When the sun rose, Gongzha shouldered his gun and stood out on the plain staring in silence at the distant mountains, his brown horse at his side.
Yongxi was churning butter in the large wooden churn, one stroke up and one stroke down, occasionally lifting her head to look at the solitary Gongzha. The sight of his sad, lonely silhouette pained her. Was she being selfish keeping him there? His heart was not in their tent; what good was keeping his body there? She should let him go. He belonged out there in the vast wilderness. She could only hope that one day, when his body was weary and his legs weak, she would hear his steps outside her tent once again.
So that night Yongxi wrapped up the butter in a sheep’s stomach, placed a freshly whetted knife in Gongzha’s sheath, and said, ‘Go. Go and do what you need to do.’
Gongzha nodded gratefully.
The next morning, as Gongzha was leading his horse away, the old woman came rushing out and put a leg of dried yak meat on its back. ‘Child, when you are tired, come here to rest.’
He nodded.
Yongxi stood by the side of the tent, her narrow shoulders shivering in the wind. Despite all her efforts, he was still determined to leave. Would she ever see him again? Men who wandered never made plans. And even if he did return, it wouldn’t be to this small tent in No Man’s Land.
Gongzha mounted silently, cantered a few steps, then looked back.
The old woman had placed her hand on her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. Yongxi was standing in front of the tent, rolling her plaits back and forth in her hand; she too was watching him. The black sheepdog was by her side, staring at the man on horseback. A light blue thread of smoke floated up from the small tent that had warmed his heart; it too was basking now, in the rays of the sun.
He whipped his horse and sped away. The pasture became as peaceful as a painting from ancient history.
16
Two Beijing Jeeps sped towards Tibet’s northern wilderness.
Feng’s mood rose and fell as sharply as the mountains around her. Normally when she went on holiday she chose a scenic spot and went exploring – or, to be more accurate, she went touring. She sat on a luxury bus, followed the tour guide’s little flag, made a charming pose once they reached the spot, and took a few commemorative photos in which the people looked more lovely than the spot itself. She was used to being in a city packed with cars and people, but here they met almost no one on the road. She’d expected there not to be many people, but she hadn’t expected there to be no trace of human life for kilometres on end. She found the vastness hard to process. The sky, the mountains, the grassland and the occasional temple that flashed by seemed like a scene from a fantasy movie; it was almost too beautiful to be real.
To get to Shenzha from Lhasa, they had to go through Shigatse’s Namling County. There was no public road to speak of: in the valley, everywhere was a road and nowhere was a road, so you simply had to trust your instincts and follow other people’s tyre tracks. Happily, none of Feng’s companions were in a hurry, so finding ‘the right road’ was not important. They were a troop of idle, curious children for whom the grassland was like something out of a dream.
On the first night they stayed in a small roadside rest-house in Jiacuo. They were so exhausted, they just ate some snacks and went straight to bed. The smell of yak butter on her blanket made Feng’s stomach roil and the sound of her companions’ snoring stopped her from falling sleep. She missed her mother’s cooking, she missed her bright office, and she missed the gleaming lights of the big shopping malls. She even felt fondly towards her boss, strict task-master though he was.
She didn’t know what time it was, but she couldn’t sleep. She crawled out carefully from under her blanket and in the moonlight put on her shoes and windcheater and went outside. The moon shone bright and pure, and several fires were burning out on the plain. The people around the fires were speaking softly in Mandarin. Feng walked over to where four men were standing around a fire chatting.
‘If I can pay off my debts by the end of the year, I’m going to go back home for a visit. I haven’t been home in two years. My son won’t even be able to recognise me.’
‘You’ve only been away two years – I haven’t been home for four. When I left, my daughter was only in year eight, and now she’s almost finished senior school.’
‘Maybe things will be a bit easier next year. Right now, going home is too hard – you have to spend more than ten days on the road.’
‘It would be great if they built a railway.’
‘How would you even start building a railway in a place like this?’
