and become wings. But his legs weren’t attached to his body. The horse seemed to know that its master couldn’t stand up again, and so it shifted a few paces, and with its large body shielded him from the wind and snow. Dimly, he realized that it wasn’t snowflakes on his face. The snowflakes were swirling and clamoring like a flock of doves. No, they’re not snowflakes: they’re letters. Buzzing, they flapped their wings and scattered. The world had become unreal. Even people were a little unreal. Not to mention that death and life had become empty words. Monk strained to lean forward, his feet knocking like drumbeats against the horse’s belly. But in the snowbank, the horse couldn’t speed up. Sweat streamed profusely from Monk’s head, making him feel ridiculous. Monk wiped the sweat away and said, “Slap the horse! Slap it!” “Don’t wail like a hungry wolf,” Long-hair said coldly. He knew that Monk was afraid of the mailman dying, but that he was even more afraid of the word death. He was afraid, too, and so he despised himself. He despised Monk even more. Oh, this wind, this snow. The snow was falling with no end in sight. There was no sound: no human voices, no horse’s whinnying, not even the sound of the wind. Without any sound, without any trace, the world somehow seemed more real. In any case, if there were any traces, they would be quickly wiped away. “Don’t be scared,” Long-hair consoled Monk. Wiping more sweat from his head, Monk nodded. Monk couldn’t help thinking a lot, all of it skirting the word he didn’t dare utter. He didn’t know if it was because he was superstitious or because he was truly afraid. The snow was falling heavy and thick. He could see only a circle the size of a tent, no bigger than what a lamp could illuminate. The sky was like a tiny mantle moving along with them. Years ago, the two of them had seen a movie, “The White-Haired Girl.” The moment the grieving girl came out, she was covered by a mantle the size of this one. Back then, Monk had thought it was very mysterious. He’d watched it to the end without saying a word. Not until he’d walked half-way up the mountain had he sighed and said, “Fate.” Long-hair, who’d gotten drunk while watching the movie, had said, “It was a light.” “It was fate,” Monk had corrected him. 155

Ti b etan S oul Nothing now before them seemed real, either. In the swirling snow, a sorrel stood quietly with its head down shielding its master with its massive body. It was motionless. Snow fluttering around them landed silently on the ground. Snow was piling up on the horse and on the man’s legs that weren’t shielded by the horse. The two men went blank for a time before they screamed and rolled off the horse. A slight smile was still frozen on the young guy’s face. They didn’t know what he’d last been thinking. Monk couldn’t keep from trembling. “Is he dead?” “Shit!” Long-hair gave vent to his annoyance. “Damn you.” He pulled out the bottle of wine, took a swig, held it in his mouth, unfastened the youth’s clothing, spurted the wine onto the youth’s chest, and began massaging him. Monk hurried to push the snow off the youth’s legs and then held the legs to his own chest. Some color finally appeared on the youth’s chest. The long-haired guy listened for a heartbeat. Monk also heard the thump-thump of a heartbeat in the youth’s slight smile: he actually forgot to pray or chant. A gleam of light flashed a few times under his eyebrows, and when he closed his eyes, tears rolled down. Long-hair raised his head and looked around. He saw some sort of bundle in the snow behind him. “Fuck. I say that old man isn’t here . . .” He walked over, pushed the snow aside, and picked up a coat and a mailbag. “He risked his life for this! Fuck. He risked his life for nothing . . .” When Long-hair looked at the youth clad in such thin clothing, he felt a prickling in his nostrils, but he was cursing even more harshly. “What’s so urgent about a few pieces of paper? We don’t understand any of it. And newspapers, too. We don’t understand them, either.” His dander rose. “In the entire village, who can read any of this?” Monk wrapped the youth in the coat. The sorrel began whinnying again. Even the snow falling like curtains faltered briefly. Long-hair set the comatose youth down again. “My throat’s burning.” As he said this, he stuffed a large chunk of snow into his mouth. Monk’s legs weakened, and he fell to the ground. Long-hair brandished his fist. “Start the fire. Hurry up!” After stiffening for a second, Monk bent over. But snow 156

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had soaked all the brushwood and grass that they had just stacked. He stood up again, disappointed. Long-hair poured a little wine on the grass. He struck his flint, but it didn’t catch. His hands were frozen like wood, cold air was invading his body, and his sweat would soon congeal into ice. He struck the flint again, and sparks flew from the white rock: with a bang, the wine caught fire. “Ah!” He let out a joyful yell that was like a suppressed moan. “It’s great wine. As soon as I lit it, it caught fire. It’s good wine . . .” He smiled a little. Soon, the wine evaporated. The grass had merely been toasted; it hadn’t yet caught fire. He shook the wine bottle: it was empty. Monk’s recitation of the sutras gained more volume. He pulled a newspaper out of the mailbag and said, “Try this.” Long-hair stared at him for a moment and then walked listlessly over to the youth and sat down next to him. Monk knew what this meant: “You’re not even as good as this youth.” He’d be able to sneer at this scene for the rest of his life. Of course, first they had to see to it that they didn’t freeze to death before they could have a full lifetime. Monk rolled up the newspaper and placed it on the grass. But this time the few sparks from the flint were useless. The newspaper was too thick. Dispirited, Monk sat down again. The sorrel approached slowly, whinnied softly twice, and then lay down next to its comatose master. Long-hair removed his robe, wrapped the youth in it, and situated him against the horse’s warm belly. He himself then put on the thin coat and leaned against the mail. Monk silently drew closer and pulled the youth’s legs in at his chest. He knew they had to submit to Heaven’s will. Now, bit by bit, his terrified, tense expression gave way to a profound equanimity. “I’d like to say . . .” Monk said hesitantly. “Hunh?” Monk heard condescension lurking in Long-hair’s “hunh.” But as long as he was willing to at least utter a sound, Monk could bear it. “I’d like to say . . .” he wanted to utter the name of the thing that was overtaking them. “How many times have the two of us met this. . .” But he still didn’t dare say it. “This? What is this?” “Death.” He closed his eyes; a deep breath rose from his chest. Only by exerting all his strength could he force his lips open to say “Death.” After uttering this word, he relaxed and let out a long sigh. Long-hair sneered 157

Ti b etan S oul and then resumed his deep silence. At last, he said, “Three times.” The snow was still falling quietly. The sky darkened. They couldn’t see the snowflakes, but they could hear the ice-cold sound of falling snow that brought about doom and death, like a flock of inauspicious crows circling overhead. It was announcing the inexorable turning of the fortune wheel and the futility of trying to resist it. Holding the youth’s head to his chest, Long-hair said slowly, “If it weren’t for today, I’d have long since forgotten that I was once a monk like you. When you got involved with a woman, I was disgusted with you for not observing your vows. I cursed you.” “I deserved your curses. But she was really a good woman.” The warm feeling from bygone days was mysteriously restored. “It’s like a dream, ah!” “Like a dream.” Still thinking of a distant time, Monk answered only briefly. The unreal feeling that they were confronting death surfaced again. Once more, they became characters in a story. Just after Liberation, people told the story of two young monks dying. They were forbidden to chant the sutras, and the temples were shut down. The old lama burned himself alive along with the temples. Most of the monks escaped, including the two of them. They recited the sutras, and they kept their monks’ vows. And they went to work transporting tea, salt, and piece goods for the village. It was the mail carrier who brought any other miscellaneous goods. People still talk of the two young monks who died. Speaking of this, Long-hair couldn’t help smiling a little. “Later, in 1968 . . .” Monk reminded him, “I broke up with that woman.” He seemed to want to unburden himself, but then he just looked ashamed and smiled. Back then, they’d both died again in the story. The monks had taken vows, but the work team had done away with superstitious practices and told them to go hunting in the mountains. They’d gone. They’d lassoed a deer, but its eyes were rolling around pitifully and they wanted to kill it quickly so it would suffer a little less. They struck at it with a club but didn’t hit it. They struck again. God. It would be better if they themselves died. And so, people said they had jumped from the cliff and tragically died. They had died for nothing. 158

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“But I was really scared.” All of a sudden, Monk became candid. “After that, I broke the vows not to kill and not to drink. And I let my hair grow long.” Monk had become fearless. He half-knelt, flattened the newspaper that he’d just rolled up, and carefully put it into the horse’s bag. Then the two men fell silent. Every now and then the horse blinked its eyes, warding off snowflakes with its eyelashes. Long-hair lowered his eyelids and didn’t lift them again. Monk looked blankly at the horse. In the horse’s eyes, he saw the ash-covered sky and the ruthless fluttering snowflakes. His back resting against the horse’s warm belly, his head at the longhaired guy’s chest, his feet at the monk’s chest, the youth gradually warmed up . . . He felt small needles pricking his feet. They flashed brightly . . . and then disappeared. The youth moved. “Hey. I’m alive,” the youth moaned weakly. Monk said mournfully, “It would have been better to die.” “Nonsense! Does he really want to die?” The youth inhaled a few gulps of ice-cold air and gradually regained consciousness. The flock of white doves had carried him back, and then they’d flown off, leaving behind their white feathers—the snowflakes, the incredibly beautiful snowflakes. So many bees were hibernating on his legs. Long-hair shook him, “Hunh?” “Cold . . . ,” the youth said. “Ah, we don’t have a fire. You’d be better off going to sleep again,” Monk said sadly. “. . . Fire. Fire . . . ,” The youth understood. He spoke a little more crisply: “I have it.” With that, he breathed heavily and with an effort pointed at his pocket. Long-hair took a lighter from it. But the snow had drenched the pile of grass again. Although he struck the lighter several times, the grass didn’t catch fire. Monk resumed chanting sutras in a loud voice. The youth propped himself up, removed the stopper from the lighter, took out the fluid-soaked cotton, asked Long-hair to empty the cigarette package, tore up the package, and put it on top of the cotton and then added some grass to it. With one touch of the lighter, bright sparks flew out. All at once, the ball of cotton became a weak, blue torch climbing the cigarette package. The cardboard turned red, then white. The torch climbed the pile of grass, 159

Ti b etan S oul making a ripping sound. Finally, a red glow reached the three men’s happy faces. Monk rushed to add a small piece of firewood, which immediately caught fire. He then pressed a large piece of firewood onto the grass. Longhair told the youth to lean against his legs and fan the fire with a leather bellows. The three of them toasted themselves quietly for a long time. Then they started eating. They ate until they were full and still they kept eating. Then they listened to the lapping sound of the fire in the snow. “How come the old guy didn’t come?” “I wanted to make the trip.” “Why?” “I want to write poetry.” “What’s poetry?” the long-haired guy asked. “. . . . .” “Didn’t poetry make you think of death?” A slight smile flashed across Long-hair’s face. “No, but that occurred to me later,” the youth said calmly. He believed he was in the midst of reading a profound, majestic psalm. He believed he might become a Whitman. “Are you scared?” Monk put in a word, “If he were scared, why would he cover the newspapers with his coat?” “It’s too late to be scared, so I’m not.” The youth smiled weakly. “Why did you do that?” “So my death would have some value.” “Value?” It was the same as their not having heard of poetry: they hadn’t heard of this thing, either. “That’s right.” The youth found it hard to explain. Poetry rarely explained anything. He swallowed and said, “To die for something, as a man should do.” He had to try to explain to them. “Oh.” “Then our deaths have some value, too,” Monk said contemplatively. “The last two times don’t count. They’re not equal to this,” Long-hair said. “Didn’t keeping our vows count, either?” Was it possible that all those bygone days could be summed up in three words—they don’t count? Monk felt bad. “No.” Long-hair’s answer was resolute and decisive. 160

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“What are you talking about?” The youth was confused. “Nothing.” Monk smiled weakly. “There really is nothing,” Long-hair said. There was nothing. There was only the rumbling fire containing an inexplicable force. The fire echoed the rhythmic beating of the men’s hearts. The firelight was now bright, now dark. The three pensive faces now and then looked immeasurably abstruse, now and then looked even more rugged. Other than this, there was only the snow, only the boundless color of night.

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hen Yangzom arrived at the Min River gorge near the mountain range, people told him that an avalanche had buried a lorry in the valley entrance he was heading toward. No one knows how many people were in the lorry or whether anyone was lucky enough to survive. In the rearview mirror, the road looked like a swaying ribbon. Little by little, the tiled roofs of the Forestry Transport Station grew smaller, stacked up together in the mirror like waves. An ever-changing beam of light was reflected from the mirror. Maybe it came from the moist luster of the roof tiles that were still wet from last night’s rainfall. After the rain, it was as if a layer of sticky mud had been smeared on the dirt road: it was like velvet. The light and dark green vegetation on the flinty rocks at the roadside slid gently and quietly over the mirror. The center of the rectangular rearview mirror was convex. And so, nothing reflected in the mirror retained its original shape. The mirror was wonderful: everything looked so different in it. Viewing all this through the mirror, Yangzom felt proud and self-confident. Yangzom had just started whistling the opening lines of a popular ballad when he waved his hand and shouted, “Oh, no! No!” The melody couldn’t keep pace with the lorry’s speed, and he slowed down a little. The lorry turned and crossed an arch bridge. Now the foaming, writhing river water was reflected in the mirror. The lorry creaked. He was in a great mood, for it was the first time since finishing his apprenticeship that he’d taken the lorry out on his own. He wanted to floor the accelerator and race the empty vehicle like crazy for five hundred kilometers, thrusting deep into the grasslands. If he’d been with the old guy, the old guy would have 162

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dillydallied, and this trip would have taken two full days. Today, he was on his own for the first time, and he could do whatever wild thing he wanted. Up to the last time they’d gone on the road, the old geezer always had to help steer at every turn. He hated him for that, but he had to be respectful and light one cigarette after another for him. At the Forestry Center, the road passed between two rows of wooden buildings. That is, the so-called Forestry Center was no more than some rows of crude wooden sheds on both sides of the road. The traffic splattered them with mud. Suddenly, the lorry stopped. He checked and found nothing out of order: he had just inadvertently moved his foot from the accelerator to the brake. At once, several people emerged from the buildings. He didn’t turn around, but in the rearview mirror he saw the sheds’ doors standing open. Everything was quiet. Smoke and steam rushed out from the open wooden doors. Just then, he heard annoyed voices. Several faces—like pieces of fermented dough—showed up in the mirror. “How about a lift, sir?” “Take a little break, have some water.” “We don’t need to sit in front. We’ll just sit in the back.” “We can be friends, can’t we, sir?” Listening to all the voices, the driver relished the men’s imploring expressions, magnified and heaped up in his rearview mirror. His expression was very superior and stony. When Yangzom waved his hand, two points of light—one green and one red—flashed out of an even deeper place in the mirror. He lowered his hand. “Bah!” This was the voice of a woman in red. “They even call themselves men!” This was the voice of a woman in green. The men’s faces all slid to the edge of the mirror and then vanished. Faces in dreams were like this, too. Luckily, Yangzom was in a good mood today: that’s why he didn’t believe he was dreaming. He looked at the two seats beside him and thought that the red and green colors would brighten the cab. He was a hundred per cent certain that these two arrogant girls had just finished school. People who’d finished school were always arrogant. They had no idea what a vehicle meant in the mountains. So many pretty women threw themselves at drivers, and only the lucky ones became wives; the others just became short-term lovers. With a scornful snort, he started the lorry. Numerous hues of green still 163

Ti b etan S oul flowed backward in the rearview mirror. Strong sunlight dispersed the valley fog. The lorry was now hugging a tributary of the Min River as it continued toward the distant mountains. Although the vegetation here was abundant, there were few signs of human habitation. It was spring, and until recently the rolling land had been frozen. Weeds and trees were beginning to leaf out: the new leaves smelled fragrant and fresh. Partridge Mountain was visible in the distance. The night rain on the lower part of the mountain made the river water look limpid and light. In the sunlight, the newly accumulated snow on the upper part of the mountain—probably an elevation of more than three thousand meters—was a dazzling crystal. Such strong sunlight dispersed the fog quickly. For a time, the vast valley that was a community of ravines and forests looked desolate. The nearly unchanging road—just like the unchanging river in the valley—gave people the sensation that it had neither a beginning nor an end. Yangzom turned on the tape recorder: the sound of a guitar playing the American tune “Mountain Eagle” was like scattered raindrops. Then came a man’s deep voice. He was a little hoarse from emotion. The music didn’t fill the empty place in Yangzom’s heart; rather, the singing deepened and widened that empty space. The lorry finally reached the rolling mountain road. The snow squeaked under its wheels like the screeching of a flock of pigeons seeking food. He grew increasingly excited as the clear, cold air mixed with the smell of gasoline and stung his nasal passages. Two people were walking slowly on the mountain road. Seen from below, the upper parts of their bodies looked short and heavy, their legs long and thin. Their shadows fell across the slope below the roadbed. Following the ground’s undulations, their shadows were alternately elongated and compressed. After half an hour, he caught up with them, slowed down, and followed these two men who were wearing jeans and down jackets and carrying nylon backpacks. The two were going all out as they hoofed it through the snow. He was overjoyed at seeing them slipping and sliding. When the lorry drew abreast, they didn’t thumb a ride. From his experience, people with backpacks all stood in the center of the road to force vehicles to stop, but these two barely glanced at him. Now, in the rearview mirror, he saw them stop and remove their down caps. Mist encircled their mouths and 164

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heads. In the mirror, the two men’s raised hands looked very long indeed. They were pointing at the continuous chain of white mountains. Once again, he was annoyed for being disdained for no reason. Without knowing why, he stopped the lorry. Holding the steering wheel, he hesitated. The two men didn’t approach him; instead, they put their backpacks down, set up a tripod, and focused their camera on the mountain slope where spring and winter coexisted. The mountain chain extended to the southwest. A long cloud shaped like a slippery fish wound along with the mountain chain and reached even farther. Where the cloud ended, the blue sky, the white cloud, and the snowy peak blended together and melted into a lavender mountaintop that shone through the mist and became elusive. It was beyond the material world: it was an agglomeration of complicated human feelings. Yangzom found this baffling. He bent over the steering wheel, narrowed his eyes, and gazed into the distance. The two men collected their belongings and set off again. He groped for a wrench, jumped out of the cab, bent over the hood, and pretended to be working on something. The squeaking footsteps in the snow gradually drew closer. “This lorry has broken down.” “Drivers in the mountains have a rough time of it.” The man sighed and said, “And it’s very lonely.” “These people haven’t gotten very far in life. They wouldn’t feel this way.” “You have to look at it from his point of view. You can’t judge others by your standards . . .” Still bent low, Yangzom listened closely to their conversation. Just then, the person raised his voice, “Driver, do you need any help?” “It’s all right, thanks.” What he wanted to say was fuck you. “You’re right. It isn’t easy to see things from another person’s perspective.” “It’s just paradigmatic thinking.” While talking with the other one, the guy started walking back through the snow toward Yangzom. Yangzom couldn’t help but snort. A conceited expression rose again on his desolate face. “Could you please tell us how much farther it is to the mountain?” “About ten miles.” “Is there any shortcut?” 165

Ti b etan S oul He clambered down from the lorry and wiped the grease from his hands with a snow-white rag. “A shortcut?” He drew out his response. “Driving in the mountains so often must be hard on you.” “You’re actually feeling sorry for me?” He threw the dirty gauze onto the clean snow. The other two exchanged glances and smiled. Their expressions unfathomable, they said, “We’d like to take a path up. It would be a little closer.” They asked what the path was called. When he told them, one of them wrote it down in a notebook. They asked how long the path had been there, and if he knew any legends about it. He couldn’t answer their questions. “Many things have been almost completely buried in oblivion.” “I just know that after the road was paved, no one wanted to take the path.” He threw out these words in a rush, then slammed the lorry’s door and started the engine. Though he tried not to look in the rearview mirror, he did see them wave good-bye. He swore, “Idiots!” and gunned the engine. A strong puff of exhaust stirred up some snow, blotting out the hands reflected in the mirror. The shortcut was hidden by the snow. He guessed the mountain was no more than two or three miles away. The mirror reflected his enraged, distorted face, or it might have just been an optical illusion. He’d already driven 180 kilometers, and he would have to travel the same distance in the mountains before reaching the grasslands. It was now eleven-forty. With all his stopping and starting, he’d been delayed an hour without being aware of it. According to the plan, by now he should have crossed this mountain and reached the small town at the foot of the mountain that had three gas stations and four restaurants. A girl in one of the restaurants had been his driving instructor’s mistress for a time and then had married a local farmer. Her husband spent her money on getting drunk, and because of her past, he was also cruel to her. One time, his instructor had driven past this town before stopping and asking him to deliver fifty yuan to Yinhua. Yinhua was the girl’s name. When he handed the money to Yinhua, her husband was leaning against the doorframe. He sneered, “Ha, haha!” Yinhua let go of the money, and the wind carried it over the rooftop. The wind whistled in the open sky above the river. Yinhua hardly felt it when her husband slapped her twice. Yangzom gritted his teeth and cursed, 166

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“You bastard.” “You called me a bastard.” The guy’s fist landed on his face. He was afraid to return the blow, because the guy looked too savage. “Did you call me a bastard?” “Bastard,” he said, spitting out a mouthful of blood. When he got into the cab, he rubbed his blackened, swollen cheek and cursed again, “Bastard.” “Who are you swearing at?” His instructor stopped the lorry and asked. “You.” “What?” “Bastard. Son-of-a-bitch.” He and his instructor traded ugly stares for a moment. Then his instructor got out of the cab and rummaged around in the water tank for a while. Once back in the cab, he handed Yangzom a boiling hot towel and said, “Put this on your face.” The vehicle went through billows of dust. Yangzom slowed down and kept blowing the horn. He went past a large group of pilgrims who genuflected after each step they took. With mud all over them, these elderly people’s faces looked like rotten wood. Their eyes were twinkling with steady bright rays of light—something difficult to fathom. The men who had followed his directions to the shortcut reached the mountain ahead of him and were sitting in the snow chatting with a middle-aged man. Yangzom opened the door of the lorry, rested one foot on the running board, and slowly steered the vehicle ahead. “Get in, you guys! Now, for a change, the Buddhist pilgrims can all ride to Lhasa!” An old woman said, “Even devils can’t tempt us, and you aren’t a devil. You’re not even a devil. Leave us alone. We’re going to our East Trumpet Shell Mountain.” An expression hard to describe—something like a smile—appeared on her face. “I see you’re also Tibetan. The golden trumpet shell on the mountain peak belongs to you, too. You, too.” “East Trumpet Shell Mountain? Aren’t you heading west?” “You’re an idiot, child. You have your east, we have our east. What makes you think we can’t arrive in the east by going this way?” Stumped, he started up and went on. Before long, he stopped again. He 167

Ti b etan S oul peered closely into a girl’s bright, black eyes until she started screaming, “Get out of my sight. Don’t act like a hungry cur.” She placed her palms together in front of her chest and said, “I beg you to leave now. Otherwise, I’ll damn you until you roll down into the valley.” She was apparently shocked by her own venom. But Yangzom just laughed lightly. He said, “Do you like me?” The girl shut her eyes and knelt on the ground for a long time. One by one, the pilgrims walked past him, each with a frozen expression as if chiseled from clay or stone. For a moment, he felt the world was filled with complicated abstruse meanings that were inextricably connected. The sunlight reflected on the snow was unusually strong. Most of the men wore sunglasses. From the cloth-covered green goggles worn by the military in the 1950s to the newest Hong Kong-style sunglasses, it was like a retrospective exhibit of the history of sunglasses. The women didn’t have glasses; their cheeks were covered with tears from the strong sunlight. After the snow melted, it revealed old, dirty snow beneath it. The melted snow was extremely turbid. The lorry wouldn’t start. He tinkered with it for a long time, but to no avail. The stinging smell of gas was everywhere. Some of the people next to the lorry covered their noses with their leather sleeves; others avidly breathed in this bizarre scent. The middle-aged man from the column of pilgrims walked up to him with the two hikers. “Does the shape of a trumpet shell really appear on the cliff?” “And the sound?” “That’s what the elderly say.” “Have you seen it?” “I’ve never been there. It’s my first time. Aren’t I still on the way?” “Are you going to Lhasa, too?” “I can’t make such an important vow lightly.” Patting Yangzom on the shoulder, this guy said, “Let’s check your spark plugs.” Sure enough, the gas had flooded the spark plugs. He’d stopped too often, and the engine wasn’t turning over fast enough. After he sponged up the excess gas with a rag, the lorry started. “It’s low-grade gas. On high mountains, you can’t just stop whenever you want to, lad,” said the guy. 168

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He gave the respectful answer, blurting out, “Get in. Otherwise, you won’t make it to the foothills today.” “It doesn’t matter if one is on the mountain or in the foothills. Everywhere, the sky is above and the ground below, aren’t they?” The guy turned around and said to the other two, “I drove for the army for six years. Our company commander was a scary guy from Hebei. Later on, I rolled the vehicle over and someone died. I was sentenced in a military court.” He forced a laugh. “Do you still believe in Buddha after everything that happened to you?” “All my people do. Why shouldn’t I? It’ll be another twenty-three days before we reach the foothills. We’ll be there in time for the temple fair in June. There’ll be liquor and beautifully dressed women.” The man pulled his sunglasses down from his forehead and returned to the column of pilgrims. The remaining three stood on the deserted road and smoked. “They follow like sheep,” commented one hiker as he tossed his cigarette butt down. “It isn’t so simple.” “You’re always so calm.” “I didn’t put enough of this kind of calm into my poetry in the past. Just look at the silence of this vast mountain range.” Yangzom spoke up, “Please get in. I’ll give you a lift.” “Thanks, but we can’t ride.” “Do you get carsick?” “No. We’re taking a walking tour in order to research folk customs and culture.” “I don’t get it.” “We’re writers.” “We want to be writers.” “Oh . . .” The two shook hands with him at the same time. ’Bye. ’Bye. Good-bye. The lorry started up again. It passed the pilgrims, and soon they turned into a long cluster of tiny dots in the rearview mirror. Sunbeams glittered for a moment, and then those people disappeared from the mirror. He felt empty inside, as if something were lost. The endless white mountain peaks in front of him were like herds of 169

Ti b etan S oul galloping horses pouncing on him, and then in the rearview mirror, they piled up backward at a very fast pace. Then they vanished again. His heart was like this mirror: the many mingled feelings there dropped again into a bottomless hole. The white mountains were transformed into living galloping horses moving toward him. As he stepped on the gas to meet the galloping horses, he touched off a small avalanche. The horses’ iron-shod hooves sounded metallic, and their white manes blocked his vision. Year after year, in May, one could hear news of avalanches and traffic accidents at the gorge. This time, there was news of a young driver who had picked up two female hitchhikers, one of them a prostitute from the city. It was said that they’d had too much fun along the way, causing the lorry to plow into a snowbank and trigger an avalanche. Others said that the only one who smothered in the cab was the driver and that there were no women, because the driver was an old guy of sixty who had to work too hard for the money he earned. No matter who told the story, one small part was consistent: the tape recorder in the lorry could rewind automatically, and so, three days after the accident, people still heard songs coming from under the snow. The tape was special: on both sides, each one of the fourteen songs was the same popular American song, “Mountain Eagle.” Sung by a different singer, though.

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-1 -

F

ather leaned against a piece of wood. The clean, white wood gave off the autumn sun’s weak warmth. The wood was filled with hairline cracks: it was like bones drenched by years of exposure. Shining like ivory, it was enchanting. It could only be a miracle that it had lain crosswise on the damp earth for thirty years without rotting. Now its thick, mottled, coarse purple covering had flaked off, and the smell of turpentine had also vanished without a trace. All that rose now was the weak, colorless scent of night rain. The wood and the rusty tractor at the end of the village were like two rocks revealed in the waters of time. Time flowed like water in a leisurely fashion, but they still protruded from their original places—for people to step when they walked back to the deepest recesses of their memories. After the fragrance of water, wind, and time suffused everything, in the instant that their scents disappeared completely, they became sacred objects. I sat down on the wood, shook a cigarette out of the package, and handed it to Father. Tearing off its filter tip, Father placed it in his mouth. I held out a lighter. He said, “I don’t like the chemical smell.” After lighting the cigarette with a match, he took a deep drag. “The cigarettes the Guomindang airdropped for the local bandits tasted like this. We picked them up and smoked some.” “It tastes like a cigar,” I said. “Back then, we took off our riding boots and sat down in a row on

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Ti b etan S oul the grass and let our sweat-soaked socks dry in the sun. The cigarettes we smoked smelled like this one. At that time, I thought, if I die I’ll die a Sergu villager; if I survive, I won’t come back to this village. One fiercely sunny noon, as I rode a horse through this sleepy village, I felt that only the carbine I held was real; everything else was like a dream.” I said, “Really?” Father laughed with an effort and said, “Actually, it was because of the smell of the cigarette. Do you smoke this brand often?” “My wife chose them for me. This brand costs a little more than others.” “When you smoke this cigarette, you don’t feel that you were born in this village, do you?” To the contrary, when I was in the city, I felt I had countless ties to this village. Especially the year before last, when I lay in bed in the hospital looking blankly at the intravenous saline solution dripping drop by drop, I smelled the scent of nettles and watercress growing in the humid forests of my home village: the scent seemed to emanate from my whole body. I felt I was on the boundary of death, so I finally said to my wife, “After I die, go and see my father for me. I am an unfilial son.” But I didn’t die. Two years later, I came back to the village, mostly because Galo died. Now I felt incompatible with this soil, this village. I experienced anew all the feelings from my childhood. “You shouldn’t have come back. Of the six of you, you’re the only one in the Roba family who can be considered a descendant. Your brothers and sisters are just farmers.” Father got up and said, “Take a look around. See if this village is the same as it once was. A lot of people have died. Galo died, too.” Turning past the wall, he disappeared. There in front of me were thick shadows in the corner of the wall and the shining white sunlight on the wall.. I was left alone in the little village square, with the lifeless wood that would eventually molder. Yet, I considered it a sacred thing.

-2 This wood was logged in 1955 to replace the worn-out drum platform in our little square. The four men who had pooled their strength to set up these heavy pieces of wood were: Qi Tingzhong, who had been a local

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bandit; Balon, chairman of the Poor Farmers’ Union; Paden, who had later been imprisoned for committing a political crime; and my father Yangzom, who had returned to the village from the army to deliver the belongings of one of his fellow soldiers. Their eight hands—blue veins popping out— propped up four lengths of freshly cut fir, one end of each dropping into the deep hole and one end pointing to the vast sky. Standing nearby were Galo, the village’s young teacher Zhang Mingyu carrying a paint container, and a sacrificial ox with wide open eyes. Standing farther away were the villagers. Cai Qin, who would later be my teacher, was a child then. She gazed at the ox’s beautiful wide eyes which were looking at the excited crowd. She circled around and around its large head, attracted by the strange look in the ox’s eyes and excited by its strength and rage. As she timidly touched the ox’s warm, dark red ear, she screamed in terror; the ox let out a long mournful sound. “We shouldn’t use the ox’s blood for consecrating the drum,” the teacher Zhang Mingyu told Galo, who had been in the Red Army and now headed the cooperative, “It’s a superstitious practice.” Nevertheless, the ox was slaughtered. You can imagine the scene: one of its horns was thrust into the muddy ground. The blood from its severed throat was pooling higher and higher, each bubble like a sparkling red sun. The ox was skinned and chopped into pieces. At the same time, the newly made oxhide drum was smeared with fresh red paint and placed on the drum platform. The ox’s leg bones were scraped clean and covered with red cloth to be used as drum sticks. Its skull, hooves, guts, and miscellaneous pieces of bones and flesh were divided and thrown into three large copper cauldrons, where they rolled around in the boiling soup. Thus, the ox lost the stinky smell it had had in life and took on the aroma of onions, red peppers, wild water celery, and coriander, and finally became the smell of people drooling. All that remained were a pile of ash and a pile of bones, which were collected, recycled, and ground into powder by steel machines to fertilize the crops. The law of conservation was unemotionally at work. The drum platform had collapsed and rotted long ago. All that was left was this wood, as deathly pale and smooth as bones under the clear blue sky. The drum platform’s moldering wooden pillars had turned into ants’ nests, giving off a slightly sweet odor. I’m making every effort to describe this wood at the western edge of the small village square. The drum platform once stood in the center of the 173

Ti b etan S oul square. South of the square is the storehouse which doubles as a meeting place; it was built after the cooperative was established in 1955. North of the square is the primary school. There’s a low wooden bridge behind the basketball court in the east. The brook, called Makhangjukha, flows in all four seasons between mountain ridges and joins the Sumo River. After you cross the bridge, you come to a large field of rolling waves of wheat. From the small wooden bridge, you can see part of the highway on the riverbank. The trucks speeding over it seem to be soundless. Only dust rises behind the trucks and settles slowly in the valley. The cliffs at Makhangjukha hold gold, mica, and sulphur. My ancestors lost the armed struggle to become local headmen. While escaping, they attacked gold prospectors in their huts: more than ten Chinese and Muslim people were killed. They acquired twelve ounces of gold dust, some hoes and pickaxes, and a small steelyard for weighing precious metals. My ancestors and several of their underlings settled down here and called this place Ser, which means gold. They hunted, reclaimed the land, planted wheat and opium, and flourished for generations. For several generations, each of my ancestors had his favorite activities, such as bear-hunting, long-distance raids of forest villages, religious mortification, or lechery. So in the legends, they heard the names of the Roba chief the mortifier, the Roba chief the gold trader, and so on. Another Roba chief got high on his right to have sex with other men’s brides on their wedding nights. It was said that some women burned with shame at this experience, while others were proud of it. It was just as well that this ancestor was unable to get any women pregnant. Otherwise, our Ser Village might have become one large incestuous clan. Later, on a road outside the village, the chief found a woman gasping her last breath under a cherry tree. With a winning smile, she said, “This is your son. He’s your son.” Just then, a baby wailed loudly from the bundle of tattered cloth beside her. The chief ordered someone to carry the woman into the village. The woman also told the person bending over her, “He’s your son.” She told every man, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I knew I’d be able to find you and give you your son.” When she told the seventh man this, she died right then and there. This child turned out to be very bright. Later on, he succeeded to the chief ’s position and executed three old men who said he was an adopted child. In fact, this village’s history goes back no more than three hundred years, but even the events of the most recent generation of ancestors felt distant 174

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when they were passed down in the oral tradition. Deep in the night, the brushwood in the campfire gradually burned down, and the storyteller’s face gradually became shrouded in darkness. The smell of turpentine drifted between the old stone walls, and the storyteller’s words became more and more vague . . . Finally, this vagueness poured into the depths of my being and became another kind of vagueness that couldn’t distinguish one ancestor’s face from another’s. I felt nothing for these strangers with blurred faces. All I knew for sure was that my great-grandfather amassed a fortune from growing opium. He had paid the Muslims at Taozhou fifty ounces of crude opium for the three huge copper cauldrons in which ox sweetbreads were now boiling. The largest one was set by the hearth in his home. The village women took turns carrying water to the headman’s home: that copper pot could hold twenty-four buckets of water. The other two, he gave to the temple. My grandfather squandered almost all of his father’s fortune. It is believed that if he hadn’t suddenly disappeared mysteriously without a trace just before Liberation he would have sold this cauldron, too. All of this occurred before I was born.

-3 What I saw—the stove’s stone wall smeared with ox grease—belonged to the People’s Commune. Bubbling in the boiling pot were the ox sweetbreads, their blood color gradually fading. The bright red paint on both the drum platform in the square and the tractor parked at the village entrance was beginning to flake off. The rivets that had held the drumskin tightly in place had loosened, rendering the drum useless. Substituting for it was half the steel rim from a truck tire: it was suspended from the eaves of the storehouse. The other, smaller, half of the steel rim was suspended from the basketball backboard at the primary school. The school-bell sound of that small half-rim was clear and ringing; the large half-rim made a heavy, blunt sound as it summoned the commune members to meetings. After being struck, its sound was continuous and low. Before Galo struck that rusty steel rim, all the villagers had already assembled. It was a fine autumn day. The first snow lay on the mountainside. Large numbers of pigeons and red-beaked crows flew in the clear sky over the harvested land. Several dozen weak cows would soon be ruthlessly

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Ti b etan S oul culled. They wailed amid the clamoring people. Big, bright teardrops hung from the eyelashes of a few old cows. Some hides from slaughtered cows were spread out on the stone wall. The bloody grease on the hides melted slowly in the sunlight. In the copper pots, the sweetbreads were gradually losing their bloody color. The remaining brown scum floated to the surface of the soup. One woman holding a long-handled wooden spoon stood beside each pot, continuously skimming off the foam and splashing it on the ground. The living cattle trampled the dead ones’ blood into the mud, where—mixed in with feces and urine—it turned greasy black. A stinky smell came from the mud. Little by little, the sun rose. More and more people gathered in the square. Several old cows which were wailing the loudest were tied up on the ground. They calmed down, the distant light clouds afloat in their vacant eyes. The other cows bent their heads to ruminate. Not until their hooves sank into the deep mud did they shift their heavy bodies a bit. When they pulled their hooves out of the slime, it sounded the same as their udders did when their calves had sucked them dry. I felt I was becoming heavier. I couldn’t tell which was growing heavier and heavier—my head or the heads of the old cows about to die. My back felt joined to the stone wall behind me. Teacher Cai Qin called me, “Alai!” I said, “Hmm.” Her just-washed hair streamed down her shoulders. She wound her hair around her fingers and then let it go again. A warm current coursed down my back and detached my back from the ridged stone wall. Under the sun, the men were leaning quietly against that wood. Father was sitting among them wearing an old army uniform and looking weighed down with worries. He wasn’t holding a knife. He was short and skinny, and his face always looked as if it were covered with dust. Every now and then, a faint green radiance flashed from his eyes—the same green radiance that one can see in the eyes of a cat when it stands watch in a certain corner, or of a wolf when it’s running in the wilds. It was hard for me to be close to Father. The slaughter was about to start. The men didn’t personally drive their knives into the cows’ necks. A group of children about my age were each carrying a wooden bucket or 176

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basin. They traded these for the knives in the men’s hands and gripped the handles tightly. Together, they aimed the knives at the cows’ necks. They were too weak: they always had to press down on the back of the knife blade with one hand and move the knife up and down. When fresh blood spurted from the cows’ hides, the children holding the knives screamed in surprise and delight. The more they moved the knives, the deeper the knives plunged. The hands pressing the knives also sank deeper into the bloody wounds. The men each walked off with half a bucket or half a basin of blood. The children could each get half a bucket of blood and enough of the intestines to hold the blood. I had once slipped away from Father and experienced this happiness, this excitement. But just one time. When Mother mixed the things I’d ended a life for with a little salt and roasted barley and turned it all into appetizing blood sausages, Father dredged them out of the pot before they finished cooking and threw them in our faces. Shaking with anger, Father kept saying, “Shame on you.” A few flies pounced on the guts at Mother’s and my feet. Blood streamed out from the cracked intestines. The flies lit on top of them, flapping their light translucent wings. Mother grabbed my arms, her fingernails sinking slowly into my flesh. There was a buzzing sound at my ears, and my head felt heavier and heavier. This mean short man roared furiously, “Go make the tea!” Mother relaxed her grip. She knelt beside the fire and blew on it: in the firelight, her silhouette looked miserable but beautiful. I hated that man, and I didn’t love my wretched mother, either. I just felt my body sinking slowly. Finally, I glanced involuntarily at my father and then felt my soul rise lightly: it left my body from my forehead. Father knew, of course, that after the harvest, when we paid back the loan we’d taken out to get through the spring, we wouldn’t have even three hundred pounds of grain to last until next year’s harvest. When my soul returned to my body, my joints were stiff and my limbs numb. Father’s face sank again, and he shouted sternly, “Are you deaf? Sit down!” I sat down. In the flickering firelight, Father’s face was now hidden, now visible. Father turned into a kindly father. He put a whole piece of ghee in my bowl. 177

Ti b etan S oul For a moment, sobs choked my throat. I looked up to keep my tears from spilling out. “Our family can’t do spineless things. Our Roba family has never had a spineless man,” Father said. Now it was Mother who turned her face away. As she drank the roasted barley mixed with tea, she uttered a string of curses in a low voice. Father had never heard Mother curse him before. Sitting with Father, I heard every word she said. Father had much more acute hearing than I. Even if I didn’t hear the black dog tread softly on the threshold, he did. “Trupa!” Father called out softly. The black dog scurried into the room, wagging its tail for all it was worth. Pointing at the mass of intestines, Father said, “Take them outside.” Trupa ran back and forth a few times. When it came back, it lay beside the fire and flicked the blood off its mouth with its paws. “He won’t even lick it,” Father said. That year, the black dog Trupa was two years old. I was ten. Father put food from his bowl in front of Trupa and mixed a little water with it. I dumped the roasted barley from my bowl into Trupa’s bowl. Then Mother dumped the food from her bowl into mine. She swore distinctly: “Damn dog!” Father looked at her and didn’t say anything. The dog stuck out its tongue and made a lapping sound. At the same time, Mother licked the food left on the sides of the bowl. Hearing my playmates’ happy, excited shouts as the blood gushed over them, I didn’t dare look up. I sensed a green-colored flame bouncing and burning above my head. That was from Father’s eyes shooting to the top of my head. Father was looking at people running back and forth in the square. He was still leaning against the wood, unmoving. “People are looking at us. Go over to your father.” I threaded my way through the square, Teacher Cai Qin’s scent on my body. “Aba,” I said. Father trembled once and raised his head. I felt Cai Qin’s scent leave me and wrap itself around Father. Nonetheless, he was expressionless. Only the silkworm-like scar on his face was slightly red. Father had never let anyone mention this scar. People said that it was left from the battle 178

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to wipe out the bandits. In my family, legends always made some things mysterious. Once, I quietly opened a green box of ammunition next to the wall. There, wrapped inside a faded sailor hat, I found a brass medal with a moth-eaten silk ribbon tied onto it. Also wrapped inside were two certificates, one a transfer to civilian work and the other a resignation from the Communist Youth League. These things fascinated me, and in my mind Father seemed to be a big, strapping man, yet still a stranger. The door was pushed open, and a ray of sunshine covered me. Before I knew what was happening, my short, small father appeared at the door, shutting off the ray of sunshine. I sensed numbly that a green flame was starting to burn again on top of my head. Father came over and touched my shoulder: the cap, the medals, and the certificates in red folders all fell to the floor. Father sat in a dark spot and said, “Sit down.” “You have to study hard.” “Uh.” “When you grow up, you have to be ambitious.” “Uh.” “You have to leave this village. If you don’t get into a university, then join the army if they’ll take you. You may have these things.” He pointed at the things in the hat. “Uh-huh.” “You’re growing up. If you don’t want them, give them to your little sister. I’ll take responsibility for you, and only you. I can’t take care of any other little brothers and sisters who come along, and I don’t have the heart for it, either.” My malnourished little sister played with these things for a time. After she died, they gathered dust and dirt next to the hearth and later disappeared without a trace. Now, expressionless, Father leaned against the wood. Galo glanced at us with his one eye and said, “Some children can still handle knives. Tell them to go home and bring back buckets. We’ll add a piece of beef fat to each person’s bucket!” The accountant came over and said, “Did you hear what the production brigade head said?” I said, “We already have some.” The accountant smiled oddly. 179

Ti b etan S oul Father was still expressionless. He said, “Tell Galo I’ve gone to chop wood.” After the accountant left, I said, “I’ll go with you, Aba.” The painful look radiating from Father’s eyes made my heart ache. “You need to study. Go find your teacher. I have only enough strength to take care of you. I won’t have the energy for the babies who come along later.” When Father caressed me with his rough hand, I shrank back and kept saying Aba Aba. Father sighed, tightened his belt, hunched his shoulders, and went up the mountain.