‘Hard to say. But maybe one day the higher-ups will make the decision.’
‘Ever since Old Deng went on his southern tour, the economy’s really picked up – everyone and his mother has gone into business and is making money for himself.’
‘Once I’ve finished this contract, I’d like to start my own trucking company. Driving for other people just doesn’t bring in enough, especially when you’ve got a wife and children back home to support.’
Feng walked over and sat down beside them, stretching her hands out to warm them at the fire. ‘Are you going to Shenzha? What’s in your trucks?’
‘We’re taking gold-mining equipment to Shenzha.’
‘Tibet has gold?’ Feng said in surprise. She only knew Tibet as a wilderness that stretched for thousands of kilometres, an impoverished land, a place populated by Tibetans in unusual clothing, and benevolent monks. Apart from that, she knew nothing about it.
‘There are lots of valuable resources here, it’s just hard to get at them. The altitude’s too high and there’s not enough oxygen. We’ve been here for years and we still pant when we’re walking.’
‘What’s the pay like, working here?’ Feng asked.
‘A bit better than elsewhere in China. If you drive fast, you can support a wife and kids, no problem,’ one of the men said, laughing. ‘Though a lot more people have come to do business here this year – Lhasa’s filling up fast.’
‘You’re all from elsewhere?’
‘Yes. I’m from Sichuan, those two are from Hunan, and he’s from Shandong,’ the small man next to Feng replied. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Shanghai. I’m on holiday.’
‘Oh, you city people! What can these empty mountains possibly have for you?’
‘What’s Shenzha like? Is the scenery along the road nice?’
‘The scenery’s nice enough, it’s just too short on oxygen, and there’s nothing to eat and nothing to buy.’
‘There’s a beautiful hot spring up ahead. It’s in a valley, less than twenty kilometres up the road from here,’ another man said.
Feng continued chatting with them and they told her all about what Tibet had been like when they first came and what it was like now. They were proud to have seen with their own eyes how the place was gradually changing.
‘You know, when I first came here, you couldn’t even find a public telephone in Lhasa. And the restaurants only served food three times a day, at meal times – you couldn’t get anything during the rest of the day.’
‘Yes, and they used to cook with a blow torch – it sounded like a war was going on.’
‘Showering was even worse. Whenever someone from back home came to Lhasa on business, if they stayed at the Friendship Hotel, we’d all go there to have a shower. Having a hot-water shower felt like being on holiday.’ The Shandong man sitting opposite her laughed. ‘It’s much better now – you can come here on holiday. Back then, people called us crazy even for coming to work here.’
‘Really?’ Feng smiled, her face glowing in the firelight. Her heart had never felt so light. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a relaxed and spontaneous chat with someone – her work was all-consuming, and even just going out to eat with her old schoolfriends always required a lot of forward planning.
‘Yes, really! It might be hard to imagine, but when we first started wor
king in Tibet, not even the Potala Palace had locks on the door – no one stole anything. You could leave a bicycle anywhere and no one would take it. Life’s improved a bit, but there are thieves now too.’
‘One of the downsides of economic progress is that people get corrupted,’ Feng said. ‘Although when you compare Tibet with the rest of China, people here seem much more honest.’
The man next to her chuckled. ‘That’s true enough. I’ve never heard of a trucker being ripped off by his employer, for example – at worst, we just might get paid a bit late sometimes.’
It was rare for the truckers to meet a woman on the road, much less a beautiful city woman who spoke their language, so they were happy to share with Feng what they knew about Tibet. Feng herself was thrilled. In her diary, she wrote: I never knew that people could speak so openly with each other, share their ideas so honestly. Being away from the city and all its bustle makes it easier for me to be myself. If I’m upset, I can say so. When I’m tired, I can sit down and rest; no one’s watching to see how long I sit for, no one’s pushing me to work harder…
During their second day on the road, they stopped often – whenever they were passing through particularly beautiful scenery. Feng eagerly snapped photos: she’d already used up nearly half of the twenty rolls of film she’d brought with her.