-4 In 1951, it was announced that in our area the mountains and pastures at the upper reaches of the Min and Dadu Rivers had been peacefully liberated. The headmen took up positions in the new government, but the thirteenth generation head of the Roba family, who had been accorded official recognition only thirty or forty years earlier, vanished mysteriously without a trace. All of his family’s property was confiscated. At the same time, the property of the Muslim trader Mayibula was confiscated. One after the other, the headman’s wife and Mayibula and his black-veiled wife gave themselves to the Sumo River at Makhangjukha. The Sumo River was one of three tributaries at the upper reaches of the Dadu. Mayibula’s daughter, who was the same age as Father, had never before taken one step outside. Carrying a white cloth bag on her back, she went out to look for her parents. Afterward, she came back to the village. Later, Father occasionally recalled this girl as he made his patrols on horseback in the grasslands. It was a long story. Back then, Father was sixteen. He and three other young men from the village had joined the army to fight in the Korean War and had trained for a month in Chengdu. Later, when there was a military crisis in the grasslands, he had transferred to a cavalry regiment garrisoned in the Ngawa grasslands. He’d been a messenger, a sergeant, and a captain of the guards. In 1958, when the crisis in the grasslands ended, Father was transferred to civilian work and became a scribe for the village. Later on, a production brigade head committed suicide because of the pressures of

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his job. Though Father had nothing to do with this incident, he was investigated. It was found that this village scribe actually came from a headman’s family. He’d been a soldier for eight years, yet he hadn’t joined the party or become an official. When Father was about to be sent to a training farm, he couldn’t take it anymore and quit. There weren’t any more real class enemies in our village. Of the three people mentioned above, one disappeared and the other two killed themselves. Later, the Keyag family were labeled upper middle peasants, but they were much different from my Roba family: they were industrious and frugal. The two brothers shared one wife. The work team sent down by the higher authorities wanted to label the Keyag landlords, but the villagers headed by Galo disagreed. The Keyag son was young then, and he couldn’t take it. One day, out for revenge, he set out to ambush the work team’s car as it sped away. Before he could accomplish this, he was arrested and thrown in jail. Because of this, the work team dropped this issue. Since the class struggle no longer had any targets, Father actually became the target after he returned. Coming home this time was much different from the previous time. The other time, Father had escorted home the remains of a fellow villager who had also joined the army. Wearing his army uniform and riding boots, he had carried a tile-blue carbine. In a public show, he fired fifteen shots and hit eleven copper coins. “The Roba line goes on!” Galo had sighed and said. Then, at the time the cooperative was formed, he had invited Father to take part in the solemn, ancient ceremony of setting up the drum platform. The people who set the pillars in place were all distinguished personages in the village. It was also then that Father planted my seed. The girl he loved was the girl his dead comrade had secretly loved. “He died. You mustn’t die.” The tears brimming in the girl’s eyes were glittering in the sunlight. The white birchwood gave off a gentle sound. Farther away were the huge shadows of several cliffs. Mother wrapped her warm, soft hands around Father’s neck and said, “I want you to hold me close. I don’t want you to die. Hold me close.” Father lifted two of her long slender fingers to touch the knife scar on his neck and smiled and said, “I won’t die.” Mother was gentle and pure. Father felt dizzy with joy. Mother went 181

Ti b etan S oul limp, and her body became as soft as black earth that had been aerated by thousands of earthworms. A delicate scent came from her body. Mother wept. “Did he love me?” “Yes.” “I loved him, too.” Father wanted to tell her the story of how the platoon had gone out and never returned. Two months later, they had found the corpses on a mountain slope. He had recognized his comrade by his riding boots. Only these riding boots remained on the white bones of his legs. There was no flesh. There were also his army belt and his collar and cap insignias. He was a platoon leader: you could tell his rank from his shoulder insignia and his boots. The other soldiers couldn’t be identified. The platoon leader’s arm bones lay on a bandit’s ribs. What a strange, intimate scene it was! Under Father’s body, Mother was wriggling like a slippery fish. Now and then, when Father thought of the white leg bones in the brown riding boots, his back felt icy cold, not at all like the burning heat in his belly. This feeling kept him from climaxing quickly, and so he satisfied Mother even more. When I was six, Father finally came back home with four old green ammunition boxes and probably several hundred yuan of severance pay. Near evening that day, Father sat under the red clouds of twilight and stared blankly at the Roba family’s four-story house being transformed into an empty shell by a large fire. After the fire, the stone wall and the mud in its cracks turned a reddish-brown color. Plump nettles covered the black window openings. Because of the knife scar on his neck, Father’s face was a little distorted. When Galo arrived, he surprised two crows that had returned to the ruins of their nest. When, narrowing his one eye, he skipped over and sat on the ground, his blistered kneecaps creaked crisply. Without a word, he sank into deep thought. The year that a large fire had destroyed the headman’s house, Galo’s family had just moved in. In only a moment, the property that the entire family had amassed with such difficulty became ashes. “I want to help you, Yangzom,” Galo said. “Now I’m head of the production brigade.” “. . . . .” “Do you still remember the time when I had just arrived at your home?” 182

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“. . . . .” “Don’t you remember?” Galo leaned over, his breath hot and smelly. “How can you not remember? You were three or four years old then!” “Uh, uh.” “But you weren’t a very good child. I went through a lot because of you. I hadn’t been at your home more than a few days when the Roba headman said you’re wounded, help out by taking care of the child. So I held you and bounced you up and down. You were always crying. You tore dried meat from my mouth and threw it down. You kicked me in the back where I was wounded. You kicked and you cried. Finally, you laughed, and your father laughed, too. You tossed the piece of dried meat a long way away.” Father was looking at the splendid red glow lighting the sky behind the remnants of the wall. He heard everything, yet he heard nothing. Of the three men who had gone into the army with him, two had been killed in battle and one had deserted and been shot down. Unfortunately, he was the only one who had shamefully come home. Galo made a snake-like hissing sound, “They wanted me to watch you and recast you.” “Yes, please do that.” “If it hadn’t been for your father, I’d . . . . . Sometimes, I still miss him a lot.” “Sorry I gave you trouble.” “Your temper was a lot like the headman’s back then. I had to change that.” “Yes, please do that.” Father looked up and stared at Galo. For the first time, a faint blue torch erupted from his eyes. Galo exhaled a breath of cold air. Galo laughed again. But Father was lost in his imagination. He saw again the scene in front of the building back then—the black wind and the banner-like flames. In the wind, the flames moved like several bolts of new red silk. Cattle bellowed, and women cried and shouted. Father shrank back in front of the immense ruins. Darkness permeated everything—the plants, the trees, and even the thick shadows in the corners of the wall. On the windows of the ruins, the nettles lost their defined silhouettes and wobbled in the night wind, like dark green flames rising straight from hell. Because of this conversation, Galo said that back then, Father had 183

Ti b etan S oul vowed to kill anyone who tried to control him. Father had thought this, but he’d never said it. Day after day, year after year, Father’s expression grew more stony and withered. But when he did show some expression, it was a moving sorrow and a proud aloofness. Father wore a ragged old army uniform. For years, he went through the square several times a day with a cowhide rope wound around his waist. Cai Qin, who had just finished middle school and had come back to be a teacher, fell for him right away. Leaning against the primary school’s doorframe whose paint was flaking off, she stared at Father going through the square. At eighteen, she saw something in him that said he’d rather die than surrender. Her vision was sometimes blocked by tears involuntarily welling up in her eyes. I was twelve then, Teacher Cai Qin eighteen.

-5 Teacher Cai Qin’s father and my father had joined the army together. Later, the deserter had been shot down, and because of this, Cai Qin was not allowed to attend high school. In all eighteen villages of the four valleys, everyone knew of her mother’s beauty. When her maternal grandmother was abandoned in our village by an opium trader, she was about to give birth to Cai Qin’s mother. Cai Qin’s mother married at eighteen. Cai Qin was born the same year. At night, for a long time after Cai Qin’s father deserted and was killed, her mother would still hear her father draw in the reins, dismount outside the gate, and take off the saddle and halter; the iron bit made a dingding dangdang sound. Night after night, frost congealed on the rocks, and thin ice formed on the small watery depression in the courtyard in front of the house. The clanging sound of the horse’s accouterments resembled the tinkling sound made by silver earrings swaying. The apparition pushed the heavy wooden gate open. A streak of moonlight shot through the gate, but no one was visible. With a creak, the gate pushed the moonlight out again. When he stepped on the stairs, his finely tanned deerskin boots squeaked. It was as if he hadn’t died. It was like the time before reliable news of his death had arrived, but Cai Qin’s mother had already known that her husband was dead. She had accepted the fact calmly. The moonlight

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came through the lattice and fell on the blanket on the bed, but the ghost’s silhouette was invisible. Her husband removed his boots, and after he got into bed, the new wheat wadding in the ticking made a soft sound. She sighed. She sighed again, but she didn’t hear an even longer sigh beside her. That’s the way they had interacted with each other in bed when he was alive. There was only the soft sound of the wheat wadding. Cai Qin’s mother gazed at the moonlight until it became a ray of rippling water. In our village, anything that happened would become a mysterious legend after five years. It is said that Cai Qin had observed her mother lying calmly in bed under the moonlight, unfastening her shirt, lifting up her breasts, and moaning in excitement. And then in the darkness just before twilight, she had wept and whispered. It isn’t clear which night it was that Cai Qin lost her mother forever. At that time, she shook her daughter awake and said, “I’m going riding with your father. He always said he wanted to take me along one time, but he never did. Si Tenpa, dear, our daughter is sleeping. Shall we go? All right, I’m coming.” Cai Qin remembered only dimly that her mother had brushed her hair that evening until it shone. As she slept, she faintly heard her mother’s lovely laughter as she walked barefoot down the stairs. That night, someone saw the ghost draw his horse up on the hill across the way and gaze for a long time at the village in the foothills. The person also said that even from so far away he could see the ghost light a pipe. Despite the lighted pipe, he couldn’t see the person’s profile. Someone said ghosts were afraid of fire, so how could it smoke? Thus challenged, the storyteller agreed that there wasn’t a pipe. Cai Qin’s mother was gone without a trace. The eleven-year-old Cai Qin endured loneliness greater than sorrow. The next year, in the seventh month when the moon was full, she suddenly felt heat rising in her body. She took off her shirt and looked blankly at her just-rounding breasts. She was lying naked in bed just as her mother had in the past, the moonlight shining on her body and transforming her into a bright quiet, beautiful lake—a lake shaped like a human being—in the middle of the black blanket. She knew: her father was a renegade. So 185

Ti b etan S oul when she remembered seeing my father dressed in uniform in the village square a few years before, she couldn’t keep from shivering. Cai Qin leaned against the doorframe, listening to my father chop wood on the mountain slope. She looked idly comfortable. I was doing my homework. The classroom’s dirt floor was damp, and white spots of mold covered the wall. The stool and table legs sank into the mud and smelled very strange. It was hard to write with pencils which cost only a penny each and had no erasers. I kept wetting the pencil tip with spit and kept tearing triangular holes in the flimsy paper. I didn’t dare look up: I was afraid of seeing Teacher Cai Qin’s soaring breasts. It was like not daring to look at blue, snake-shaped lightning ripping the heavy curtain of night. With her passion unrestrained, her body gave off a bewitching scent. This scent, mixed with the aroma bubbling in the copper cauldrons in the noisy square outside the window, made me feel as though I had no innards. I was completely empty inside. I was cowardly and timid—even terrified—by nature, and I was also extremely self-aware. The soil of my sentiments was becoming enriched because of being repeatedly and cruelly trampled, and because of my cultivating myself. Teacher Cai Qin walked over to me, and in an instant, her breath on the back of my neck paralyzed my body. It was as if my gut slid down and my heart jumped up. She looked awed as she said, “Your father is like a rock.” With a sudden motion, she swept my pencil, notebook, and the pencil box my father had carved from azalea wood into the drawer. Tugging my hand firmly, she went through the square. Galo’s one eye and other people’s eyes trundled along after us. But they had no clue that I loved my teacher; even my teacher couldn’t imagine that. We started running toward the sound of Father’s chopping wood. The birch trees on both sides had toppled backward. It turned out that we were actually running toward a pair of woodpeckers. The alternately rising and falling tata sound was like the sound of distant axes chopping wood. The woodpeckers flapped their beautiful wings, went through the dense barrier of green foliage, and flew to the sky, but the sound continued to reverberate. A similar pair of wings stretched out in my heart. I saw the wings stir up silver light on the trees’ sea of leaves. Because we were running fast, and because of the unusual smell of perspiration on her body, I felt muddle-headed, as if floating in the air. I remembered her mother’s 186

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story. Her mother was blessing us. Her mother was that piece of shimmering fluorescent cloud filled with raindrops, hanging next to the bright green mountain. Shaking me by the shoulders, Cai Qin said, “Where is he? Where is he?” She twisted me like a rag. The smile had fled from her lips, and a sharp canine tooth had appeared. I still thought she looked beautiful, and I burst into tears. She crinkled her nose and started sobbing. She held me close and staunched my tears, and I heard our two hearts pounding wildly. I buried my face in her breasts. “Where are you? Where are you?” As I looked up, I saw the color drain from her lips; they were dry. She kept tousling my hair. “You’re your father’s good boy.” She kissed my cheek. As a sensitive twelve-year-old boy, I let myself be kissed by an eighteen-year-old girl. Yet, it was Father’s name she was mumbling. I hated Father, I loved Father. I felt guilty for hating Father, whose situation was miserable enough already. I was bad, because I was a bad man’s son. My father had to chop firewood for warmth, tea-brewing, and illumination for the production brigade meetings. In the winter, one evening’s meeting required five loads of firewood. All the villagers assembled for such meetings. After someone finished reading part of the newspaper, everyone sank into deep silence, with only some young girls giggling softly now and then. The other people just sat there like wooden stakes. Only their eyes leapt brightly with the flames. Their swarthy shadows danced wildly on the stone wall. People were listening quietly to the groupel quietly hitting the roof. Galo had once asked me, “What is this sound?” “It’s like the sound of seeds being sown in the fields.” The stake-like bodies wobbled for a moment. At the time, the topic under discussion was whether or not to divide the seeds to get through the current spring drought. “The headman’s grandchild is really something,” said one peremptory and jealous voice. “Maybe his grandfather went to India with the Dalai Lama.” “Quite a lot of people went.” “Katmandu, New Delhi, Jakarta, Ca-ca—Canada.” “I’ve tried coffee from Jakarta.” “It tastes like burned porridge.” “Because you didn’t add sugar. Once, when the Roba headman invited 187

Ti b etan S oul me to try it, he brewed it in a silver pot. I said it tasted like burned porridge. The headman called me a blockhead, and he added a cube of sugar to it . . . . . . Ah!” “When I was in the Red Army, I tried it, too. It looked like opium,” Galo said. “The Red Army also smoked opium.” “I had just arrived at the Roba household. I was wounded, and the headman told me to smoke a couple of puffs with him.” “Didn’t you say you didn’t remember your time in the Red Army?” Galo waved his hand and said, “Forget it. Just forget it. Let’s continue talking about whether or not to save the seeds, okay?” In those years, people always came together to dispel their anxieties and loneliness. Whenever Mother took me to sit in a certain corner in the meeting place, I yearned to shake her off and find a warm spot next to the fire. The adults liked to put their big, rough hands on my head. Sitting on a big pile of dirt, I heard the topic turn at times to my family’s past wealth and glory. But Father—the one responsible for my being related to this strange and faraway family—was the only villager not present at the meeting. He could only sit beside the fire in his own low, small hut, reading a copy of “Reference News” that I’d borrowed from the school. Now and then, he would talk to me at length about various issues, such as how it was that East and West Pakistan could be separated by India—this sort of thing that had nothing to do with our lives. If one night’s meeting didn’t settle an issue, that didn’t mean that the next night’s meeting would. All it meant was that, under the watchful gaze of the cooperative members taking in the sun next to the wall, Father would have to carry back five more loads of firewood through the snowcovered forest. The male co-op members who were idle in the winter watched Father go through the square time after time. They watched flocks of pigeons and skylarks fly above the frozen earth and then land again. The accumulated snow in the winter woods was massed by the wind into numerous whirlwinds of varying sizes. I always tagged along after Father to help him pack the brushwood. Not one bit grateful, Father would hack at me with the back of the axe or hit me with a rope. I could put up with all of this without crying. Finally, one day Father took his fist to me and hit me hard: I fell down on a moss-covered rock. When he saw blood trickling slowly from my teeth and staining the snow red, Father grew weak in the 188

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knees and almost knelt before me. In the sky above the forest, the wind was howling. I believe I saw tears spinning in his eyes. I turned and raced down the mountain. When Mother folded me to her breasts, I almost cried out loud. She wiped away my bloodstains. When she started damning my father again, I bit her hand. I hated her because she hated Father. She was nothing like Cai Qin. She couldn’t be compared with teacher Cai Qin at all. Afterward, Father let me go up the mountain with him. When we sat down to rest in the snow, Father said, “You’re growing up, Alai.” A warm current slid from my head to my back and then leapt to my numb, frozen toes. I curled my toes tightly so this warm current wouldn’t escape from them. I said, “Aba.” I wanted to curl up like a cat at his feet. I was cold. The sun hanging in the wintry gray sky was like an eyeball crying in the wind. “I realized you were getting tall only when you went down the slope across from us the other day. I thought I was mistaken. I moved the nail holding your book bag up a notch, but you could still reach it.” Father smiled. This was the first time in years that he had smiled a little. Father took out a pack of cheap cigarettes and lit one. He gave me one. I shook my head, and tears streamed down. He smiled awkwardly again. “I think you’re hungry. Smoking helps stave off hunger. Every time my battalion commander gave me a cigarette, he said when you’re full have some candy, when you’re hungry have a cigarette.” Father brushed my tears off my face with his big, rough hand, and said, “You’re growing up, child. My boy child is growing up. Soon you’ll have hair on your wee-wee, and you’ll be thinking of girls.” I bent over on the ground, my rear end pointing up. Crying, I said, “Aba, Aba.”

-6 Back then, I almost told Cai Qin what Father had said to me. She was bent over on the ground, watching several ants crossing singlefile from one blade of grass to another. The grasses were long and slender,

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Ti b etan S oul gleaming with an almost transparent green. Even now, I still regard this secret treasure stored in my heart as my first pure love. We walked out of the forest and stood on the hill behind the village. As the women waited for their allotment of sweetbreads from the pots, they sorted wheat seeds. The young people carried the beef and mutton to the gorge and loaded it onto trucks waiting to take it away. From my vantage point high on the hill, the people in the square were flattened into squirming objects. In the strong sunlight, their bodies lost clear contours and couldn’t be distinguished from their shadows. They looked like turtles carrying heavy shells on their backs, though their short limbs were moving out of sync. Their movements looked laughably clumsy—weak and heavy, like one’s throat being clutched in a nightmare. The sticking point was that these weren’t other people: among them were my mother, my cousins, and my fellow villagers. My heart sank. A cool breeze blew from the forest behind me, and I looked down on the festive, enchanting square. As a youngster, I was deeply affected by the weight of destiny. My sensitive heart was callously gnawed by listlessness and emptiness. When I went down the mountain, I swept away a lot of green weeds with a sturdy birch branch. Cai Qin insisted that I place a small violet-colored, multi-petaled flower in her hair. I did. She said, “Am I pretty?” I said, “I don’t know.” She said, “Flowers are certainly pretty, and I certainly am not.” All the way to the square, I couldn’t figure out what she meant by that. Father had set the bundle of firewood down. Holding his old army cap which was filled with mushrooms, he was making his way through the crowd with his head high. He glanced at me briefly. I saw him notice the small flower in Cai Qin’s hair. For an instant, Father’s eyes leapt like a shapeless, colorless flame beside the small flower, and then the flame was extinguished. By now, I no longer considered Father a rival in love. I’d become Cai Qin’s confederate: “He saw.” “What did he see?” “The flower,” I said quietly. Not until I said it did I realize I’d said the 190

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wrong thing. “He saw only the flower, not me.” So I changed the subject in a hurry: “My mother had another baby yesterday.” “Yesterday, I slipped a note to him inside the newspaper.” Cai Qin said, “Has he read the newspaper?” “Yes. Aba just said the Americans and the Soviet Union were doing something.” “Negotiations. Arms negotiations.” “Last night, my mother had a baby.” I thought Father must be opening the shed in the courtyard. At the same time, I seemed to hear again a baby wailing like a hungry cat. At night, I had dreamed of this wailing. Even in my dream, I’d known that the wailing was real. A year earlier, I’d heard the same heart-rending crying on the same kind of night. The next morning, Mother was holding a blanket as she sipped a cup of hot tea with old ghee floating on the surface. At the time, I only smelled a stinky odor of blood. A smear of sunlight shone on the yellow earth wall, and a few wisps of faintly black smoke curled up from the pine kindling in the hearth. When Mother brought the cup to my lips, I almost threw up. Father rushed in from outside and exchanged a quick glance with Mother. Mother set the cup down and wept. Right up until I headed out with my book bag on my back, Father didn’t dare look at me. After leaving, I stealthily turned back. I heard Mother say: “Are you sure he stopped breathing?” “He was completely stiff.” “Did you send him off?” “I took him straight to the mouth of the gorge before putting him in the river rapids. It was an easy departure for him.” “If only he hadn’t cried when I delivered him . . .” “. . . then you wouldn’t be feeling so bad?” “I . . . . . .” This morning when I poked my head out of the blanket, I saw Mother smiling at Father. Her lips were quivering, but she was no longer cursing Father. Rather, she was murmuring softly to the ragged cloth that wriggled now and then. She was half-lying on the newly made bed; her breasts were large and full. The baby’s cici suckling sound was going around and around in the air above my head. 191

Ti b etan S oul Mother lifted the tattered felt: “Look, look at your little sister.” A lump of pink flesh was visible in the felt. All of a sudden, I recalled that when I gleaned wheat stalks after the harvest, I’d seen this color and this kind of flesh: that was a nest of screeching hairless mice. I said, “I see.” Father was just bending over and adding a piece of old lard to the copper pot: the roaring sound of the flames leapt all around the pot. A blast of cold wind carrying the scraps that were all over the square— especially the little sun-dried scraps from the ox stomachs—blew in behind us. I imagined Father was putting the freshly collected mushrooms into the copper pot. When he bent over, the rope that served as a belt around his waist pinched his stomach tightly. Rays of infatuated light were still wavering in Cai Qin’s eyes. By this time, the heads, hooves, stomachs, and intestines had been dredged out of the three huge copper cauldrons and were drying on a table set up for the occasion. Many children were threading their way through the hot, fragrant steam rising from the drying food. Sitting cross-legged in front of the three-rock stove, Galo was warming his rheumatic knees. Even though he was groaning loudly and grimacing in pain from being toasted by the red-hot fire, he wouldn’t retreat at all. Grease spattering from the pots reached the fire now and then and sizzled. He moaned loudly, “Ai, aiyaya.” The frisky children echoed this. “————Ai!” “————Aiya. Aiya. Aiyayayaya.” Galo swore, “You little bandits, I’ll slap your faces.” “Slap! Slap! Ala, la, la, la, slap your faces!” Finally, Galo turned around. Because of his stiff joints, he had to turn his shoulders and back along with his head. His face was wrinkled like a walnut. His one eye and his bushy, pale golden-yellow eyebrow gave his face a kind and gentle look. I swallowed a mouthful of saliva. With the help of a crutch, he stood up slowly. His son walked over and straightened his trousers for him. He said, “Children, go pick some wild onions at the gorge.” We shouted gleefully. We shouted at a few skinny dogs, whose bellies were distended—round and slippery—from the oxen’s blood; under their skin, however, their backbones were ridged like strings of beads. We ran off 192

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toward the watery thicket on the shore of Makhangjukha. Our glossy black-haired dog Trupa stood in front of the length of wood, barking fiercely at our receding backs. It was reminding me, just as Father had: Don’t get mixed up with these urchins who became shameless because of their longing for meat. Father had lectured me with the sternest expression: In the past, each time the Roba family’s land was harvested, the headman ordered the slaughter of three oxen. The ox blood was used to sanctify the drum, while the ox meat was hung on the beams of the home to be dried by the wind so that it could later be eaten with wine. The head, hooves, stomach, and intestines were boiled like this to treat the villagers. Now, like all the other children, I was making my way into the thornfilled thicket to collect wild onions, coriander, and water celery in all the dank places. After the women washed their hands in a leaky wooden bucket, they would chop the cooked heads, hooves, stomachs, and intestines into tiny slivers, and dump them into the pots to be boiled again. The ingredients that we brought back were also chopped and added to the pot. Galo told us to remove all the brushwood from beneath the pots and leave just a large charcoal fire burning in the stove so that it would cook slowly. In the copper cauldrons, the bubbling soup was thickening. The gudu sound became more and more oppressive, and the aroma more and more enticing. At this time, production brigade head Galo ordered that the copper pots be covered. This was a ceremonial act that had evolved from the past. In the past, many Roba headmen had ordered this when everything in the cauldrons had been thoroughly boiled. Galo had also been ordered to do this numerous times by my grandfather, who had perhaps fled to India or perhaps to Canada or whose body might have been abandoned in the wilds and his bones dried there in the sun. Even when Galo’s rheumatism flared up, he didn’t refuse this sacred trust. Now, the cypress lids which had been sand-scoured at the riverside were placed on the bubbling pots. The people were restless, making sure their own bowls, chopsticks, and soup pots were ready. The thick purple cypress lids muffled the aroma and the bubbling sound of the meat soup. Aligned on the rock stove, the three purple copper pots pressed down heavily on it. The sides of the pots were smoke-blackened. The several dragons etched into them looked terrifying. The heavy black copper pots gave off a tremendous amount of heat. So that they would stop thinking about their hunger, people all quite coinciden193

Ti b etan S oul tally imagined how the twelve dragons might soar to the sky and ride the clouds. It was only the children who were consumed by hunger. Most of the old people indulged in memories of the past. In former times, at this moment, the headman usually sat in a distant spot with his finely attired wife, and burped from imbibing too much. He ordered Galo to act as cook and stand beside the pots. The headman’s eyes were self-congratulatory and brutal. It was hard to know when he would order that the pots be uncovered. Three generations earlier, one headman sat there until dark, and then said, “Wait until tomorrow.” The next day, he ordered that a leopard skin be spread out in the same place where he had sat the day before, but not even a ghost appeared in the square. The only sound was children’s wailing coming through the cracks in a few doors. That day, it was as if a plague had descended upon the entire village. No one in the village moved around for three days. Under the crescent moon, the headman looked down on the square from his loft. In the dim moonlight, a few wild dogs and cats placed their paws on the sides of the pots, but they were too weak to lift the heavy lids. Even a wolf glided into the square. The moon gradually grew brighter, and a faint stench permeated the square. No one knew when someone had overturned the three pots. The smell of decomposed sweetbreads and translucent jellied broth flushed the square. In late autumn, the snow on the mountains was dazzling, and the refracted sunlight penetrated every corner of Sergu Village. But Makhangjukha’s water brought cold air with it. In the cold air, the headman shivered and said to his son, “Flies.” Sure enough, a lot of flies had massed in the square. They were fluttering gleefully on the decomposed sweetbreads. The headman racked his brains: had those flies hatched on the sweetbreads or had they come from a village that had been wiped out by a pestilence? The headman despaired. He thought the sunspots on his face were also flies. When the wind blew the walnut tree’s leaves, it brought with it the stench and the sound of flies beating their wings. He ordered his son, “Make some inquiries. Where did these flies come from?” Unable to restrain his excitement, his son rode off on his horse. He urged the horse on, and it galloped through the mountain wilderness. Then he came back and told his father, “The sacred mountain’s cliffs gave no answer. Not even an echo responded to my questions. You know, the 194

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cliff with the hot springs even answers humbug. Ordinarily ” The headman raised his head weakly and said, “I know.” The headman said again to his crafty son, who was about to disappear into the stairwell, “I know.” That day, the headman took the boot off his right foot and tied his toe to a shotgun. He put the barrel of the gun in his mouth, but he didn’t dare move his toe. Finally, he tried to stab himself in the chest with his silverplated bayonet, but the bayonet couldn’t pierce the leopard skin covering his coat. But his foot accidentally moved the shotgun. The new headman buried his father. After a heavy snowfall, the square looked as pure as before. The next year, he brought the three copper cauldrons back from Taozhou, Gansu, and held a big feast for all the villagers. Afterward, no headman ever again deliberately made people wait more than two hours after the sweetbreads were cooked. Everyone accepted and enjoyed this brief, yet endless, silent waiting. The villagers imagined all the flavors they were about to taste, while the headman tasted the enticing sweetness of power. Now, production brigade head Galo had won the special power to decide when the pots should be opened. He didn’t turn the scoop over to a loyal, docile subordinate, as past headmen had done. His eyes gleamed with a headman’s proud, self-congratulatory light, yet also with the light in all the villagers’ eyes—gleaming with greed. The light in Galo’s eyes was a strange blend of these two kinds of light. Galo tapped the side of one cauldron lightly with the cooking scoop. The knots in the scoop’s long handle shone from being rubbed. When Galo brandished the scoop, his elbow joints creaked. The dragons on the side of the pot stretched out their sharp claws and scratched my stomach. Just then, it occurred to me that the pots and all the sweetbreads in them had belonged to my family. I could have become the headman who would trample on and make this one-eyed guy tremble. I would have been the headman who ordered him to remove the lids from the pots. He would have had to obey my order. Would have had to put it into effect. But I would have wished he wouldn’t, so that I’d have had a reason to decapitate him. I was dizzy from hunger. It was as if I saw the metal-relief dragons soar. Later, Galo admitted that 195

Ti b etan S oul he’d also sensed this: waving their tails, those dragons shed the smoke and dirt, and their bodies flashed with purple golden light like the light of the local old people’s skin. The twelve dragons leapt into the sky in the same instant and were flying in the midst of hundred-year-old clouds. When their aura disappeared and they reattached themselves to the sides of the pots, the pots returned to their original state—the way they looked when they were first transported here from Taozhou. The one on the wooden frame in the headman’s home was filled with clear spring water from a certain morning forty or fifty years ago. The other two made a buzzing sound in the vibrations of the twilight trumpet call in the temple courtyard. The dust came off in the vibration. The villagers sighed in unison for the honor and disgrace, prosperity and decline that alternated in the mortal world. One could discern this by contrasting the former Roba headman’s eminence and wealth with my family’s distress and poverty. In a flash, the people’s sighs awakened a certain something in my heart. I looked at the wisps of fragrant steam escaping gradually from the gaps in the pot lids. Along with it, the grease was also spreading out more and more on the wooden lids. Galo stuck his thick tongue out a few times. This indicated that he would soon order that the pots be uncovered. Father had never taken part in this annual feast in the village square. Each time after Mother had eaten her fill, she carried home a bowl of stuff that Galo dredged from the bottom of the pot. I’d never gone home along with Mother. I hoped Father would eat the things in the bowl, but I also hoped he wouldn’t. Eventually the pots were uncovered. When Galo put his long-handled scoop into one of them, what I felt was only my hungry stomach. I couldn’t feel my brain. I must have eaten a lot. Not until I’d eaten my fill did I realize that my tongue was so burned that it couldn’t taste the flavor anymore. Galo placed a pot of hot sweetbreads in front of me. Cai Qin sprinkled a little pepper in the pot. Her comforting glance was just like Mother’s.She tugged at my collar, picked up the pot, and led me through the crowd. Then she patted my head with her soft hand, and said, “Go on home.” I dillydallied for a while. “Otherwise, the grease will congeal.” So I went home. 196

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I set the pot next to the fire. Father said, “You two eat it while it’s hot.” Mother said, “The two of you should eat it.” I said I already had. When I wiped my mouth, sure enough, I wiped off a piece of congealed, frozen ox grease. Mother giggled. She was blushing with pleasure. Father smiled, too, but he still said he didn’t feel like eating. He said that in the summer of 1954 when the army had been surrounded at Gachu River, they’d killed a war horse. They’d eaten fresh horse meat and tinned pork for two weeks, and he had tired of the smell of grease. “We covered up the tins that we’d pried open with razors. The grassy bank was chockablock with shiny tin cans. They were everywhere. The local bandits thought these were land mines, and so they were in no hurry to launch their attacks. We could finally wait for reinforcements,” he said. “Back then, I tasted enough of this.” He stroked his beardless chin. When Father was irritated or annoyed, he earnestly shaved his beard. Mother was struggling to stand up to give Father a bowl of food. When she lifted the blanket, the smell of blood rushed up. I almost threw up. Father took the bowl and didn’t glance at me again. He chewed the food carefully, as if eating fish and fearing that bones would get stuck in his throat. When he drank the soup, he made a slurping sound. His expression was full of shame. The one Cai Qin loved wasn’t the one in front of me. The man who’d worn the thin, ragged army uniform and gone through the village square with an inviolable aloofness had already died. He finally set his empty bowl down. Mopping the sweat from his forehead, he smiled hesitantly: “Ema, Alai is getting taller every day.” Turning to look at me, he said, “I didn’t realize he was getting taller every day until I saw him from a distance.” That night, Mother sighed and said that for the New Year she’d have to think of a way to make new trousers for me again. That night, Trupa dragged a wild rabbit back from the hill. That night, an agreeable dark red fire burned quietly and branded itself deeply in my mind.

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-7 Father’s eyes were hidden in a big heap of wrinkles. The wrinkles on his face were so dense that they resembled a twisted ball of brown paper. His gaze went directly through my body and through countless years. He’d seen the whole process of the drum platform’s wooden pillars rotting into scent and earth. He’d seen the grain opposite Makhangjukha undulating in the wind, gleaming with a dark, deep bronze color. Father’s gaze went right through me, as if I were an immaterial thing in front of him. Actually, he didn’t care a whit for the rotten wooden pillars or the grain on the hill. His gaze transcended reality. It was merely a material shape like something gleaming on a knife blade, a simple, ordinary physical phenomenon. I was afraid of Father’s gaze when it was like this. Father’s body was shrinking, as if he were a monk on a strict regimen. But he wasn’t an oracle, and he certainly didn’t believe in the superstition that the soul reached a seventh heaven in another place. I looked carefully at Father’s graying temples. Heat flowed from my chest and gushed toward my eyes. Finally, this hot stream was suppressed by Father’s indifferent gaze. It couldn’t spill over, so it went back to my chest and turned into something small and sharp on my diaphragm. It had been this way since I was a child: I didn’t feel close to my father, whose life was full of frustrations. After a long time away from him, this feeling of being a stranger grew even more intense. I was afraid Father’s soul might leave his old, declining body in an instant, and his eyeballs flashing with green light would tumble from their sockets and roll around on the ground as if possessed. The large mysterious hand of fate would make these two vitreous objects slip and become icy cold and fill with my blood, like cherry trees growing all over the mountain slopes at home. “Galo died,” Father said again. “Aba, are you still doing all right?” I asked. He didn’t answer. Across the way, the copper gong sounded listless and dreary in the fields.

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“Give me another cigarette.” I told Father that a friend had informed me that someone in his situation could now reclaim his government position or could receive a pension. He could even arrange a job for one of my little brothers or sisters. He shook his head obstinately. “Your old colleague—the former township party secretary—is now in charge of putting this policy into effect.” “No. I’m tired. I’ve never asked anyone for anything.” “Aba!” “Don’t worry about me, son. Back then, if I’d given him that pair of riding boots, I’d have merely left my office rather than being dismissed. Understand—one pair of boots. You know, back then, lots of girls admired my boots.” “At the very least, you should think about my sisters’ futures.” Father shook his head. “I went to a lot of expense and effort to bring them up. Don’t you think I’m tired out?” With that, he bent his tired knees and sat on the ground. He leaned back again against the old, light, warm wood that was densely covered with cracks, and shook his head in an expression of chicanery. He was comfortably enjoying the autumn sun’s warm light and the autumn wind’s cleanliness. “The Roba family always had only one son in each generation. In my hands, the family was destined to become insolvent; no wonder we had so many children at home. I tell you: in fact, the root and arteries of the Roba family are all in you. Your sisters know only work, honest work. Ah, everyone says I brought them up well.” “Hunh!” “Back then, you felt you had to go away from home. I simply agreed. I said fine, leave, go away to find your own life if that’s your destiny. Do you remember?” “Yes.” “Back then, you were very young. You walked away barefoot. I thought, Alai will come back. I made a pair of shoes out of the soft leather cut from my riding boots. If you had come back, I’d have given you the shoes and sent you off again.” “I didn’t come back.” Father laughed, “Ha! That’s what a real Roba should be like.” “I didn’t come back because I hated you.” “I hated my father, too.” 199

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-8 Back then, I was ashamed to think through the reasons I hated my father. But I was as sure as Cai Qin about the reasons I loved him. We loved him for his unyielding expression as he wore that increasingly ragged army uniform; for his aloof and proud, yet untamed, noble spirit as he walked through the square with its changing seasons; we loved him when he leaned against the length of smooth wood that had not been used for building the drum platform, and when he gazed at the paint-flaked drum platform that had inclined slightly because its pillars were gradually rotting, as he tasted the beauty of the hollowness and loneliness of the square. It was with a feeling of homage that Cai Qin and I loved him fanatically. It was also with a feeling of compassion that I loved him, for he always said, “Alai, you’re growing up.” Now let me speak of the reasons I hated him. The day my pregnant girlfriend had an abortion at my request, she rested her pale face on my shoulder and said, “Love me, the same as before.” But her expression was filled with acrimony and bitterness. This was the first time that I inwardly and distinctly said to myself: The only reason you hate Father is that he kept making Mother pregnant. I meant two things by this. First, he could have also made other women pregnant. Second, he shouldn’t have carnal relations with any women. But I wasn’t sure which I really wanted—or, more precisely, wished—Father to have done during those bygone years. That day, classes had been out for quite a while, but I was still sitting in the dark classroom. I didn’t want to go home. Teacher Cai Qin was drawing some weird designs on the blackboard. Carrying my little sister on her back, her belly distinctly rounded, Mother appeared at the classroom door. She said, “Go home, son.” Then she turned around and said to Cai Qin, “It’s been several days since he’s brought the newspaper home. His aba is upset. I’ve come to borrow it from you.” Cai Qin handed Mother the newspaper. Suddenly, Mother sighed slowly. She looked at me, then at Cai Qin. After dillydallying for a while, she finally left. I said abruptly to Cai Qin, “The baby must have died.” “What baby?”

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“My little sister.” “Alai!” “Whenever she’s on Mother’s back, she cries and cries. Today she didn’t make a sound.” Just then, the baby’s loud, clear wail suddenly came from outside the window. Mother was below the window; she hadn’t left. When I heard Mother’s footsteps gradually receding into the distance, a blast of cool air streamed from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. Cai Qin’s hand slid from the blackboard. She said, “Don’t say anything. I’m all mixed up and exhausted inside.” Heavy shadows slipped with her arm from the blackboard and fell into my frail, weak heart. That year, I was fourteen; she was twenty. It was another autumn. In the square, Father and several others were setting the three copper cauldrons onto the stone stoves. Tomorrow, or the day after, a new butchering season would begin. The black dog Trupa was at Father’s heels as he strolled all around. Now and then, it looked at the sky, where stars were gradually appearing, and snarled a few times. The sky was ash-colored, with a little shimmering light characteristic of fractures in metal. Cai Qin’s arm slid down weakly. I knew that her love for Father was dimming. I didn’t go home that night. I smashed a stone into the huge copper pot. The sound surely couldn’t awaken anyone who had fallen into exhausted sleep. Only Cai Qin raised her shade and saw me try unsuccessfully to dredge the slippery stone out of the huge pot and cry from grief at the edge of the pot. She must have felt the moonlight drench and chill her bare shoulders, and then closed the shades, went to bed, and slept. The next day, others dredged the stone out of the pot. The wet stone and the concave scar at the bottom of the pot were dazzling in the sunlight. Production Brigade head Galo was looking at me, all kinds of expressions in his one eye, but in the end, he didn’t say anything. The new deputy head Ashang said, “Your ama says you didn’t go home last night. Is that true?” He was looking at me and also at the stone. The water was slowly evaporating from it. “Your ama says you were out the whole night. Is that true?” He pinched my shoulders and shook me with all his strength. 201

Ti b etan S oul “He was home last night.” Father said as he looked at the stone. Cai Qin said, “I took him home.” When she said this, she didn’t make eye contact with Ashang. Her flaming expression as she looked directly at Father was as sharp as a wild bee sting but not like an arrowhead that could plunge into the chest—into a spot deep in the arteries. Ashang deliberately poked Cai Qin in the back. She paid no attention, and then Ashang stared at me with hatred. Back then, it was in the heat of the Cultural Revolution. Both Ashang and Galo’s daughter Jamyang reported this incident to the commune, and I was immediately stripped of the chance to go to middle school. The evening of the day he learned that, Father said to me, “If you don’t want to live the way I do, leave us and go far, far away. Forget this place.” I didn’t act accordingly. Later, after two young teachers intervened on my behalf, I finally attended two years of junior middle school. The army recruiters came. Father said again, “Go.” I went. Galo’s son and I went together for our physicals. “The army’s a lot better place to be. I was wounded when I was in the army. And also the commissar punished me by shutting me up in a cell. But even in confinement, meals were supplied, although cigarettes were not. Even so, my buddies slipped some good cigarettes to me when they were on guard duty,” Father told me. Galo told the recruiters, “This is my son. After I was wounded in the Red Army, I was left behind and had to work for a headman’s family. This other child is the headman’s grandson.” The result was predictable. Cai Qin sought Father out and said, “Tell the officer that you were in the army, too. Tell him that you fought the local bandits. If it hadn’t been for some bad luck, you’d have been much higher ranking than that officer. Tell him to take your son.” Father held Cai Qin’s warm hands. “I love you,” Cai Qin murmured, tears brushing her cheeks. Father lowered his eyes. Cai Qin said, “Loser.” “I didn’t want to be a loser, but that’s what I’ve become.” Cai Qin gnashed her teeth and said, “You’re pathetic.” 202

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With an angry snort, Father turned and left. He inadvertently raised his hand in an obscene gesture. Standing with her legs apart, she said, “Do it to me if you still have any guts!” It was near evening the day that she smiled at me and said, “It’s over.” And I started strolling blindly all through the village, time after time, until it was very late. I hid in the warehouse. The empty, desolate warehouse was filled with a dim, insubstantial gloominess. Cold sweat was pouring down my back, yet I felt bold and justified in what I was about to do. I groped for the large eight-pound sledgehammer made of pig iron that had been used a few years ago in opening up a road for tractors. I lifted it. The hammer and my blind hatred and consuming grievances fell down heavily together. The magnificent noise was deafening. All the villagers were awakened by the unceasing dangdang sound. Babies started crying, dogs barked, and night birds woke up with a start and flew toward the even gloomier forest. When I smashed the first cauldron to smithereens, people gathered in the square. When I destroyed the second one, somebody pushed the warehouse door open. Leaning on the sledgehammer handle, I gasped for breath. My salty sweat and tears mixed together at the corners of my mouth. The door—close to collapsing—creaked and moaned in the wind. The people standing in the doorway were blocking the starlight like a very thick wall. Reflecting the glistening snow, each astonished face was a shadowy green, a dim blue. I picked up the sledgehammer again; the sound of the third copper cauldron being smashed was even louder. When Father’s fist landed on my face, it was a lot quieter than the sound of the purple copper. I heard the trickling sound of blood from my nose hitting the ground in front of my feet. Galo slowly raised his walking stick and pinned Father’s arms down. Although Galo didn’t exert much force, in the cool night, Father’s arms dropped in exhaustion. Galo barked: “Notify the police the first thing tomorrow.” It seemed that then and there, Father turned around and vanished into the crowd of people. Ashang seemed to be saying, “. . . Class revenge, destroying the People’s Commune . . .” 203

Ti b etan S oul I quietly gripped my aching wrists. Everyone dispersed, trampling the dirty snow. Afterward, Cai Qin led me by the hand to her room. She said, “Have a seat.” I was standing. I don’t know when Father also came in. “Have a seat,” Cai Qin said. Father sat down with a sigh. I sat down, too. “Listen, if you want a new life, just leave. You would experience greater hardships away from home, but they would make you a tough man who could endure any suffering. Just go.” Father stared at me sternly, and then, sighing again, he got up and left. In the silence, I boldly showed her my love with my eyes. She stared back at me with an unfathomable expression. I wanted to raise my hand, but it was too heavy. Just now, I’d exhausted my strength in wielding the sledgehammer, and my arms had started swelling. I wanted to say a little something, something like the words of farewell expressed in movies by soldiers about to go to war. But she lifted a finger and said, “Shhh.” Sure enough, we heard a person’s sobbing like a gentle mountain breeze passing over grass. Then came the clear sound of crying, like dragonflies’ bright wings. I knew right away that it was Galo’s daughter Jamyang crying. She was accompanying her younger brother to the township, happy and proud of her brother and herself—for she was the newly appointed branch secretary of the village’s Youth League. Waving her colorful red scarf, she stopped the passing trucks. She said to the first driver who stopped, “I’m the branch secretary, the daughter of a Red Army veteran.” The driver said, “Who the hell cares? No!” He closed his door, and the truck rocketed on. Another truck stopped, and she rushed over to say, “Driver, I’m accompanying my younger brother to join the army. In the army, he’s going to be a driver, too.” “Are you sure he isn’t going to drive a tank?” “No, a car,” she said. The driver smiled and said, “Get in.” Later, it was said that when the 204

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driver shifted gears, he slipped his hand between her legs several times. In middle school, lessons about virtue had been poured into her brain, and Galo had also instilled a lot of this kind of thing. She shielded her lower body with her hands. The driver said, “Don’t move around, or the car will end up in the river.” It’s hard to say how this story became so well-known along the 500-kilometer highway. The theme was either “I’m the daughter of the Red Army” or “Driver, the gear shift is over there.” When the driver said not to move, Jamyang really was afraid to resist. When the driver’s hand slid again to her leg, she really thought he’d mistaken it for the gear shift. She said, “Driver, the gear shift is over there.” I heard this story only later. What I remember about the night before I embarked on my vagabond life was hearing Jamyang’s crying grow louder and louder, like waves rising and falling all around the village. Cai Qin was shedding tears, too. By then, there was already a little early light on the window and there was no longer a fire in the hearth. I moved my numb legs and got ready to hit the road. It was as if Cai Qin were talking in her dream: “Don’t turn into a spiteful person. Don’t hate others just because everyone else does.” I pushed the wooden door open and gulped down a large mouthful of clear air. When I walked out of the small mountain gully, I felt great. Sparrows were clamoring in the forest behind me. It was a perfectly clear day. I didn’t look back. I didn’t even think of looking back.

-9 When I returned to the village after years of wandering, people told me that Cai Qin’s love for Father formally ended on the afternoon of the day I left. She followed my footprints in the snow for a long time, and then saw Father standing in the snow, looking out in the distance toward the blue mountains. Finally, unable to bear the spiteful, cutting look in her eyes, Father slowly turned around. “Yangzom.” “My son went away. My son.” “The year that you came back from the army, wearing a new uniform and riding boots, you and a few other men set up the new drum platform.