‘No problem. I still have at least fifty rolls – I can lend you some,’ Haizi, one of her fellow travellers, said. Haizi was from Hangzhou. He was a reporter on a weekly photography magazine in the south and had been sent to Tibet on assignment.
Through his lens, Haizi focused on Feng sitting by the river. She was leaning over as she played with the water, and her long hair, braided into a single plait that reached her waist and was tied with a silk handkerchief, swung slightly as she moved. Her jade-white wrists rose and fell in the clear spring water. She had a gentle air about her that could stop people in their tracks.
He went over to her. ‘Do you like Tibet?’ he asked.
‘I like it, but it doesn’t suit me. And you?’
‘The same. I don’t mind coming here to take pictures, but it would be too hard to live here.’
‘Let’s go!’ Agang called. ‘We have to make it to Shenzha today.’ Agang was a warm-hearted person, as simple as a child. He’d been travelling around Tibet for many years, riding his bicycle everywhere. He was very familiar with the roads and made a good guide.
Feng stood up and automatically brushed herself off, even though there was no dirt on her. She was used to sitting on expensive leather chairs and assumed that sitting on rocks or sand would make her dusty. But if that were the case, would brushing herself off with her hands make her clean?
Shenzha’s county town was very small, so small that there was only one street. The car stopped at the side of the road while Agang and Haizi went with Feng to find Gongzha’s work unit. They were disappointed to learn that Gongzha had resigned and gone back to his old home. As they were exiting the courtyard on their way back to the car, a Tibetan women of undiscernible age ran out. Her Mandarin had a strong local accent. ‘Wait a minute, are you looking for my older brother?’
‘Gongzha is your older brother?’ Feng asked.
The woman nodded, blushing, and stared at her toes in embarrassment. ‘I just heard that you were looking for him?’
‘You’re Gongzha’s sister?’ Feng asked gently.
‘I’m called Lamu, and Gongzha is my older brother.’
‘I’m Zhuo Yihang’s classmate – he says that Gongzha’s his uncle?’
‘Yihang? I remember him. When I was little, he came to our grassland.’ Lamu looked at Feng and laughed happily. ‘Have you just arrived? Why don’t you come and stay at my house?’
Feng glanced at Agang. He was the leader and of course she needed to take the rest of the group into consideration.
‘There are lots of us. Is there room for all of us at your house?’
‘There’s room, there’s room! Our house is very big.’ Lamu was innocently eager; she just nodded energetically without asking how many people there were.
‘Why don’t we go and have a look? If there isn’t room, we’ll think of something else,’ Agang said.
‘Good! Good!’ Lamu nodded. Without further ado, she took Feng’s hand and led her into the courtyard.
Lamu’s house was right at the back of the courtyard. It was a two-storey Tibetan-style home and each room was large and light. An old lady sat quietly on the veranda sunning herself.
‘This is my mother; she’s not well,’ Lamu said. She walked over to her and said, ‘Ama, we have guests; they’re Yihang’s schoolfriends. Do you remember Yihang? He used to send you medicine. He’s Dr Zhuo’s son.’
The old woman turned slowly and looked at the three young people, a flicker of recognition passing across her face. ‘Ha ha, Dr Zhuo,’ she murmured.
Yes, this was Dawa, the onetime beauty of Cuoe Grassland, now a grey-haired old lady. Time had treated her in the same way it treated everyone; no matter how beautiful or ugly, how rich or poor, in the end everyone got white hair, a bent back, shaky legs and missing teeth…
Perhaps the words ‘Dr Zhuo’ stirred some memories in Dawa’s brain. She looked at Feng and suddenly said, ‘Cuomu, is Gongzha good to you?’
Feng cast Lamu an inquiring look. She didn’t understand Tibetan and didn’t know what the old lady was saying.
‘Ama, she’s not Cuomu, she’s a friend of Yihang’s. You’ve forgotten, Auntie Cuomu died a long time ago.’ Lamu didn’t explain to Feng immediately but settled Dawa first. She tipped two pills out of a bottle and handed them to her mother. ‘Take your medicine, Ama.’