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Ti b etan S oul It was such heavy wood, and yet you set it up easily, deftly.” “Alai left.” “Back then, I was still little, but at the time I was enchanted by you. I hid next to a corner of the wall or behind a clump of trees to watch you. You fanned away the gadflies on your face with your hat.” “Your aba was killed. I brought back another man’s remains.” “But that night, I dreamed that I rode with you on your horse and went through a huge stretch of grasslands.” Cai Qin shifted her frozen feet forward. “I love you.” “If your dead aba hadn’t been my buddy, and if I had never brought another buddy’s belongings back to his family, I would have married your mother then. Then you would have been my daughter.” “I love you.” “When I returned that time, Alai was there. Do you know that? Back then, Alai’s mama was another dead war buddy’s beloved woman!” The squishy sound of Father trampling the snow gradually faded away. Up to then, her relationship with Father hadn’t formally ended. The villagers’ opinions differed on how far this relationship had actually gone. And about this, Mother, Father, Cai Qin, and I all maintained silence. Two years later, she married a buyer for the supply and marketing cooperative who came to the village during the slaughtering season. When I ran into her in the county seat, her husband was in jail because of corruption. At her home, I enjoyed the most wonderful, filling meal of my vagrant life. The strong alcohol and the lamplight in the dark room made my emotions swing back and forth. The dense fog of first love rose before my eyes once more, along with the crimson reflection of the wine. I declined more wine. What I imbibed was another sort of aged and mellow wine. I was watching her pour the wine into clear glass wine cups. The crystal refracted prisms of light, and the wine poppled a little. I couldn’t help but want to blurt out my first love to her. But I wasn’t sure whether I should say I love you or I loved you. Touching the cup, she said, “Actually, Sergu Village isn’t the place where I would put down roots.” I said it wasn’t the place for me, either. She said solemnly, “It’s where all your roots are.” She laughed again and said, “Just look. We’re talking about such serious things.” She turned the main light off, leaving only a small, blood-red 206

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colored light at the head of the bed. I lay down on the couch in her home and took off her husband’s clean clothes, smelling of camphor, that she had forced me to change into. She sat in front of the bed and let her hair down. She removed her clothes, folded them, and placed them on a stool next to the bed. Her bra and panties were the same color as her skin. The couch I slept on was in dark shadows across from the bed. The enthusiasm her eyes held at nineteen had faded away. Now, the limpid waves in her eyes were placid and melancholy. “I have lots of things I want to say to Alai.” She extinguished the light. Outside the window, a faucet was dripping. She said that every night, in order to sleep soundly, she had to turn the faucet on a little. A crescent moon hung beside the mountain. It was quiet for a long time, and then she suddenly said, “Come over here.” There was not much passion or irrepressible ardor in her tone. I lay down next to her, and saw the moonlight shining on the downy hair on her cheeks and nose. A few rays of light had gathered on the tip of her nose. Her hands glided over my cheeks and chest, and she said, “You have a beard now.” I started breathing fast. “Your aba never touched me once,” she said. “Do you think that was because of fortitude or cowardice?” “. . . . .” “Am I old?” “No.” “Do you love me?” “Yes,” I said. “Am I like an older sister or a mother to you?” I didn’t say anything. “You have hair there where I touched you. If you want me, you can get on with it.” I shook my head for all I was worth and said, “I fell in love with you when you fell for my aba. Back then, I thought when I grew up and earned some money, I’d marry you.” “Then make love to me one time. Don’t be like your aba.” “That’s because Aba truly loved you. Me, too.” “Come on.” She turned my thin shoulders with her plump hands. I let her feel how emaciated I was. Because of this, I was afraid and fled from the 207

Ti b etan S oul bed, fled from her plump, warm body. She sighed in the dark and said, “Okay. The headman’s roots are all alike.” In the morning, when she awakened and turned over to look at me, I was wearing my ragged clothes. When she saw that I looked like a tramp again, her eyes moistened and she didn’t say anything. As I turned around, she said, “Give me a kiss.” My cold lips touched her warm forehead. When she lifted her lips to me, I drew back. She said, “Just kiss me for your aba, will you?” When I walked to the main street in dawn’s gray light, I saw the empty road—the same color as the empty dawn—gradually disappear in the midst of the greens of the vast mountains. I couldn’t get my bearings. This road in front of me, this thing that seemed no different from before, a person’s fate, or even this vast ruthless world: where did it begin and where would it end? I really didn’t know. I wanted to know. In my life of wandering, nothing had left me with any special memories—not any of the bosks, the cliffs, the fields or villages, not any of the people I met in the sunlight or in the wind and snow or in the rain and fog. What always occupied my whole heart was still the small village beside the brook in the woods and the people who lived in the village. Jamyang, the regiment’s branch secretary, made every effort to take my opportunity to join the army and give it to her younger brother: she simply said mine was a landlord’s family that had escaped being classified as one. Two years later, this old issue surfaced again. Ashang told the work group head that our Sergu Village had a landlord who’d escaped being classified as one, and that he knew who it was. He said the person should have been fought against a long time ago, and that the person had six wooden chests of valuables. He told Cai Qin this, too. “Is he the one?” “Who,” Ashang winked and asked, “is he?” “You know.” “I like you, Cai Qin. We grew up together.” “That’s good.” “Don’t you like me?” “Don’t you know? That’s great!” “Think it over.” 208

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“Don’t stir up more trouble. Why are you accusing him? When he was off fighting the war, what were you doing?” “We made mud babies together next to the gorge, remember?” “I remember that when he came back his brown riding boots squeaked. He gave each of us a large handful of peanut candy and cookies. It was the first time we’d seen cookies.” Father was in the army seven years and was a cadre two years. When he came home, he brought a horse and a donkey with him. The horse carried four green ammunition boxes; the donkey carried two soap boxes. In those two boxes were six army uniforms, some for winter and some for summer. One wooden box held a quilt, and another held a dogskin mattress and a khaki-green canvas bag. One of the boxes the donkey was carrying held a pair of riding boots, three leather belts, and six pairs of rubber overshoes. In the other, white silk cut from a parachute was wrapped around two diaries, three fountain pens, a bundle of mimeographed tabloids from the war zone, a cartridge of carbine ammunition, an empty grenade shell, a canteen, a harmonica, two books—The Red Cliff and Song of Youth—and several copies of a poetry magazine. Two of these still bore burn marks. When Ashang looked at these wooden chests, three of the uniforms were already ragged. No matter how hard she tried, Mother couldn’t sew the pieces together again. At that time, too, I found that the chest also held a Soviet-style sailor hat with a few shiny medals on it. It was just as well that back then, Father was absorbed with his new baby daughter and with Cai Qin’s passionate love. He seemed quite vigorous. Thirty-two days later, the red color faded from my little sister’s face and she opened her beautiful, innocent eyes to contemplate a world that was decidedly neither beautiful nor innocent. Her moist little red lips were tightly closed, and her nostrils moved gently with her even breathing. Our family’s three pairs of eyes rested on her face. The boiling water bubbled. My little sister was sound asleep, her even breathing dispelling the bitterness that had hung over our family for years. As Father and Mother exchanged glances in silence, their wrinkles relaxed. As for me, from the tip of my tongue I tasted the flavor of the words peace and happiness, though I didn’t utter these words. “We aren’t even forty yet, Yangzom.” “Not yet.” “We aren’t old.” 209

Ti b etan S oul “We’re a long way from being old. Alai is growing up, and our daughter is so sweet.” “Will she be able to grow up?” Mother sobbed a little. Her soft sobbing fluttered in the sunlight coming into the room through the window. That night, I dreamed of golden bees circling a honeycomb overflowing with honey.

-1 0 This story is almost over. Dear readers, You’re bright and also stupid, just as I am. We all think we can be objective and even-handed about the characters in this story. There’s steeliness in our intelligence, and it’s precisely because of our intelligence that we discover that no verdict can ever approach the truth, and it is thus that we discover our stupidity. As I write, this puzzles me. This stupidity is our eternal agony: it is more lasting than all life and death, more lasting than all the affection beyond life and death. It can never be eluded. Two fragments of the copper pots that I smashed are now on my desk. The villagers who brought them here told me that a pile of fragments was collecting dust in the warehouse attic. In the still of the night, they made a low buzzing sound. This palm-sized fragment was fouled by smoke, but the light-gray fractures were glittering with tiny sharp-edged, crystalline rays of light. I fell silent. A lot of Sergu villagers’ familiar faces, as well as faces of strangers, whirled around before my eyes. Everything rose again before my eyes. My little sister was born and grew up in good health. The acrimonious aloof and proud expression on Father’s face vanished. He said to Mother, “Jiubao doesn’t feel spiteful toward me.” Mother and I were bewildered by these words. Father smiled and went to the village office. The office was simply the storehouse next to the square where not very much food had ever been stored. Galo had just recovered from an ulcer in his back. He turned his pale, swollen face toward Father. “I’m not going to carry firewood for your meetings anymore.” Galo blinked his one eye in astonishment.

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“I’m not one of the four bad elements. Nobody can pin that label on me.” “Your father . . .” “I’m not my father. Galo, you’ve been a soldier. I’ve also been a soldier and fought for seven years. How many years did you fight?” “You know my—?” “I was a higher-ranking cadre than you, right?” The green fire in Father’s eyes leapt up again. Galo was alarmed. Galo fell to the felt mat again, and said, “Actually, your aba was very kind to me.” “That was him. I’m me.” “Indeed, you aren’t one of the four bad elements. I knew what those few wooden chests were all about. That’s why I disagreed with Ashang for calling you a landlord who escaped being classified as a landlord. It’s just that the higher-ups instructed me to watch you.” “Ask them if they want me to go to prison.” “No. That isn’t possible,” Galo said. After that, all the families took turns providing firewood for the meetings. Father went out early and came home late, devoting all his energy to supporting our family. Early in the morning, before going to work, he cut a load of firewood. In the afternoon, after work, he carried it to the main road next to the gorge and sold it to passing trucks. In this way, he earned an extra forty or fifty cents a day. He spent eight cents a day on a pack of Economy cigarettes for himself and saved the rest of the money. After two months, he bought a headscarf for Mother and shoes for my little sister and me. He also gave me a red plastic-covered book, Dictionary of Proverbs. In addition, he bought a red leather collar with a clear-sounding bell on it for the black dog Trupa. Trupa was fierce and astute. People could see at a glance that this was a purebred hunting dog: it wasn’t big and dumb like other local hunting dogs. Most of the local dogs were cross bred of sheepherding dogs and the poor watch dogs from the Han territory. Our Trupa didn’t make a sound; its small body dragging its heavy iron chain made a huahua sound. It never barked just out of bravado. Now and then it pricked up its ears and growled softly. When it leapt up like a tiger, it opened its mouth wide, revealing its red tongue. People marveled at this, for on its long, thin tongue was a dark flame like a coiled-up poisonous snake: this showed that Trupa was incredibly intimidating when he came up against 211

Ti b etan S oul huge ferocious beasts like bears, leopards, and wild boars. Father had said more than once that he himself wasn’t a hunter, and he had no chance to obtain a rifle permit, for he wasn’t trusted enough. He would trade this dog for a good radio. None of the villagers had been able to get hold of a radio and so they couldn’t get hold of Trupa, either. Some people said that no one would ever get this hunting dog. The black dog Trupa’s name circulated far and wide along with Roba Yangzom’s name. A hunter from the Zagunao tributary of the Min River crossed a snowcovered mountain in order to pay a call on us. As he placed antlers and some musk beside our fire, he told Father, “These are worth five hundred yuan.” Father’s eyes twinkled. He said, “In the past, our family received seven or eight racks of antlers every year and enough musk to fill a small cowhide bag. I’ll trade this dog only for a radio. I want to hear what’s going on in the outside world.” “People said that the men of the Roba family were all strange.” “I guess so.” Just then, a cockroach emerged from a hole in the stove. Trupa’s eyes brightened, and it smugly pressed its front paws lightly on the cockroach. Teasing the cockroach, Trupa moved its front paws up and down. Finally, it let it go back into the hole in the stove, barked twice, and ended its performance. Mother poured tea for the hunter, and he drank it in one gulp. After thanking her, he wiped the drops of water from his beard and said, “I don’t want to boast—I know this is a good dog—but it is a waste if it can’t be with me. I’ll come for it next spring. I’ll bring the thing you want. For now, I’ll leave these things here. You can trade them for something for your wife and kid. Ai!—Such a prosperous clan has been brought so low.” Father gently pushed the antlers and musk back to him. He looked at Father and then took the things. Mother bowed to him and said, “We’ll keep the dog for you. Please, without fail, bring back the thing he wants.” The hunter sighed and left without looking back. Trupa accompanied Father every day. Father went out the narrow alley and into the square. Beside the drum platform’s wooden pillars that 212

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were colored a coral-like purplish red in the early morning sunshine, he shouted, “Stop!” At once, Trupa stopped walking and waited until Father had crossed the small wooden bridge and climbed the hill behind the village before it caught up in one flying leap. Every evening, we heard Father’s tired footsteps only after Trupa got home. By then, Mother had already prepared dinner and was nursing my little sister. It’s easy to see what a happy family this was. We never had enough food; supper was always a pot of wheat-flour gruel with quite a few tea leaves in it. Because of Father’s hard work, besides salt, the gruel contained a few hot peppers and some fat. Trupa always enjoyed the gruel along with the rest of us. Afterward, Father would sit by the fire and read the newspapers that Cai Qin had tucked into my book bag. Generally, by the time the teachers read the newspapers, they were already a week old; Father had to wait another two or three days to read them. After putting my sister to sleep, Mother half-rose from the bed at the hearthside and said, “It would be great to have a radio.” “Yes, it would be great to have a radio,” said Father. But Trupa started growling at the footsteps in the alley. Although Trupa was terribly fierce toward the villagers, it made an exception for Cai Qin. Some people said that even the beast could sense Cai Qin’s ardent feelings, but its master simply ignored them. Galo and Mother were among those who thought this was abnormal. Other people said that Trupa flung itself at her breasts because that pair of things was available even to a dog. These people hadn’t learned much in school, but they had impenetrable hearts. Among them were the deputy village head Ashang, the educated youth Wang Erwa, and the Youth League secretary Jamyang. Mother said to Father, “She loves you so much.” “If I’d known earlier that it would turn out this way, I wouldn’t have fallen in love even with you.” “You do love her, don’t you?” Father hung his head. He couldn’t bear the scorn on Mother’s face. “The hardest, and most worthwhile thing, for a man to win from a woman is her heart. Do you know that?” Father shook his head. “You have to understand. I can’t hurt her.” “Have you hurt me?” “I don’t know.” Father and Mother’s affection grew deeper by the day. Trupa and Father 213

Ti b etan S oul were as inseparable as shadows. Father was fated to lead a life of hardship; he was fated to bend his unbowed head to hardships. Under the weight of history, Father had no choice but to bend his erect back or it would inevitably break. And Father was living with a humble wish, like everyone whose lives were filled with hardships. Back then, Father was hoping that next spring the famous hunter would bring a radio and take Trupa away. At the end of autumn and the beginning of winter, there was a heavy snowfall, and the weather gradually turned cold. One day, Mother told me to invite Cai Qin over. She herself went to her brother’s home. She wanted me to go to my uncle’s home, too, after Father came back. She said, “She and I want to help your father. We want to be supportive of him. Your aba has been enduring too much inner suffering.” Holding my head, Cai Qin sat next to the fire. I glued my cheek to her soft chest. My ear hurt from her pinching it with trembling fingers. Of course I knew that the one she loved was my father. I did, too. “Ama said you would help her help my aba.” “Yes. I love him. Alai, your mother is very kind.” Warm tears gushed from my eyes. “Will he be back soon?” I said, “When you hear Trupa’s bell ring, that’ll be Aba coming back.” “What does your ama usually do at this time?” “Heats the tea.” “The tea is already simmering by the fire.” “Puts the cigarettes on the mat where they’re easy for him to reach.” “They’re already there.” “Ama always says that if there’s wine, men like to drink a little when they’re tired. But we can’t afford wine.” Cai Qin took a bottle of wine out from the sheaf of newspapers that she’d brought. “Don’t tell anyone about this, Alai.” I nodded my head. She said, “You’re a sensible child, a good child.” I was about to say I was growing up, I wasn’t a child, when the door creaked open. Father leaned against the doorframe. When she saw the silver moonlight rush into the room, Cai Qin buried her face in her hands. Father said, “It’s over” and then slid down and sat on the doorsill. He said, “It’s over. It’s over.” 214

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Trupa hadn’t come back with him. Cai Qin immediately sent me off to bring Mother back. When we returned, Father was looking blankly at the roaring fire. At seeing Mother, Cai Qin threw herself into her arms and started crying. Father finally opened his mouth and said that while he was cutting firewood in the forest, he heard Trupa barking crazily and rushing off into the distance. Then after an anguished howl, it disappeared without a trace. Father looked all over and finally saw a lot of people’s footprints in the snow, along with a section of rope. Some dog hairs were on the rope. Father raised his hand with difficulty and said, “Alai, take the teacher home. She doesn’t need to have anything to do with a person so down on his luck. Take the newspapers back, too; I don’t want to read them anymore. They aren’t part of my life. All I can think of is bringing up my children. This woman shouldn’t cry, for that makes my heart ache.” All of a sudden, Father had turned garrulous. He bent down very low, his shoulders hunched high. Three days later, Trupa’s body was found in the birch grove. The dog had been hanged from a tree. Its bloody mouth was wide open, its jaws propped open by a sharp knife. Thus, no matter how it struggled, it couldn’t have made a sound. The beautiful birch branches rustled in the north wind, and the remaining golden yellow leaves slowly drifted down. Trupa was already frozen stiff, and its eyes were filled with dry snowflakes stirred up by the gale. When I went up and cut the rope, its stiff body fell with a thump to the snow-covered ground. Its stiff, straight tail broke into a few pieces. The knife also fell out: when it hit the bare rock, it set off sparks and a faint odor of gunpowder. Father picked up the knife and looked at it carefully. All of a sudden, his expression changed. He shivered. When the knife dropped from his hand, it cut three of his fingers. The insignia on the knife was a six-fingered palm. It belonged to the Roba headman’s family. Three generations ago, a bloodthirsty Roba headman had used this very knife to end three people’s lives. Afterward, he plunged this bloody knife into the door of the murdered men. The blood kept dripping from Father’s fingers, reddening a large area of the snowy ground, but he was unaware of this. For a moment, all kinds of feelings welled up in his heart, and he felt deep despair. He felt that everything was a karmic retribution that he couldn’t escape. Trupa was gone. Only its frozen body was left. Father walked around 215

Ti b etan S oul and around, looking carefully at each observer’s face. He narrowed his eyes in anguish. Several deep wrinkles led straight from the corners of his mouth to his temples. I thought: Even if Father could once again enjoy some good fortune, could receive direction from the immortals, could be rejuvenated, could start living a peaceful life again, and could have all his other wrinkles smoothed away, the wrinkles from these last few days would never vanish. Mother said, “You have to get revenge. You know whose knife this is.” “You know who did it. Everyone knows, isn’t that right?” Cai Qin said. At these words, the observers all stepped back a full two feet. Mother picked up the knife from the snowy ground and said, “You must know who’s responsible.” The green flames in Father’s eyes were abruptly extinguished. His shoulders dropped weakly. A threadless patch on his old army uniform was ripped off by the wind. He said, “No, I don’t know.” “It was in this village that your ancestor used a knife to start a feud with another family. You know whose family it was.” Cai Qin said, “This knife might have been stained with the blood of a man who had the guts to resist the headman. Today, his descendants have taken a dog’s life in retribution.” Ashang said, “You shouldn’t put it that way.” Cai Qin turned the knife toward him, and said, “You bastard—if you ever so much as lay a finger on me, I’ll take you on with this knife!” The knife was sticky with black blood, and its edge was gleaming. Much later, when I awakened at midnight, it lay heavily and coldly on my mind. That moment set the course of the rest of Father’s life. From then on, the green fire in his eyes was extinguished. All of the resistance of his entire body and soul toward his unjust fate vanished. “Do you have to atone for everything that your ancestors did?” Cai Qin assailed him. “It’s predestined.” Father seemed at this time to understand the arcane truth, and he was fully enlightened. The mocking smile at the corners of Father’s mouth wasn’t directed at the person who had taken a dog’s life in payment for an ancestor’s hot-bloodedness, nor was it directed at himself, but rather at Cai Qin who was too upset to restrain herself. All the stubbornness of an aloof, proud man floated away and vanished with the dog’s soul. Damn it! The knife dropped from Cai Qin’s hand. 216

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Cai Qin threw herself into Mother’s arms. Then she came over and held me by my shoulders. “Let’s go.” I picked up the knife. “Leave it here with your aba.” “No,” I said. The wind blowing at our backs, the myriad trees rustling, we walked down the mountain. When Father went home, Mother was sitting next to the wall, lightly stroking my little sister’s black hair. All was silent. For the next several days, our home was like an ice house, completely without vitality. One day, Father suddenly said to me, “Son, if you want a future, go away and make a life of your own. I’m still man enough to kick you out the door.” That night, I hid in the village’s warehouse and smashed those copper pots. Then I embarked on my long period of wandering.

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randpa’s long legs once again appeared before my eyes. His long legs swaying, his arms—as thin and long as his legs— swinging, Grandpa strode into the wheat fields of my native land. It was a desolate and lonely image, and I can remember only what he looked like when he had become an old man—a gaunt figure striding between fields of broad beans and wheat. I see him passing time after time through the scenery, the houses, and the clan graveyards of the native place, carrying with him the scent of the broad-bean blossoms that were just opening. He seemed to be searching in vain for something he had lost long ago. All of this held within it a complete and profound feeling of beauty. But Grandpa walked tirelessly, as if his only goal was to remain obstinately independent, outside this sense of beauty, and to separate himself from the world. The impression of this tall old man with a stern expression and fastidiously neat beard was, without the slightest doubt, that of a guest—a lonely and unreasonable guest who didn’t know where to go to return home. The area I’m describing is administratively part of Sichuan Province, but in its customs and in its heart, it belongs to Tibet. In other words, it is a mountain hamlet inhabited by Tibetans. This hamlet is my home, but it isn’t Grandpa’s native place. Grandpa is Chinese. I am this Chinese grandpa’s Tibetan grandson. The Tibetan name Father gave me is Dorje. Before I was named, it is said that Grandpa had not yet become eccentric. People in the family knew nothing of his past. They all thought he was just naturally meek—and that he liked silence. He was so silent that at first he didn’t even express an opin218

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ion on the important matter of naming his grandson. It was only when I began to learn to talk—ah, oh—and talked more every day that Grandpa also began to talk more often. “It seemed,” Grandma said to Grandpa many years later, “that you were born all over again with Dorje. You talked more, and your disposition also changed.” When she said this to him, I was already grown up and they were very old—not merely old but extremely old. Grandpa’s eyes were so clouded that they no longer seemed like eyes. For her part, Grandma became more and more childlike; even her voice sounded like a child’s. It was the height of summer. Wherever I went, no matter how densely crowded it was, I could suddenly see the light. The landscape of my native place opened up abruptly—the forests and mountains, the river valley, the hamlet shaded by a huge walnut tree. At the entrance to the village was a solid stone table. Carved on a rough stone wall was an enormous cow’s head and the three omnipotent Buddhist treasures. Our family sat in the middle of the courtyard at high noon and enjoyed the sunshine and tea. Gadflies and wild bees sang their buzzing songs amid the luxuriant flowers and grasses. One hybrid family gathered in an unusually purebred manner. I wasn’t among them. The four generations were missing only me. But I saw the entire scene more clearly than the people who were placed in it. Grandma had been beautiful in her prime, but now in her old age, the skin of her face simply wrapped around the bones. Her forehead glistened like ebony. And Grandpa’s lanky body seemed to be shrinking with each passing day. His head rose above the crinkled wool piled around his neck. For everyone gathered there, life was quiet, and the sour taste of barley alcohol and the sweet taste of yogurt brought a feeling of well-being to these people. In the courtyard, golden-yellow flowers were in full bloom. But I, the one far away, was making this family unhappy. This is why Grandma thought of me and said to Grandpa, “As soon as Dorje left, your good disposition returned.” Grandpa’s eyes were so clouded and dull that he seemed unable to pay close attention to anything. But he could move his eyebrows, which were so sparse as to be hardly there at all. Grandma added, “Dorje hasn’t come to see us for ten years.” “Wu!” Grandpa belched. “What did you say?” “Wuwu!” 219

Ti b etan S oul “What are you saying?” “Yawei?” Grandpa asked, “Are you talking of Yawei? After I die, he’ll come back.” Die. Grandpa actually talked this way. “Grandpa actually said I’d come back only after he died?” I asked my father. Looking at me, Father replied, “That’s right. And he used our language.” So Grandpa had said that in the dialect of the native place and not in the relatively unfamiliar Chinese language, which he had persisted in using. There was a triumphant tone in Father’s voice when he said, “When he died, Grandpa spoke Tibetan even better than he spoke Chinese.” Father had traveled at least a thousand li to visit me at the college where I was teaching. Sitting across from me in my home, which was decorated entirely in the Tibetan style, he gave me the news that Grandpa had died. In describing the way Grandpa spoke at the end, he was announcing the triumph of one region and one powerful set of customs over one lonely, struggling individual. Tears filled my eyes. Sitting erect in my ostentatiously decorated house, Father represented the real thing. Because the house was showy, the style was not authentically Tibetan. Father embodied my childhood past, my old home’s sense of the soil. All at once, the landscape of my native place unfolded before my eyes. Then Father stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the room. A slight, mocking smile played at the corners of this country person’s mouth. With his thick hand, he knocked on the yak skull hanging on the wall. Even Father’s bearing was just like Grandpa’s. Warm feelings tossed back and forth in my heart. Father continued to pace in front of me, looking occasionally at the yak skull. Then, turning over a book of Tibetan historical materials sitting on the low table, he asked, “You think you’re Tibetan, right?” “I am.” “You really want to be one?” This wasn’t my honest and kindly father; it was my grandpa who had been overbearing like this. Father said that for years before he died, Grandpa had bowed to Heaven’s will and been content with his lot. But meanwhile, Father had learned to be blunt with his questions. All my life, I lived in a country and a culture that insisted on awareness of one’s nationality. You belonged to only one. Although I have two blood lines, although I am both Tibetan and Chinese, although I think I am both, I am still compelled 220

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to be either this or that. I can choose only one. So I answered Father, “I want to, and yet I don’t want to.” I didn’t expect what happened next. With the benign expression that a father should have, Father nodded his head and sat down. In a stern tone he ordered, “You fake Tibetan, give me some wine.” “You fake Chinese, here’s your wine.” Father took a large swallow. Tears rippled again in my eyes. I said, “Aba, are you willing to stay here for a while?” Father looked at me earnestly, and only when he saw that I was sincerely urging him to stay did he respond, “If you’re willing to go home one more time.” “I’m willing,” I said. “I want to see Grandpa’s grave.” Father and I walked on the main street of the town, away from the college grounds. Unlike the residents of this city, the students at the college were all minorities from remote places, bringing with them all kinds of eccentric customs and peculiar behavior. Uncivilized, such people go to college to become civilized. This being so, the students of the Nationalities College can’t wear their native dress unless it’s a special holiday or they’re performing on stage or appearing on the TV news. Some of us teachers hang on to our outdated city clothes so that when people from our hometowns come to visit us, they can change out of their traditional dress in order not to be conspicuous. When I explained this to Father, he asked, “Why?” “It’s too hot here,” I said. “Your clothes are long and heavy.” I didn’t say that—as always—his clothes reeked of the traditional oil and spices that people of the soil cooked with, not to mention the odor of cowpens and horses. Also, his expression was heavy and gloomy. In this environment, these things could make a person look strange, as well as unsociable and eccentric. His whole life, Father had wanted to be obliging and on good terms with the soil of our native place. He had succeeded in this. But now, I saw on his face the expression that Grandpa used to have—pride, obstinacy, and ridicule. He said, “I’m not changing my clothes. If you’re afraid you’ll lose face because of the way I look, I’ll leave right now.” I went walking with Father. “You don’t have to come with me,” he said. 221

Ti b etan S oul “I want to.” Father laughed again in Grandpa’s aggrieved yet careless manner. “Humph.” Then he strode ahead with long steps. It was summer. The street was muggy and jammed with people. Like Grandpa, Father was tall. But his sturdy body type was indeed a Tibetan’s, not like that of his Chinese father. I’ve already said that Grandpa was rather gaunt. On the soil of a strange place, he had looked solitary, refined. Here, Father looked just as out of place. His corpulent body swaying, his thick purple-red wool garment drooping heavily, he strode into the stream of people dressed in frivolous, gay colors. Their perfumes assailed his nose. The dense stream of people parted before him as if he weren’t a person but a wild animal passing through their midst. I didn’t know if it was because he was wearing so many clothes in this scorching heat or because the strangers all stared at him with astonishment, apprehension, and revulsion: anyhow, sweat rolled down Father’s face. The sweat from his thick hair fell as profusely as spring water from the mountains, crystal clear and glistening, following the contours of his swarthy face. I wanted him to slow down a little. Seeing that my eyes were filled with resentment, he said, “Why did I come to this place of yours?” “There isn’t one place that’s yours and another that’s mine. Both are China.” Father halted, inhaling the hot, muggy air, and said, “This windless place.” The only way to teach such an obstinate person is with your fist, but I knew I couldn’t. “There is wind sometimes. It’s just that right now there isn’t any,” I said. Father’s face again assumed Grandpa’s arrogant manner, as if he thought himself infallible. He said, “Order the wind to blow. Tell these people not to avoid me.” I wanted to say, Your arrogance won’t keep you from being hurt. Instead, I bought two bottles of yogurt from the cold-drink stand. After he drank the yogurt, the sweat disappeared from his face. When I returned the bottles, the woman took mine but not Father’s. She spat out the word filthy. “Then I’ll give you money for the bottle,” I said. Still smiling, I handed her a coin. But my father must have been frightened by something he saw on my smiling face. When I turned around, he wasn’t there. By the time I found 222

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him on an overhead walkway, I was sweating profusely. We were now near the suburbs, and the crowds had vanished. Between the low, red-tiled houses was field after field of dark green plots. Father stood there and looked at the distant mountains. I told him that from here, one couldn’t see the mountains of our native place, first because he wasn’t looking in the right direction, and second because it was too far away. Through the rising steamy summer heat, we watched the faint shadows on the distant mountain. Father began to laugh again. He said, “No wonder you told me to wear your clothes.” “Let’s go back, Aba.” “Bah! I want to go back to my own place.” “Your place, your place! Now you’re just like Grandpa was. How many years was he there? Even when he died, he didn’t go back to his own place.” “Who asked him to go?” The smug look of victory was on Father’s face. “And who asked you to come?” Father looked as if he wanted to dash down the bridge and run toward our distant mountain home. I shouted, “Think of your father—my grandpa!” He turned and looked at me. I thought that we each saw in the other’s face the likeness of someone who would not again reflect the radiance of this world. We felt an overwhelming sorrow—we didn’t even know his given name. We moved our lips, but we couldn’t call his name. At the other end of the city, between silhouettes of the buildings, a yolklike sun was setting in the direction of my native place. It was at this moment that I truly comprehended what had happened: Grandpa had died. On that street scene at dusk, the expanse of open country gradually appeared before my eyes. I saw Grandpa walking between fields of broad beans and wheat. Let me take a look at myself. When I was born in 1950, I was named Dorje. Tibetan boys and men are often given this name. I didn’t yet have a Chinese name, nor did I know who Grandpa was. I was a baby wrapped in a heap of fleece, but while I ignorantly sucked my thumb, a new era arrived. Many eras had come and gone in the quiet land of my native place, but none like this one. The year I was born, the Tibetan district in Sichuan was liberated. At Shajing Monastery, a little more than ten li from the village, a division of the People’s Liberation 223

Ti b etan S oul Army built a tent city. Battles on the grasslands were frequent. The herders from the Tibetan village transported provisions and ammunition for the Communist army. On one occasion, the interpreter mistranslated the order of the logistics command officer, and the transportation unit—which should have gone east—instead headed west. Not until they had walked a day and a night did Grandpa, who was in the unit, tell the commander that they were going in the wrong direction. Because of this, the commander realized Grandpa was Chinese and had not allowed the munitions they were carrying to fall into the hands of the enemy. By informing them of the error, he had also saved the lives of many village men. When they returned to the base, Grandpa received a large certificate of merit. It is said that the logistics commander asked Grandpa if the interpreter had purposely given the wrong translation. In response, Grandpa stretched his long neck and swallowed some water, but didn’t say anything. Then the officer asked him if it was true that he was Chinese as others had said. Grandpa blinked and didn’t reply. The officer waved his big hand magnanimously. “If you are a Chinese,” he said, “I’ll enlist you as an old soldier and won’t ask about your past.” Grandpa stretched his long neck again and swallowed more water. Sitting across from Grandpa—a box of artillery shells spread out on the army blanket between them—the officer explored Grandpa’s face. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I see you have some problems. If not, why would you be here?” Many years later, I heard this story told in the village. The officer gave Grandpa a cigarette; to be precise, he gave him a leaf of tobacco. As Grandpa rolled half of it, the officer lit his own cigarette. He then blew out the match, and Grandpa stuffed the leaf into his mouth and chewed it. He stood up, spat a mouthful of black juice on the ground, and left the officer’s tent. The next day, he left the support unit and walked home. It took him three days, a journey neither long nor short but long enough for him to ponder what had happened to him during the first half of his life. We had no way of knowing about these years, for he refused to talk of his experiences. It is said that the officer had said, “Talk about your problem: you’re with us, and you’re Chinese again.” But Grandpa had turned away from destiny and had spat thick tobacco juice on the ground. By the time I was born, the villagers all said of my grandpa, “That person is one of ours.” “That person” was my grandpa. No one knew his name. One day, he had suddenly appeared in the village’s small square as if he’d dropped from the sky. The wind pushing him, he walked in his unlined 224

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clothing to the oldest walnut tree in the center of the small square. He simply lay down in the shade of the tree. Later, he and Grandma had Father, and Father and Mother had me—and he never left this village again. He wore the clothing of the locals, spoke the language of the locals, and ate the same food. Grandma said, “When your grandpa first appeared, he was most handsome.” What was her standard for handsomeness? Did she think he was handsome because she’d never seen a Chinese person’s clothes? I once saw, in the bottom of a suitcase, an unlined garment of tattered poplin with buttons on the front. Had Grandpa worn this when he first came to the village? Was it this clothing or his way of walking—drifting with the wind—that had won Grandma’s love? In any case, after this, they had Father and his sisters, and later there was me. Enough time had elapsed that the villagers tolerated this person of a different nationality living here, marrying, and having children. But not until 1950 did they say, “That person is one of ours.” “That person” was heavy-hearted and silent. At first, people thought he was a mute. After two years, he suddenly spoke. He used the Tibetan accent of the villagers, but he still wasn’t a real villager. People thought that this sort of person could leave as mysteriously as he had appeared. For years, Grandma wouldn’t let Grandpa lean against the old walnut tree in the center of the small square. The first time she saw him there, this beautiful village girl was afraid that he would suddenly disappear. Grandpa liked the shade of that huge, solid tree because it protected him from the scorching sun of the highlands. For a while, his slender fingers and his lean face were whiter than those of the village girls. It was with her dark, glossy face that Grandma caught Grandpa. She smiled at him with small white teeth and said, “I love you.” Grandpa just wanted to flee to a shady, cool spot. But Grandma leaned her full breasts on Grandpa’s arm and said, “You will disappear from there.” He said, “Okay.” A devilish blaze had been ignited in his melancholy eyes. “Then let’s go back home,” he replied. “No, we’ll go to the wheat fields.” The wind blew through the dark green fields. The waves of wheat were glistening with silver light: wave after wave crashed from east to west, from the riverside to the foothills. Later I asked Grandma, “Didn’t you know Grandpa’s name, either?” “No,” she said, staring at the tossing waves of wheat and lost in thought. 225

Ti b etan S oul Grandma and I stood at the edge of an ocean of surging waves of green wheat. “Back then, I just called him Gyami, and he answered me.” Trembling slightly, Grandma leaned on her wooden staff. Gyami means “Chinese person.” The year that I turned five, things changed. I began to have a memory of my own—in other words, the beginning of an individual history. I remember Grandma carrying a bucket of yogurt to a spot under the apple tree in the garden. When I rushed toward that bucket, I slipped on the stone steps in front of the gate and tumbled into a patch of strong-smelling marigolds. When I clambered up, a few yellow petals were sticking to my face. Grandma began laughing. Grandpa was an old man then, but Grandma still appeared young to me. In a voice as sweet as the floral scent in the air, she said, “Dorje, go call your grandpa.” Grandpa was repairing the railings next to the wheat field. As he broke off willow twigs, he talked. Or rather, sounds intermittently came out of his mouth. I couldn’t understand them. Speaking his language made this eccentric person red in the face. He sounded like a sick person vomiting. The language seemed to struggle up from a deep place in his throat. It even made him double over. Then he struck himself in the head and fell to the ground. Tears seeped from his tightly closed eyes. When he opened them, he saw me. I asked him why he had hit himself. Later, Grandpa said I had told him that I’d never seen him hit himself. Later, he would also tell me that in that moment he loved me very much. He remembered I had said, “Dorje hit himself.” I don’t remember these exact words. But I do remember what happened when we went back to the garden. Grandma lifted the large yellow leaf that was covering the yogurt, and with a wooden spoon she ladled out full bowls of yogurt for us. All around, honeybees and gadflies were dancing in the air, buzzing and singing. Their buzzing blurred the moment—my earliest memory—though I do recall that Grandpa grasped Grandma’s hand, and Grandma’s shoulders shrugged strangely. Grandma’s crying sounded like sobbing and was even brighter and more lingering than the sound of the honeybees and gadflies. I said, “Grandpa hit Grandma.” Grandma hugged me, her tears falling on my face. “Dorje, Dorje, you’re good, you’re clever. Your grandpa loves me too much. Only when I’m get226

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ting old does he say he loves me!” It was probably around this time that Grandma stopped being afraid whenever Grandpa sought the shade of that walnut tree in the small square. A year passed, and the war on the highlands was over. The Shajing Monastery, more than ten li from our village, had turned into a new town. On the grasslands where there had been only the monastery, a military district had been built, along with an army hospital, a nationalities trading company, a nationalities Cadre School of Accelerated Study, government offices, a hotel, a mess hall, a bus station, and a movie theater. A few li from the town, there was also a labor-reform farm. Of the village men who had supported the army, some stayed in the town to work while others returned home. They told remarkable stories, repeating them again and again with gusto. For example, they said the cavalry’s horses had to observe many rules. The horses couldn’t violate them. Serious offenders would be shot, and the other horses had to watch the executions. Everything in the army was like this. Grandpa already had a reputation for looking down on other villagers because they were less experienced. This offended some people and made them unhappy. They would say, “Ha! A strange Red Chinese!” putting the stress on the word Chinese. Grandpa just rolled his eyes. “Ha! An experienced Red Tibetan!” he’d say, putting the stress on the word Red. “Do you know you’re odd?” they would say. “Ha! Me odd?” he’d reply. “You’ve seen so much of the world and you still think I’m odd?” That’s how it was. The town changed day by day and influenced our lives in the village. Clutching my tiny arm, Grandpa dragged me away from the village crowd. We walked to the mill along the path covered thickly by soft, fine grass. Sparkling and crystal-clear and transparent, the water flowing into the wooden trough crashed against the impellers and widened like a fan, scattering rays of light that reflected on Grandpa’s face. If he smiled, he’d be terrifically good looking, but he stretched his face tight. The water light on his face cast a green fluorescence, making him appear a little frightening. In those days, Grandpa still called me by my Tibetan name. “Dorje, don’t you want to come with me?” I shook my little head. His voice turned sweet. “Then you just want to follow your Grandpa 227

Ti b etan S oul around?” I nodded. “Look at the water. It’s so beautiful.” I just said, “Water. Beautiful.” People coming home from Shajing Monastery Town reported that the government was planning to build a school in our village. What’s more, it would be a Chinese school. Grandpa was so happy he couldn’t contain himself. “Really? Really?” he asked, rubbing his elegantly shaped hands. “That’s truly wonderful.” The village was already looking for a site for the school. People decided that the school should be in the village’s ancient blockhouse, which was several dozen meters high. In our native place of mountain ridges, river valleys, and small villages, this hexagonal blockhouse seemed to tower high into the clouds like a lofty stone pillar. No one knew when or by whom it had been built. No longer used for war, the blockhouse had become a nest for wild pigeons and red-beaked crows. The villagers entered it once a year to collect the ample bird droppings to use as fertilizer for their fields. The men began putting in floors and ceilings because the old ones had collapsed long ago. They then built a second floor for one of the classrooms, constructing the stairs of notched wood. This was the kind of stairs all the villagers used, but Grandpa said, “Stairs for schools aren’t like this.” Everyone was quite annoyed. “Then you make them,” they said. “I can’t make proper stairs,” Grandpa said. He turned toward the carpenter who was the best craftsman. “But if I can draw them, can you make them?” Carpenter Gado’s eyelids drooped. Without much confidence, he said, “If you draw them, I’ll take a look.” “Brush!” Grandpa shouted. Kneeling on the ground, Grandpa began drawing on a polished white board. He should have drawn straight lines, but instead his lines were wavy. Everyone began roaring with laughter. Stubbornly, Grandpa continued drawing, his ears and the back of his neck all red. In the end, he came up with something that even he probably didn’t recognize. Carpenter Gado said, “I’m not that good a craftsman. I can’t make this zigzagging thing.” Before anyone knew what was happening, Grandpa butted his head against the carpenter’s stomach. With a scream, the carpenter fell to the 228

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ground. Enraged, he looked up at Grandpa. Grandpa’s face was a blank. Father stared at Grandpa with hatred, then jumped between him and the carpenter to take Grandpa’s place in the fight. But Grandpa shouted at Father, “What are you doing looking at me with hatred?! Huh? Can a son hate his father?” Actually, Grandpa’s behavior was very funny. Even the carpenter, lying on the ground, began laughing loudly. “Wa!” I cried. Grandpa quivered like withered grass in the wind. “Okay, okay,” he said, inexplicably turning around and around in a circle. “You all know I’m from a different place. Okay, okay.” The men began to feel sorry. They hadn’t meant to bully an isolated, helpless person. They had just laughed at this old man for acting arrogantly, that’s all. They stopped laughing at once and reminded themselves, “This old man isn’t eccentric by nature. Rather, he just seems eccentric because he’s from a different place and of a different nationality.” Grandpa suddenly became aware of the awkward silence. He had been nursing an old sensitivity about being different—something that the villagers had gotten over long ago. The sound of my crying hovered in the silence. Shadows of the pigeons circling the tall blockhouse fluttered on the walls and darted over the ground at our feet. “X!” To silence my crying, Grandpa had spoken a syllable whose meaning no one knew. This was the first time he had used Chinese around the villagers. His face reddened like the butts of the monkeys that often came to play tricks on us at the edge of the village. Grandpa actually had a rather close relationship with these monkeys. Announcing that he would draw the stairs within three days, he fled from the crowd. I tagged along far behind him. At exactly the same time as this, the Nationalities College where I now teach was built. Walls were built to enclose a lot of the wealthy people’s confiscated mansions. I now live in a narrow room in a small building in one of these compounds. Each day when I climb the wooden stairs, they creak, and all the floors sway a little. My father was tall and corpulent, so we climbed the stairs cautiously. He said, “After I go up, you come up.” When Father returned to this dark place, the temper that he had exhibited in town dissipated, and he said, “Did your grandpa base his design on this kind of 229

Ti b etan S oul staircase? In the past, he must have lived in a place like this.” Father said it was no wonder that Grandpa had wanted to move from such a small place to our home of vast land and distant sky. Father stared at me with compassionate eyes. “Fate. He escaped this; you’ve come back to it.” Having lived for years with my dear, eccentric grandpa, could there be any odd or ambiguous thought that would strike me as strange? Outside the courtyard wall, construction was going on. The pounding of the pile driver shook my small building. I didn’t explain to Father that at the time Grandpa came to our village, stairs like this were common wherever Chinese people lived. Nor did I explain that in those days, people who had lived in this kind of building didn’t have just one room to themselves, as I did, but an entire building. I wanted Father to take pity on me. I wanted him to feel at ease and good at heart. At my age—over forty—I no longer needed my parents’ love. What’s more, I had regarded Grandpa as my father, not only in spirit but also in our blood ties. “Grandpa, Grandpa!” I shouted as I rushed toward him. He turned and looked at me; although his mouth was tightly closed, there was a hint of a smile. Grandpa turned around again and, swinging his arms, walked ahead. He often walked like this: he would have nothing at all in his hands and yet didn’t put them behind him, nor did he fold them in front of his chest, nor did he stick them into his pockets. He never seemed to know what to do with them. It looked rather awkward to me. When I was a child, I asked a lot of people—teachers, Father, and other villagers—“Don’t the hands need a place?” This question was like, “Don’t bunnies need a mama?” People would look blankly at me and not explain. “What? Hands—also need a place?” “Don’t hands grow on the arms?” “Aren’t hands simply wherever you are?” Grandma pressed her forehead against my forehead, “Ah, ah, child. Your grandpa has grown so many things in your little head.” She blocked my ear with hands that had stroked poppy flowers, then pressed withered lips against the other ear. The old woman sucked in strongly. My eardrum hurt so much that I screamed. Grandma said, “Ah, that’s better. Those strange ideas are in my belly now.”