Dawa swallowed her pills obediently, then turned away, stared out at the sun and fell back into her own world.
Lamu covered her with a blanket, and said, ‘Mother’s brain isn’t quite right, although she still remembers Yihang’s father. Let’s go, I’ll take you to see the rooms.’
So the tourist group moved into Lamu’s house. They made their own food, washed their clothes, and sang and danced when they were happy. Lamu buzzed around taking care of everyone, smiling happily and singing the herders’ songs that she’d learnt growing up. After Sister Cuomu died, her mother had fallen ill again, and her older brother had stopped smiling; though he’d continued to take care of the household, he remained very distant. Her three other brothers lived in the encampment. They had their own families to take care of and couldn’t come to the county town very often. So Lamu and her mother were usually the only ones there, watching the rising of the lonely sun and the solitary setting of the moon.
Agang and Haizi followed the lively Lamu everywhere with their cameras, but Feng preferred to stay still. When she wasn’t out and about, she sat with Dawa on the veranda. She didn’t speak, just helped the old woman with her blanket and gave her her medicine when she needed it.
Sometimes when the wind picked up or the sun set behind the mountains, Dawa would mumble to herself or cry out in distress. Feng couldn’t understand her but would look into her eyes and smile, gently patting the veiny backs of her hands. Then Dawa would quieten, and, staring into the distance, would slip back into her own world again.
Lamu said that Feng would make a good doctor because her mother was as well-behaved with her as she was when the doctor was around. Lamu and Feng shared a room and the two of them often talked late into the night. Lamu told her all about how beautiful the grassland was and about the mysteries of Mount Chanaluo; she talked about the pranks Zhuo Yihang had played when he was a child and about Dr Zhuo’s medical skills.
But mostly she talked about her brother and Cuomu. To Lamu, Gongzha was the best man in the world, and the love he had for Cuomu was the kind of love that every woman on the grassland dreamt of.
Wasn’t that every city girl’s dream too? Feng’s heart began to churn as she listened to Lamu. When she heard that Cuomu had been mauled to death by a bear and that Gongzha had carried her to the funeral platform himself
, she wept. She was sad that such a beautiful romance had not ended happily. Through Lamu’s stories, the gun-toting wanderer crept into her heart.
*
When Agang heard that there was a lake like the Dead Sea in No Man’s Land, he came back and raved about it, loud with excitement one minute and quietly intense the next. ‘We must go and see it, it’s Tibet’s Dead Sea. If you throw someone in, they’ll float – they can’t drown.’
Hearing that, everyone else became enthusiastic too, and they began to get their luggage together, preparing to leave Shenzha the next morning. They were all excited about going to No Man’s Land in search of the ‘Dead Sea’.
As they were leaving, Dawa suddenly came down from the veranda, grasped Feng’s hand and mumbled something.
‘Mother says you must come back and bring Brother with you,’ Lamu said. ‘She’s confusing you with Auntie Cuomu again. Will you come back, Auntie Feng?’
‘Take good care of your mother, Lamu. I will definitely come back and see you all.’ Feng took Dawa’s thin, frail body into her arms and patted the old woman’s back comfortingly.
When the car set off, Dawa chased after it, calling, ‘Ah, ah.’ With her grey, dishevelled hair and tottering gait, she seemed so weak and helpless. Feng felt quite upset. In their week together, she’d developed a fondness for the sometimes silent, sometimes crazy old lady.
The weather out in the wilderness was changeable. One minute it was so clear, you could see for thousands of kilometres, the next a great wind would blow, and hail would come pattering down, carpeting the ground in no time at all.
Then the fog came down, obscuring both the nearby lake and the distant mountains. They could see neither the road ahead nor the road behind them. The two cars, originally quite close together, became separated. The atmosphere in Feng’s car grew tense; even Agang, who was normally very lively, stopped chatting.
Love In No Man's Land Page 26