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In the evening, the whole family talked about going to school. In the past, the only literate people were monks and lamas. Father, who was a frank person, turned to Grandpa. “Why do we want to teach children Chinese and not Tibetan?” Grandpa gurgled phlegm as Father looked good-naturedly at him. “Tibetan?” Grandpa said, “If you learn Tibetan, what can you do?” “And if you learn Chinese, what can you do?” Grandpa was stumped. Perhaps he was thinking that he himself had studied it and was wondering what he could do. But Father’s steady, questioning eyes were provocative, challenging Grandpa’s dignity and the worth of a great language. Stiffening his back, he said, “Be a first-class person just the same!” The whole family laughed softly. Father was muttering, “First-class person? If you learn Tibetan and become a lama, can’t you become a first-class person?” Grandpa looked at me. “You’re going to a Chinese school,” he said, stroking my head. “We should choose a name for you.” “Isn’t Dorje a name?” “Is that a name? Without a surname, can it be a name?” The veins on Grandpa’s forehead began to stand out, so Father said no more. Grandpa had been given an inch and was about to take a mile. “I want to give him a Chinese name. With a name, he’ll be rich!” As he talked, Grandpa looked at each person. But everyone avoided his gaze, so he turned toward me. He placed his hand on my head, just the way the living Buddha does when he blesses people. His gaze quickly changed from kindly to stern. “Listen. I want to give you a new name. A school name.” Grandpa squared his shoulders, sucked in his stomach, and sternly but lovingly said, “Yawei.” I didn’t get it. “Yawei!” Grandpa shouted. Finally I realized that this was my new name. For ears that didn’t understand Chinese—hadn’t even heard it before—these two low, deep, restrained syllables were strange and empty of meaning. I couldn’t reply right away. Just then, Grandma called out to me, “Dorje.” Grandma’s gentle, lovely voice was just the opposite of Grandpa’s. Afterward, I never heard my name said as sweetly, even when it came from the lips of a sweetheart. The old people’s eyes were fixed on my mouth. The hope in their indignant expressions gave way to disappointment. I was six then, and my small, 231

Ti b etan S oul young body felt the anguish of being pulled in two directions. I held my head in both hands. The two voices wrestled in my little head. Yawei. Dorje. Yawei. Dorje. Dorje—Yawei—Yawei—Dorje! My taciturn mama was hugging me tight. It would take another story to describe Mama in detail. She was the ugliest woman in the village—so ugly, in fact, that I sometimes felt afraid of her. In contrast, Grandma was the most beautiful woman. When Grandma was young, she was destined to seek the novel and the mysterious, and this is why she had thrown herself into Grandpa’s embrace. Anyway, Father didn’t love Mama. Like Grandpa, Father was a handsome Chinese man. However, because of Grandpa, ours wasn’t a family with a pure bloodline; furthermore, we weren’t an elite family. Therefore, Father could only marry a village woman no one else wanted. As for me, I wasn’t like either Father or Mama. I was the very image of Grandpa. Even when I was little, my face looked weighed down with sorrow. Contemptuous sparks of fire kindled in my lonely eyes. That day, I didn’t answer Grandpa, and from then on, he often resentfully said that none of his prayers had ever been answered. Grandma, on the other hand, said nothing. Her eyelids drooped, she lightly brushed the dust from the folds of her skirt, and her face became as radiantly serene as a wax figure’s. Grandpa had an odd surname: Yuwen. With childlike pride, he told me that it was extremely rare. He said that in this place of nothing but highland barley, yaks, and lamas, our surname was not only rare but unique. “Grandpa, what’s a surname?” I asked. He thought for a very long time and then grew angry. Whenever he encountered this kind of question, he thought that people were deliberately trying to embarrass him. In his embarrassment, his face would turn as scarlet as an angry rooster’s comb. Waving his hand, he said, “Okay, okay. If I speak Chinese, you won’t understand, and I can’t explain it in Tibetan.” With that, he turned around and started walking. His hands, which had just been waving energetically, now hung down dejectedly. 232

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I caught up with him and asked, “Why does a surname have to be rare?” “It’s respected if it is.” “Why?” “There’s less gold than iron. Gold is more valuable.” Some days, it was as if we were possessed: the old one walked solemnly in front while the little barefoot one tagged along, tumbling and bumping against him. We strolled all around the village this way. Grandpa’s gloomy face would become radiant and lively. If we saw a person approaching in the distance, Grandpa would stand stock-still. Several paces behind him, I also stood still. He would turn around and act as if he hadn’t seen me. Then I would jump out from behind a railing or a small tree, and he would act surprised and make a funny face. At a moment like that, a warm current would pass from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. By then, the approaching person would have walked up to us. Grandpa would block his way and declare, “Yawei is going to school.” “Who is—Ya-wei?” “Right, right. Yu-wen—Yawei.” The person would say, “Doesn’t your tongue hurt?” or “Who did you say is going to go to school?” All Grandpa could do then was give in. “Dorje. I gave him a Chinese name. He is going to the Chinese school.” The person wouldn’t wait for Grandpa’s long-winded explanation but would interrupt and say, “Yes. Your grandson is a bright child.” When Grandpa was unwilling to give in, the other person would display the patience and moderate stubbornness characteristic of our Tibetan people and wait while Grandpa explained what the surname was, what the personal name was, and how to pronounce them. The other person would wait patiently and nod his head repeatedly as sweat began to appear on Grandpa’s forehead and the tip of his nose When Grandpa was finished, the other person drew again on the good disposition, patience, and stubbornness that are part of our Tibetan nature. “Yes,” he would say, “how painful for the tongue. Dorje still sounds better. And the meaning is very clear.” If the teacher hadn’t finally shown up, the repetition of these conversations might have driven Grandpa crazy. Even I thought that he would soon lose his mind. Radiance, like fire, blazed more and more intensely in his eyes. I was afraid. 233

Ti b etan S oul I want to try to describe something that may be hard to believe. I say it may be hard only because sometimes when I write of real things, people tell me they sound unbelievable. Is it the fault of my writing, or have our lives become too simple and uncomplicated? I don’t know. On the surface, our village was quiet and beautiful. Of course, this is not to say it was a paradise on earth. But it was a paradise for animals. Every day, pigeons and red-beaked crows circled the ancient watchtower in the center of the village. Turtledoves and cuckoos called to each other in the walnut tree sheltering the village. At high noon, foxes glided—as if dreaming—into the yard in front of the gate. This scene was real. Otters walked on the light snow on the riverbank. In the autumn, bears sat beside the railing at the edge of the field. This is how it was in my home village more than thirty years ago. When the broad bean plants had just produced their pods, monkeys came down from the mountain. Most of the time, it seemed that they weren’t looking for food but were playing. In the woods where birch and bamboo trees mingled, monkeys squatted on branches and swung from one tree to another, their fur glistening. Even though the big river flowed close by, the villagers all fetched water from a spring in the woods. Grandpa liked this cool, peaceful place. Once, when Grandpa and I were there, several dozen monkeys came noisily to the spring. They didn’t run away when Grandpa approached them. Grandpa grinned and said, “Look, Yawei. They’re our friends.” We sat down on a rock overgrown with liverwort to watch. The monkeys shook the trees, calling, “Zhizhi guagua.” An old monkey jumped down from a tree, carrying a little monkey. The old monkey set the little monkey down beside him and patted it on the head. Just then, Grandpa began talking to the old monkey in Chinese. I didn’t understand Chinese then, but now I know what he said: “Pal, did you get another grandson?” The old monkey just patted the little monkey’s head. “Zhi!” the little monkey called. Grandpa patted my head. “This is my grandson Yawei. He is going to school. He will read the language you understand. He should have a Chinese name, right?” Then Grandpa started to choke up. “Those people aren’t happy. They don’t call him by his name.” Grandpa wept as he talked. Because of his crying, I could no longer 234

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hear the monkeys’ happy voices. His crying sounded a little like the wind passing over the river. The old monkey drew the corners of his mouth back, revealing rosy gums and pure-white teeth. The old monkey was sad, too. Beside him, the little monkey leapt up and jumped happily. Grandpa smiled again. I kept turning around to see if I was growing a tail. Grandpa said again, “Old friend, old friend.” These monkeys have been extinct for many years now. Monkey skins and bones are worth money, so the village set up a special hunting unit. When they couldn’t hunt deer and foxes, the villagers made war against mankind’s closest relatives. By the third time the hunting unit went after them, the old monkey— my grandpa’s friend—realized there was no escape. As people with loaded rifles approached, the old monkey pushed the little monkeys, one by one, to the highest part of a tree. Then he jumped down, sat in front of the tree, patted his chest, and closed his eyes. The softhearted villagers lowered their rifles. But by this time in history, people had had to abandon their useless mercy. It doesn’t matter now which villager pulled the trigger: the gun sounded, and Grandpa’s friend died. You could say that he finished himself off. Then all the rifles began firing. The little monkeys were only on the top of the tree, not in the sky. The hot bullets brought them all to the ground. Father was a member of the hunting unit. Grandpa cursed him. “Animal!” Father only laughed. Then he sighed and said, “It’s finally done!” At the time, I made up my mind never to kill animals. But before two years passed, I had killed a rabbit. We kids had almost given up hope by the time the teacher arrived. In the meantime, Grandpa had finished the design for the stairs. The carpenter made them according to plan and set them up on the outside of the ancient stone blockhouse. He also dug out a doorway in the wall and built long tables and benches fixed to the floor. The new stairs, tables, chairs, and floor all smelled faintly of resin. We stood in the early autumn fields and peeped. Grandpa stood farther away. The waves of yellow-ripened wheat were beating against us. The teacher finally arrived. From afar we saw the sparkle and glitter of something in his hand. It was brighter than the sun’s reflection on the river. 235

Ti b etan S oul The teacher was the first stranger we had ever seen. Because of his clothing, and even more because he was a real Chinese, none of us could tell if he was handsome or not. We didn’t know what the handsomeness or homeliness of people from another world was like. He smiled at us and said, “Children, hello!” He had certainly learned two words of Tibetan quickly. But we kids—a crowd of dirty-faced youngsters—couldn’t even smile. He was so neat and tidy that in the first seconds of our meeting he scared us speechless. Grandpa shouted, “Yawei! Carry the teacher’s things.” I didn’t dare. Of the items in the teacher’s mesh bag, we recognized one immediately: books. We didn’t know what the others were, even though they were ordinary things—toothbrush, cup, harmonica. It was the harmonica that had glittered radiantly. Grandpa came over, wiped his hand on his clothes several times, and then shook the teacher’s hand. “Hello, fellow villager,” Grandpa said. Perhaps Grandpa couldn’t find the right word: Mister. Mister Teacher said to him, “Call me teacher, or call me comrade, fellow villager.” “Right,” Grandpa said. “Comrade Teacher, I’m not a fellow villager. I’m Chinese!” The teacher was likely wondering how he could have become so fluent in Tibetan that he could understand what this old man was saying. When Grandpa said he was Chinese, the teacher suddenly realized that he and this fellow villager were exchanging pleasantries in Chinese. So our teacher, Zhang Mingyu, a gold pen in the breast pocket of his Chinese clothes, carefully took stock of this person who wore Tibetan clothes and who seemed to be Tibetan—yet called himself Chinese. Then he said, “Fellow villager, don’t worry. Party policy doesn’t discriminate against minorities.” Grandpa said, “I’m not a fake!” “Where are you from? Why did you come here? Why are you like this?” The teacher took on a superior air. Grandpa stood there without moving. Never in his life had Grandpa answered such questions. Detouring around him, the teacher walked toward us with a kind, smiling face; he patted my head. Grandpa caught up with him, and said, “That’s my grandson. His name is Yawei—the name I gave him.” A large crowd had gathered at the entrance to the village. The teacher 236

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walked on quickly. That left Grandpa standing in the glittering wheat field like a scarecrow to frighten the sparrows away. We were anxious to start school, but the teacher was not. The teacher walked all around the village. The adults asked, “Is the teacher still wet behind the ears?” The teacher was a young girl, but we couldn’t tell. He was wearing pants, a jacket, and a military hat, but since we couldn’t see any braids, we couldn’t tell if he was male or female. He nodded and smiled at everyone he encountered. In half-strange, half-familiar, hastily learned Tibetan, he said, “Hello.” And then he said “Hello” in Chinese. Wherever she walked, a crowd of people followed. She had rapidly figured out which people she couldn’t exchange greetings with or smile at. By this time, the democratic reforms had been completed and the village had established an advanced agricultural producers’ cooperative. Of course, there were various people with dubious political status. One was my maternal uncle, who had been a lama at the Shajing Monastery. The monastery was now encircled—layer upon layer—by the newly built town, and feudal superstitions were under attack. The only thing my uncle could do was return home and resume secular life. Another person of dubious political status was Grandpa, who was Chinese, though no one knew where his native place was or why he was stranded here. That evening, the villagers heard a sound they’d never heard before: melodious music. The music resounded from the ancient blockhouse’s ground floor where the teacher lived. In the twilight, the flocks of birds in the rafters were startled. The whole family pricked up their ears and listened attentively. My uncle, who lived alone, came to our home. He didn’t exchange greetings with anyone, but sat at the foot of the cupboard where the firelight didn’t reach. Grandma gave him a bowl of tea. In the dark shadows and amid our chitchat, he faced that bowl of tea. Now and again when no one was saying anything, we heard him reading the sutras in a low, mumbling voice. Most of the time, he was silent. Grandpa began talking to Uncle with veiled contempt. He said, “Why didn’t I see that people were kowtowing to you and kissing your hands?” Uncle was as still as a woodcarving. Grandpa went on. “Hunh! Why don’t you recite a sutra and make the buildings that have squeezed out your monastery disappear?” Grandpa 237

Ti b etan S oul had earlier refused the chance to be a Communist official of that town. But the Chinese victory and the unheard-of speed with which the Chinese had built the town made him act out of character and become aggressive. This strange person who didn’t annoy people had turned into a strange person who did annoy them. When he saw that Uncle wouldn’t take up the challenge, he said bluntly, “Come on, let’s fight. Let me curse a respectable lama. See if I can become a mute.” “Huala!” Grandpa jumped, but Uncle had only flicked the prayer beads off his wrist and begun fiddling with the beads. Uncle knew how to protect himself and make a fool of Grandpa. The next day, we would go to school. A piece of paper was posted on the walnut tree in the center of the small square. Grandpa said, “The school’s opening notice. The notice of Kerla Village’s lower primary school’s opening.” He turned to Uncle, “Aren’t you literate?” “I think that’s Chinese writing.” Just then, the sound of music floated by. “What is that?” “Music,” Uncle said. “What kind? A bamboo flute? A Tibetan stringed instrument? Your Tibetan language doesn’t have a name for it, does it?” Uncle was the only person Grandpa could slight and offend. When Grandpa thought he’d gotten the best of him, his face sparkled. For his part, Uncle would respond with a look of pity. This sort of conflict would never end. I slipped outside into the star-studded night and, with the other kids, sneaked up to the teacher’s window. Music was flowing out of it. When the music stopped, we peeked in. It was the first time I’d seen a record player. I watched the teacher flip the record over and turn the handle, and then, under the lamp, the record began to spin. The splendid sound flowed like liquid, scattering in all directions. Now I know that the song she was playing was “Jasmine on the Shore.” The teacher began dancing lightly. Whirling, she took off her hat, and her beautiful, long hair cascaded like a waterfall! Sure enough, the teacher was a woman. When she played a second song, she threw herself on the bed and began to cry. Recently, I bought a recording of this song performed by an electronic band. The electronic keyboard in the background sounds like the weeping I heard that night. When the music stopped, the teacher stopped crying. She got up, ar238

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ranged the records, and then extinguished the oil lamp with the pretty chimney. When I got back home, the whole family was asleep. But I knew that Grandpa was listening for me. I stepped more lightly than a mouse, but he still heard me. He coughed once to indicate I should go over to him. Burrowing under the cow-hair blanket, I smelled only dust. Grandpa was a very strange person. The villagers smelled like the sweat of their bodies mixed with the odors of beef, mutton, butter, milk, and salt. Grandpa also sweated and also ate these things, but he didn’t have this smell. From the point-of-view of my nose, not having this odor was the same as having none. Once in a while, I would risk thinking that this old man was a ghost, a legendary ghost of someone who had never hurt anyone. I heard Grandpa trying repeatedly to say something. When the words finally reached his lips, there was a rumbling sound and he swallowed them back. I was waiting. Finally, he said, “Yawei, I’m sorry.” “The teacher is a woman, a real woman.” “Yawei, you shouldn’t have been born in this kind of place.” I couldn’t understand what he meant. How could he have decided where Mama would give birth to me? I described the record player and the beautiful oil lamp. He seemed to know all about that. He said, “The world is very large. If you study hard, you can leave this backward place.” He hadn’t seen everything in the outside world, but he encouraged me to take a look. School started! In the village, the sun rose overhead, dispelling the dense fog of early autumn. I was the only child accompanied by an adult, so all the other kids laughed at me. Grandpa’s hand was gripping my shoulders tightly. I couldn’t shrug it off. Elated, he was smiling in a way he never had before. He said, “Okay, okay.” As Grandpa and I went up the broad stairs, he was still saying this. We reached the door. The sun sparkled on the newly painted door as if it were a curtain made of satin. Many of my childhood days would be spent behind that door. Then the teacher blew the whistle! The students all crowded up the stairs. Grandpa didn’t dare go into the classroom. He just stood at the entrance on the small landing. Several times, he was almost pushed off the stairs by the crowd of students. But he was still smiling. He raised his arms to make more room for the students to pass by him. With his hands raised, 239

Ti b etan S oul he looked as if he were dancing or were a tree being blown by the wind. Watching from a distance, the other villagers began laughing. The teacher’s young, shining face was serious and solemn as she approached Grandpa, who continued to stand on the small landing. I secretly wished he would leave, but his face was wreathed in smiles as if he were trying to curry favor with her. The teacher’s steps slowed slightly. More people gathered to watch from below. A person said goodheartedly, “When he sees someone of the same race, he’s so happy. How pathetic.” “Hunh. What kind of person is she? What kind of person is he?” someone replied. The teacher walked straight to the landing. When she reached the spot where Grandpa’s lanky body blocked the way, she smiled and said, “Fellow villager, please let me pass.” Grandpa said, “Yes, Teacher, I’ll let you pass, but I’m about to fall.” He raised his hands again, and the teacher retreated a bit as he regained his balance. Grandpa said, “I brought Yawei to school.” The teacher said, “When I graduated from middle school, I traveled a thousand li to this place. Did someone need to bring me? This school is in the village. Does someone need to bring him?” “But, but . . .” “What are you saying?” “We are Chinese!” Grandpa’s face flushed, and his eyes were begging. “Chinese?” Grandpa nodded desperately. The teacher looked up and seemed to gaze at a faraway place. “So what if you’re Chinese? Can’t a Chinese be struggled against? Can’t a Chinese be executed? Don’t talk to me of these things. Get out!” On the little landing, Grandpa and the teacher suddenly wanted to get out of each other’s way. As a result, they collided. I shut my eyes. Someone said the teacher slapped Grandpa, but I don’t believe it because I didn’t see it. I recall that when I got home, Grandpa might have been drunk. I don’t know if he was crying or singing. “I should not have gone. I made a fool of myself!” As soon as I heard this, my head ached. I thought, He won’t come to school again. But that wasn’t the end of it. In the morning, the teacher helped us put covers on books and sharpen 240

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pencils. Except for having shown a little loathing in dealing with Grandpa, the teacher was really likable. One morning, she laughed from the bottom of her heart. The sound of her laughter was so beautiful! And she smelled of flowers! This was a person with another kind of odor! That afternoon, we formally began class. She said, “Classmates!” We silly kids laughed softly. She began to lecture, mixing a little stiff Tibetan into her Chinese. Both she and we students tried hard, finally more or less understanding each other. She told us that she couldn’t teach us characters right off the bat, or how to count, and that we didn’t need to bring our book bags every day. We had to learn to speak Chinese first. Perhaps it was my disappointed expression that drew the teacher’s attention. “Of course, if you want to bring your book bags, you may. You have to take good care of your books.” “Yes,” I answered in Chinese. “Did you understand me?” “Yes.” “And the rest of you?” “No.” “Tell them what I said.” The classroom darkened abruptly. Because the windows were just the blockhouse’s tiny embrasures, all the light for the classroom came through the wide-open door. It grew dark because Grandpa was suddenly blocking the doorway. He called to me, “Yawei! Stand up. When students talk, they have to stand up!” Bending down low, he thrust his head through the open door, making him look like a big bird in distress. I was indeed his grandson, so of course I didn’t like him but preferred the graceful teacher. The teacher spoke to Grandpa. “Please stay away from the door. Standing there, you’re making a dull day.” Grandpa clearly didn’t know how to behave in a delicate situation. “Teacher, his surname is Yuwen. His surname is my surname.” “We’re having class, fellow villager.” My classmates cried out shrilly. Grandpa turned around slowly, and the classroom grew bright again. The teacher didn’t embarrass me but instead came over and patted my shoulder; my heart felt warm. When school got out, Grandpa was still waiting for me, sitting under the walnut tree in the center of the square. No one was afraid any longer that he would suddenly disappear from there. He didn’t look like the supernatural beings who sud241

Ti b etan S oul denly appeared and just as suddenly returned to Heaven whenever they pleased. I pretended not to see him, but he caught up with me. “Don’t come to meet me.” “Why, Yawei?” “No one comes to meet anyone else. My classmates laugh at me.” The setting sun lengthened our shadows so that they stretched across the whole yard and climbed up the wall. Grandpa said, “You shouldn’t be so proud of yourself. Your school isn’t a real school. Your teacher doesn’t even wear glasses!” It was he who had brought about my beautiful yearning for school, but I’d no sooner started classes than he had to say something like this. He began describing what a real school was like. I didn’t understand what he said about auditoriums, walls to separate the entrance from the street, winding corridors, scientific experiments, and foreign languages, so his words had no effect on me. Grandma was standing on the steps, waiting for us. “Dorje.” Grandma’s voice was sweet. “Ah, my grandson’s mind—how is my grandson’s mind?” “I like school, Grandma.” Mother was in the yard, doing the milking. It was as if what had happened had nothing to do with her. Her son’s going to school had nothing to do with her. Father wasn’t home, and he wouldn’t be much interested, either. In my memory, it’s as if I were Grandpa and Grandma’s son. Grandma called to me, “Dorje!” Grandpa called to me, “Yawei!” The two names couldn’t divide a person’s body, but they could make the soul feel the pain of not knowing where it belonged. My native village was located in the foothills in the western part of the Qionglai Mountain Range in northwestern Sichuan. Behind the village stood the last high mountain in this system; in front of the village were the grasslands, which gradually opened up. The mountain behind the village had a strange name: Partridge. Because it was Chinese, no one knew what the name meant until Grandpa arrived. In former times, the mountain was called Gugu. It was named after the birds that sang in the dark green open spaces at the end of spring and beginning of summer. Grandma said, “What a pity—ah. Birds have to call out all the time.” Real Tibetans have the special characteristic of being able to express rea242

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sonable compassion in any situation. Another object of my family’s compassion was the popular picture of the five leaders—Mao, Liu, Zhou, the Dalai Lama, and the Panchen Lama—that Uncle gave me. Pasted on the wall, this picture looked down on us. Often, the weather was so pregnant with rain and snow that smoke from the fire hung in the room and couldn’t rise. As Mama wiped the tears from her smoke-stung eyes, she looked up and said, “What a pity. Their eyes have been exposed to so much smoke and fire.” When Grandpa cursed the teacher, Grandma would say, “What a pity. Pity her mama that her daughter came to such a faraway place.” Uncle said, “Right, right.” Grandpa said, “Let’s take that picture down. Your Living Buddha Dalai has run off. Your Shajing Monastery has been torn down.” These things had either occurred or were occurring. Because of this, Uncle could not recite the sutras with a calm heart; instead, he liked to chat a little. Uncle said, “They’re building a movie theater where the monastery was torn down. Aren’t you going to see Chinese movies?” “I want to,” Grandpa said. “If you tell them you’re Chinese, they won’t make you buy tickets, and they won’t mind if you have lice, either.” Grandpa didn’t utter a word. Being hurt by the teacher had made him understand that the Chinese who had recently arrived weren’t much interested in what nationality someone was. But he couldn’t let Uncle’s remark go. He said, “You’re a learned person. I ask you: What does the name of this mountain mean?” These two people had identical destinies. They had both lost the place where their souls belonged. Because of this special circumstance, Grandpa actually considered Uncle his friend. And I loved the teacher. Grandpa wanted me to love him. He felt that his being Chinese made him more respectable than others, yet he had long ago sunk into the midst of unrespectable people. The teacher was a real Chinese. She had a record player and an oil lamp with a glass cover. She was beautiful and clean. She took baths often. I had sneaked a look at her naked body. To me, she was like a huge, legendary, precious stone sparkling at a distance. One night, I dreamed that a black cloud would wrap around this goddess-like woman and take her away. At midnight, I began to shout and sob. Grandpa woke up 243

Ti b etan S oul and asked what was wrong. I said I had sneaked a look at the teacher while she was taking a bath. All at once, Grandpa exclaimed joyfully, “Really? Really? In your dream?” “No!” I screamed, and I stopped up my ears with my fingers. The next day, when we were on our way to class, monkeys came down the mountain again. Before the teacher could call us in, we dashed straight to the railing at the entrance to the village and shouted and shouted. We shooed the monkeys away from the fields of just-ripened wheat. In the woods nearby, the monkeys ran helter-skelter and leapt around. The teacher chased after us, her hair waving behind her. When I saw Grandpa’s shadow heading to the wellspring, I told the teacher about Grandpa practicing Chinese with the monkeys. This made the teacher curious, and that made me really happy. The teacher walked behind me! Sure enough, when we got to the spring, the old monkey and Grandpa were sitting down and facing each other with the water between them. Grandpa was stammering in Chinese about my going to school. The old monkey tweaked its ears and scratched its cheeks as if in response. “Pal,” Grandpa said to the old monkey, “I forgot. I forgot how to say that. I used to say it often, but I haven’t now for many years. I forgot how.” The old monkey imitated Grandpa by lifting its head. It looked as if it were also straining to recall something. Grandpa and the monkey thought hard together. I squeezed my little fists until they were sweating. The teacher bit deep marks into her lips. But Grandpa couldn’t think of the words he was looking for. He walked over to the spring, scooped up some water, sprinkled it all over himself, and then pretended to rub his whole body. I knew he wanted to tell the old monkey that I had sneaked a look at the teacher while she was taking a bath. I was afraid he would remember the Chinese words. Then all at once he cried out, “Right, right! Take . . . a . . . bath!” Why did the back of my neck become hot? The teacher was crying. She clenched her lips tightly and didn’t make a sound, but her tears pattered onto my head. Finally the teacher began to sob. The monkey leapt up and disappeared into the woods. Grandpa turned around and said, “It wasn’t I, it wasn’t I. It was Yawei who saw, and he is only a baby!” The teacher stopped crying. “It isn’t about that,” she said. 244

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“What then?” “My papa was a bad capitalist who ran off to a foreign country!” I couldn’t figure out what this had to do with bathing. Then the teacher asked Grandpa, “Where did you come from? What’s your name?” Grandpa held his head in his hands as he crouched low. Weeping, he said, “I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me, don’t ask me!” I began shaking as if an electric shock had coursed through me. Grandpa was going to expose his life history! “I can’t tell you!” he repeated. At the same time, his face grew calm and his eyes glazed over. He was far away in memory when a rifle sounded. “Ping!” The shot reverberated for a long, long time. Ping! With that sound, the door to his spirit closed forever. The single rifle shot turned into many. It was the first time the monkeys had been hunted! They scattered in an instant, but not before more than twenty fell forever to the ground, spattered with fresh blood. They would never go back to the trees. Later, I asked Father if he remembered the first time the monkeys were attacked. He said he did. He said monkeys have long lives, unlike deer, and it takes many bullets to kill them. He said that the first time monkeys were killed, it felt to him like killing people. There was a little joy but much more fear. The rifle shots were like dust covering Grandpa’s face. They ruined a part of him, or else he became a different person. But what kind of person? One day, in keeping with city traditions, the teacher gave us a weekend off. I went up the mountain with Uncle to herd sheep. He had returned to secular life and now herded sheep for the agricultural co-op. That day, Uncle and I talked about human behavior. Just then, a woman whose job was to cut grass walked nearby. This coquettish village widow pretended not to see us. She sang under the shade of the tree, then removed her upper garments. Her breasts seemed to be soaring aloft. All at once, Uncle dropped to the ground and sat cross-legged. Finally, his rapid breathing returned to normal. I said, “You could take her if you wanted.” Uncle looked at me in astonishment. “God, and you’re still just a little boy!” Then he calmly reminded me that even though he now lived a secular 245

Ti b etan S oul life, he was still bound as a lama to abide by dozens of commandments. He absolutely couldn’t touch women. “By quarreling with your grandpa, I’ve already broken the commandment of right speech. A-mi-tuo-fu.” Then he added, “Dorje, later on, if someone says something’s wrong with me, don’t believe it. I simply want to be alone. I may still have a chance to build a temple in this lifetime.” About this time, Grandpa walked to the schoolhouse, where he found the teacher sobbing to the music, her hair loose. Grandpa sat down at the entrance. When the teacher came out, he said, “Teacher, I’ll stand guard for you when you bathe.” Teacher Zhang Mingyu’s face fell, but Grandpa continued speaking with unrequited affection. “Chinese women mustn’t be seen by other people, much less by Tibetans.” He added, “Not even Yawei, because I can’t be sure that he will turn out to be a real Chinese.” Smiling grimly, the teacher asked, “But you can watch?” “No, no, I can’t, either.” The teacher said, “I like your grandson, but you’re a madman. You’re an old herder.” Grandpa fell ill. His red face burned as if he were drunk. His breath smelled a little of pepper. “Take me to the hospital!” he insisted while Uncle recited sutras over him to exorcise the evil spirits. As Uncle chanted, he scattered handfuls of wheat on Grandpa’s body. Lamas used this kind of thing to drive the evil spirits out. “I’m dying. Take me to the hospital!” So Grandpa was transported on a donkey’s back. But when he couldn’t sit up straight, Father tied him on the donkey’s back with rope. Grandpa knew he was going to the hospital, so he hadn’t given up hope. He said, “I’m not mad. I’m clear-headed.” Father led the donkey away while Grandma steadied a bag of the family’s best food and ran behind with small steps. Mother clutched my hand as we watched them recede into the distance. “Grandpa, the whole family loves you—ah.” The donkey with Grandpa on its back, Grandma, and Father walked farther and farther. Just then, the first snow of deep autumn came and fell between us. Mama and I both cried. As soon as winter arrived, the snow fell—ah, and fell—ah, fluttering 246

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in profusion. At first the word from town was bad. Uncle braved the snow every day to learn the news and bring it back to the village. When Uncle came into the room, the widow Qiu Qiu was like a fox following a rabbit’s tracks in the windy, snowy land. Uncle said to Mama, “God, your fatherin-law is really sick. I was thinking of getting sick at first. But as soon as he fell ill, I started to worry. Now that I’m worried, I can’t get sick anymore.” Mother stared at her brother with unmoving eyes and said, “Go ahead and marry her.” Uncle said, “I’m getting sick. Let’s just talk about your father-in-law’s illness.” Grandpa was staying in the town’s army hospital. The first report to come back said that Grandpa was crazy, that he chased the nurses. Grandpa had been attacked by someone and had fallen to the floor. As if hefting an inanimate object, Father carried him back to bed. Grandpa cried and laughed at the same time. “I’m mad. Nobody wants me. Tell Yawei to come and see me.” As I was about to go to the hospital, the teacher said to me, “Tell your grandpa I didn’t mean it.” Grandpa lay on the bed. His hands and feet were bound. When Grandpa heard what the teacher had asked me to convey, he winked and said, “I didn’t mean it, either.” Tears rolled down from the corners of his eyes. “I can’t be a madman. I have no energy. I have no energy. Tell them to untie me.” But I didn’t dare. Tagging along after the nurse who brought the medicine, I wandered back and forth in the silent corridor several times, but I still didn’t say what Grandpa had asked me to. The red-painted floor sparkled with rays of liquid light, reflecting my image. Trembling with fear that I’d slip and fall, I walked aimlessly, feeling quite ridiculous. The people in white didn’t appear to be walking; rather, they floated in and out of the many doors lining the long corridor. I thought they were immortals. Years later, I saw a documentary called Girl Divers, and in a flash I realized that the doctors and nurses had impressed me the way those elegant jellyfish on the silver screen did—clean, gentle, and soft, moving as if nothing was inside them. The white-garbed goddesses floated quietly in a medicinal scent. A nurse patted my head with soft hands that had that clean, but strange, hospital smell. She said, “What nice hair.” What nice hair was simply the curly hair I’d been born with. 247

Ti b etan S oul I went back to the sickroom, and Grandpa asked, “Did you tell them?” I lied. “She couldn’t understand me.” Grandpa sighed. “Then tell them I want to turn over.” “How do I say that in Chinese?” Grandpa’s tears flowed again, and he said, “God, God, how to say ‘turn over.’ I’ve forgotten.” Then he closed his eyes and swore at me. “Blockhead! I let you go to school, but you can’t even learn to say ‘turn over.’ What am I doing loving you? I still love you!” This time, I didn’t mind when he swore at me. Grandma had her smell, and the teachers and nurses had their own smells. But this grandpa had become a person lacking a smell. A person with no odor was nothing, like a ghost. At that moment, the only thing I wanted to say was, “Please don’t love me anymore.” Of course, I could never say such a thing to him. The glass on the sickroom door flashed as I entered the corridor. At the end of the corridor was a spacious verandah where Grandma stood in the bright sunlight. Whenever she heard anyone approaching, she immediately hunkered down on the floor. Hunkering, she said, “Dorje, you gave me a start.” As soon as she stood up, a bunch of things fell out of the front of her gown. Clank! Clank clank! They were some peculiarly shaped, white enamelware goods. “You . . . stole them?” “What did I steal?” Grandma smiled like a child. I know now that what she was stealing were spittoons and bedpans. She’d found those clean, pure-white things on the verandah. Someone was airing them out upside down to get rid of the medicinal smell. A red cross and fresh red letters— XXX ARMY HOSPITAL—sparkled on each one. “I beg you.” The words startled Grandma, because I—this child who had never implored anyone—had clearly said, “I beg you, Grandma.” The old woman’s dark, gloomy face brightened with amazement. Lamplike surprise sparkled beneath her wrinkled skin. Even the crowns of the two tall, pagoda-like dragon spruces that crowded the verandah seemed brighter as they caught the jade-green rays of light. Grandma knelt down and held my face. “You’re willing to ask for help. Dorje, you asked someone for help! If you asked me for help, you can ask others, too!” On the spacious verandah at the end of the army hospital’s long, silent, medicinal-smelling corridor, Grandma’s face glowed. I thought she had no requests of me, 248

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but she was giving me an education in ethics. Gripping my hand tightly, she proceeded to pass on her life experience to me. “In the past, people couldn’t be proud but had to be modest. Asking for help can express your modesty and your respect for others and for fate. What’s more, we need help and rescue.” Pointing to the sickroom door, Grandma said, “That person”—this was the first time she hadn’t said “your grandpa”—“that person brought something bad from the Chinese people, and now it has crushed him. If you don’t want to run into a brick wall, you sometimes have to say . . . What did you say just now?” “I said, ‘I beg you. Don’t take those things.’” Grandma smiled and said, “Look. It’s so easy for you to understand principles. You changed what you said. Okay. Look, I’ll put these things back.” One by one, she put the items back where she had found them. I was surprised when Grandma asked me to kiss her. Her cheek pressed close. My lips were dry. And then they were even drier. I shut my eyes and ran into something even drier than my lips. Teacher Zhang Mingyu was leaving! She had just come back from vacation, and yet people said she was going to leave! That day, I was cutting grass at the riverside. In the winter, milk cows had to eat a lot of green grass, so every day a lot of grass fell under my knife. I had to stop frequently and sharpen my sickle on a flat rock. My whole body smelled of grass when a young companion told me that the teacher was leaving. Throwing the sickle down, I dashed through the field. When I’d almost reached the school, I came to a sudden stop. I realized that I didn’t know why I was running. The sun shone on my body, sweat blurred my eyes, and I could smell the green grass on myself. Had I become like those children in the teacher’s stories—ones without parents, grandparents, or even the odor of food? I thought for a moment that I had. But I hadn’t. Then the teacher walked out the door. She beckoned to me, and I immediately dashed over to her through the sunlight. She had just washed her hair. I’d become familiar with that hair, but its deep sheen and light fragrance still intoxicated me with happiness. “I’ve brought you good news,” the teacher said. “Bad news?” “You’re going to a real school.” “You’re leaving!” 249

Ti b etan S oul “Yes, I’m leaving.” Her eyelids drooped. She said she couldn’t stay here forever, and since she didn’t belong, it was better to leave sooner than later. “Of course, I love all of you children.” Patting my head with her moist, fragrant hand, she said, “I love you best. You’re bright and lonely. That you were born here was an injustice of fate.” I felt as if I’d been struck by thunder and lightning. The teacher then called me into her room. I sat in front of a table on which were arranged exquisite foods. The important thing was that she turned on the record player. From inside the machine came the sound of a woman singing like a mother, like a sister. And then the teacher brought up the subject I’d wanted to ask about: she was going to get married. In her explanation, she seemed to be comforting me and herself at the same time. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. All that’s necessary is for me to want him to be good to me, and he will be. All I have to do is wish that . . . And you, you will go to a larger place to study.” I did indeed go to a large place later—a government boarding school for minority students. A lot of kids studied Chinese language and Chinese history at that school situated in a city in the interior. We even read a book written in Chinese on the culture and history of minority nationalities. Of course, all of this happened much later. Back then, when the teacher asked if I’d like to study in a place called Chengdu, I nodded. She said it was her hometown. She talked about it, and her tears flowed. “When you register, say you’re Tibetan and that your name is Dorje. You cannot be Chinese; you cannot be Yawei. Otherwise, you won’t be able to go there.” It wasn’t until the teacher married an army cadre that she arranged for me to come to Chengdu. I studied and researched Tibetan culture, history, literature, and so forth. I became an intellectual in the large capital—a minority intellectual. A minority of a minority—a little like the pandas living on bamboo near my native place. Here, I am Tibetan. I live amid a small group of Tibetans, speaking our unique language, feeling our unique emotions. It isn’t that I want it this way. No matter how I dress, no matter how fluent my Chinese is, my features, my nose, and my hair still set me apart from most people in the city. In the final analysis, people always belong to one nationality, and I’m glad 250

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this is so. This explains why I didn’t go back to see Grandpa. If I had returned to the village, my identity would have been blurred again. I said to Father, “Forgive me.” Shortly after I saw Father off, I traveled to Tibet. I looked out the airplane window: below me, in the folds of the winding mountain range, sat a small mountain village that was my hometown. I wrote several lines of self-reproach in Tibetan. I was ready to throw this piece of paper out the window, onto the probable location of my hometown, but I had forgotten that airplane windows couldn’t be opened. For safety. This was also a little like the way we preserved our souls. There had been a lonely person in that village, a proud person who had died. He had thought he was still a Chinese, but he had lived the life of a Tibetan. He had hoped his mixed-blood grandson would be his successor, but he couldn’t be. In the city, I was Tibetan. In Tibet, however, in the eyes of the people who planted highland barley and herded yaks, Grandpa and I were a different kind, too. They told us of tradition and softly sang folk songs. We wrote these down in notebooks, recorded them on tape, and exchanged them for modest wages. When the plane descended, my blood surged. I looked at my left hand and then at my right. They were plump from the blood filling them. I always suspected that different colors of blood were coursing through the two hands. I leaned my head against the back of the seat in front of me and called out softly, “Grandpa.” The feeling I’d had as a child was engraved on my heart and carved into my bones. Grandpa stayed in the hospital and didn’t come back for a long time. The army and the ordinary people were on very good terms with each other. People treated in the army hospital didn’t pay a penny. Grandpa probably came to love that place. After he was cured of pneumonia, he had a recurrence of rheumatism and pneumonia, and then he had hemorrhoids. He wore a striped hospital gown. Nearly every other day, a nurse changed his pure-white sheets. I asked Father how long Grandpa was in the hospital. Father said four 251

Ti b etan S oul months. In other words, after I left the village, he stayed an additional three months. “He spoke Chinese really well by then,” Father said. “Your grandpa was really pitiable. He said he had memorized Chinese again, but no one heard him speak it. Because the teacher left. Because you left, too.” “I wrote him a letter in Chinese.” “He read it. Later, his eyes failed him. Then he swallowed the letter down. But he didn’t say anything, nor did he ask your little brother or sister for anything.” In my heart, I cried out quietly, “Grandpa!” When Grandpa was in the army hospital, he must have gradually lost the special smell that the villagers had. While there, he suffered the diseases of a lifetime. If he’d been willing to tell the doctors and nurses some stories of how a Chinese had changed into a Tibetan, they would have kept him in the hospital longer. When he had relearned Chinese, he asked Grandma to buy him an enamelware mug and bowl, and he began going by himself to the dining room to get his food. Then he sent his old wife home. Grandma wept. She said, “He’s thinking of staying there. But even the kindest people won’t allow him to stay forever.” Grandma wiped her tears and distributed gifts to us. When she stopped, there were still some things in the bag. I touched it with my foot. From the ringing, melodious sounds that came from inside the bag, I could tell that, although I had begged her not to, Grandma had taken the enamelware items from the hospital. “You deceived me.” The words stayed in my heart; I didn’t say them aloud because Grandma acted as if nothing had happened. After I’d begged her before, it would have been pointless to find fault with her now. She told Mother to make room in the cupboard. Pointing to one item, Grandma said, “That’s for urine—let’s give one to Dorje’s uncle.” She told us that when Grandpa first used these things late at night, he felt a sense of shame because of the sounds they made when he relieved himself. But now he was used to it. Grandpa didn’t want to come home. He asked if, in order to stay, he could guard the main hospital entrance and fetch water. He told them, “My grandson has left. I have no relatives.” Because he did a lot of odd things, they kept him at the hospital to see if something was mentally wrong with 252

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him. At the same time, they cured his hemorrhoids. While he was at the hospital, staying with those he thought were his people, the doctors and nurses made him happy by calling him “old fellow villager.” Grandpa didn’t know that times had changed and this phrase had a new meaning: it no longer expressed intimacy but a polite distance. After he went home, his disposition reverted to the way it was before my birth. It was even better. Someone said, “Oh, this old guy’s strange disposition wasn’t genetic but resulted from the problem in his rear end.” Grandpa stroked his chest and belched, “Wu.” Father had told me that near his death, Grandpa had even gained weight, and his face had glowed with health. “What about his eyes?” “Not in good shape. But he said there wasn’t anything he wanted to see any longer.” Of course, he occasionally did fall ill, and the family worried about him. He just said, “Don’t be sad. I’ve long since died. This I isn’t I. I went to another place long ago.” And he said, “Don’t call Yawei back. This isn’t his home.” All of this occurred after I left. Back then, when I saw that Grandma had stolen those things again—in spite of my plea—I ran out to the small village square. There, I stroked the rough bark of the old walnut tree. I called, “Grandpa.” In response came absolute stillness: there was no answer. I still hadn’t told the family that I would be going far away. Leaving the village square, I ran back home and told my family the news. I knew that Grandma and Mother would be so sad they would cry. I just wanted to tell Grandpa. He would be happy for me. People said, “Grandpa came, and the grandson goes. Each kind of blood flows in its own direction.” Holding my head, Grandma pressed her forehead against mine. She trembled as Mother wept softly. On a clear, cloudless day, the village had a banquet to send the teacher and me off. Several adults even drank some wine with me. People began singing those sorrowful ballads of parting that had been passed down among us for a millennium. But I dashed up the mountain. 253

Ti b etan S oul I climbed higher and higher and turned to look back. The people in the small village square were still shuttling back and forth and dancing. It seemed to me as if the drifting, free-floating clouds were descending toward me, but I continued to climb higher. I passed through one field after another of small-leafed pink azaleas. I startled the wild rabbits and deer having their noontime snooze. A graceful, antlered stag turned its head and snorted indignantly. Just before I reached the mountaintop, I paused to look back at my home. The deepest impressions of my village come from that moment. Standing high on the mountain, I saw the weathered roofs of stockades and stone buildings glistening white in the silence of the green wheat fields. In front of the village were rivers; in back were mountains. On both sides were wheat fields. The village must still look like this today. When I finally reached the mountaintop, the sky seemed very far away. I could now see the red tiles and white walls of Shajing Monastery Town in the distance. Flags were flying from the high roofs, and I wanted to locate among the cluster of buildings the hospital where Grandpa was staying. I imagined I could see him through an open window. I saw him pull the white sheet straight up to his chin. I thought he might say, “Don’t you want me? I’m sick.” I told him that my good news would leave him feeling lonely. He said, “I’ve succeeded. I can die now.” Then he covered his face with the white sheet. And thus I left without a care in the world. In the town, the wind blew in from the grasslands at that moment, shaking the windows. I could see only a panorama of twinkling lights. I discovered I couldn’t possibly locate the hospital, much less Grandpa’s window. It was like an omen: all our lives, none of us—neither Grandpa, my relatives, nor I—had ever found a window for entering one another’s souls. Nor did we ever find a good hospital for the soul.

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About the Author

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orn to a Tibetan mother and a Hui (Muslim) father in 1959 in Kergu (Matang in Chinese) Village, Barkham (Ma-er-kang) County, Ngawa (Aba) Prefecture, Sichuan Province, Alai identifies himself as Tibetan. His family spoke Tibetan at home, and he says that he still thinks in Tibetan, though he writes in Chinese. He entered primary school in 1966, and it was there that he began learning the Chinese language. After finishing junior middle school in 1976, he returned home and engaged in farming. In 1977, he became a contract worker for the Ngawa irrigation construction project. He also was a tractor driver. After graduating from Barkham Teachers’ College in 1979, he taught in a village school for two years. He then returned to Barkham to teach history at its high school. Alai began his writing career in 1982 with poetry. In 1984, he became editor of a literary magazine. Later in the 1980s, he abandoned writing poetry and turned to fiction. He has published two books of short fiction, Jiunian de xueji (Bloodstains from the past) and Yueliang xia de yinjiang (The silversmith in the moonlight). Most of the stories in this volume are selections from these two collections. Alai has also published three novels. The first, Chen’ai luoding (The dust settles, translated into English as Red Poppies), captured the prestigious Mao Dun Literary Prize in 2000. Alai was the first Tibetan writer to receive this coveted award. This novel has been translated into sixteen languages. His second novel is a long trilogy, Kongshan (Empty mountain). The third is King Gesar, a retelling of an ancient myth. It has been published in Chinese in China and is scheduled for publication in English by Canongate. Alai has also written two collections of essays. In 1997, he moved to Chengdu, where he served for a number of years as editor-in-chief of Science Fiction World and other fantasy magazines. He has left his editorial positions and now devotes himself exclusively to writing. Alai currently chairs the Sichuan Writers’ Association and is a vice-chair of the Chinese Writers’ Association. 255

About the Translators

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aren Gernant and Chen Zeping collaborate on translations of contemporary Chinese fiction into English. Their previous books include: Can Xue, Blue Light in the Sky and Other Stories (2006); Can Xue, Five Spice Street (2009); Eleven Contemporary Chinese Writers (2010); and Zhang Kangkang, White Poppies and Other Stories (2010). Another collection of stories by Can Xue is forthcoming (2012). In addition, Gernant and Chen have translated numerous stories for American literary magazines.

The font family used in Tibetan Soul is Arno. Named after the Florentine river which runs through the heart of the Italian Renaissance, Arno draws on the warmth and readability of early humanist typefaces of the 15th and 16th centuries. While inspired by the past, Arno is distinctly contemporary in both appearance and function. Designed by Robert Slimbach, Arno is a meticulously-crafted face in the tradition of early Venetian and Aldine book typefaces.

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ALAI Translated by Karen Gernant and Chen Zeping “Weaving together a rich portrayal of social relations, a strong connection with nature, and the folklore that animates the distinctive daily life of modern Tibet, Alai’s stories open the door to a striking vision and an original fictional voice. The stories in Tibetan Soul, expertly translated from Chinese, are a welcome addition to the English-language body of work of this fascinating contemporary writer.” —Wendy Larson, Professor of East Asian Languages and Literatures, University of Oregon Alai has said that he seeks to demystify Tibet and to depict the Tibetan reality (the “noun” rather than the “adjectivized” Tibet offered by some outsiders). The stories collected here present various Tibetan realities, some drawn from legends, others inspired by daily life, by his home village, and by Alai’s extensive travels through the region. He does not believe that his works can represent all Tibetan people. In addition, Alai gives voice and substance to a number of themes common to all of humanity—birth and death, love and friendship, parting, religious beliefs, compassion, hatred, courage, alienation, ambition, and quest. In some of his stories, he also shows Tibetans caught between two cultures—the Tibetan and the Chinese. Alai’s vivid, graceful writing allows readers to enter into the stories and to come away from them with a better understanding of what it means to be Tibetan—both in the past and today. The stories also provide readers with a better understanding of the human condition everywhere. Set in Tibetan—and occasionally Chinese— landscapes, these stories reach beyond their specific locales to touch persons everywhere. Book and Cover Design: Lucian Burg, LuDesign Studios ISBN 978-1-937385-08-8

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