by Xinran Xue
watch over you at night and drive away
any spirits that trouble your rest. If I have
no place to go to, I’ll dissolve into the air
and be with you at your every breath.
Thank you, my love.
Your husband, who thinks of you day and
night,
Kejun
On this day, which both of us will never
forget.
Wen turned the next page, but the rest of the diary was blank.
She felt the room spin and a dark shadow fall over her. Then she fainted.
WHEN WEN came around it was pitch-dark in the tent except for a small, flickering butter lamp. Tiananmen and Zhuoma were sitting with their prayer wheels, muttering prayers for her. She fell into a deep sleep that seemed as bottomless as Lake Zhaling. In her dreams she heard the wistful singing of Qiangba the hermit.
She didn’t know how long she slept, but she awoke to find Zhuoma sitting beside her.
“There is something you should see,” Zhuoma said, taking her hand.
Outside the tent, more khata scarves than she could count were fluttering in the breeze and a crowd of people stood waiting for her. In the middle of this crowd, she could see Old Hermit Qiangba sitting on the ground, flanked by two lamas.
“He is not a ghost,” said Zhuoma. “He has ridden here from the monastery. He has had a recurring problem with his lungs ever since he was abandoned in the mountains as a young man. But he felt sufficiently recovered to come here to see you. He wanted to meet the wife of the man who saved his life.”
The hermit rose shakily to his feet and walked over to Wen. Presenting her with a khata scarf, he bowed deeply.
“Most respected hermit,” said Wen. “I have read in my husband’s diary that he wanted to explain to the angry men surrounding his unit why he had shot a sacred vulture. He took you with him. Please, can you tell me what happened?”
Qiangba sat down on the grass and signaled to Wen to sit beside him.
“Your husband told me that he knew a way to call back the sacred vulture that he had killed. He wanted me to take him to the men he had offended so that he could make amends for having disturbed the sky burial. I believed him. I led him to where the men were, up on the mountainside. First I foolishly tried to explain to them what had happened to me, but they wouldn’t listen. They looked at me in horror. They thought that I had been transformed into a ghost because demons had interrupted my burial. They believed that because one sacred vulture had been killed, no more vultures would return to earth and the Tibetan people would be consigned to hell. They were about to set upon us with knives when your husband pulled out his gun and fired a shot into the air. There was a momentary stillness and he used the opportunity to shout to the men to let me go.
“‘I beg you to listen,’ he said in faltering Tibetan. ‘Let this man go to my friends to tell them that I must remain here to put right my insult to the messengers of the spirits. I am going to call back the sacred vulture. Otherwise, none of your vultures will ever return and you will never enter heaven.’
“Reluctantly the men parted to let me through. As I was leaving, your husband passed me a bundle tied up in bandages.
“‘If anything happens to me,’ he said, ‘make sure my wife receives this.’
“I was still very weak and it was difficult for me to move away quickly. As soon as I was at a safe distance, I stopped to rest behind a thicket. From there I watched your husband lay down his pistol and prostrate himself on the ground. He then knelt before the crowd of men and addressed them. His words drifted over to my hiding place.
“’Neither I nor the other Chinese have come here to harm you. All we wanted to do was bring Chinese knowledge to you, to improve your lives, as Princess Wencheng did more than a thousand years ago. She taught you how to weave, how to grow crops and treat your illnesses. We wanted to tell you how to use new materials to improve your tents, how to make new sorts of leather goods, how to make your animals grow fatter. We wanted to help you conquer the demons of sickness that cause you pain. Although we carry weapons, we don’t want to use them against you. We only use them like you use your knives, to protect ourselves from evil people.
“‘I did what I did yesterday to save one of your lamas, who had not died, as you believed. However, I have realized that I made a mistake in killing one of your sacred messengers. I wish to atone for this mistake. I will sacrifice my own life to call the vultures back. According to your religion, the sacred vultures will not eat a demon. After I die, I ask you to cut my body up with your knives, and see for yourselves whether we Chinese are the same in death as you Tibetans. If the spirits send down their vultures as a sign, please believe that we Chinese see them as our friends also, that hatred and bloodshed are the work of demons, that in the eyes of the spirits we are all brothers!’”
Qiangba looked up at the sky.
“Your husband then picked up his pistol from the ground and, facing toward his home in the east, shot himself through the head.”
The hermit paused. Wen, too, gazed at the sky. After a few moments of respectful silence, he continued with his story.
“Overwhelmed by grief, I limped back to the camp to tell the commander what had happened. He rushed to the place I had described, the other soldiers hard on his heels. But it was impossible for him to rescue your husband’s body from the vultures. The men had dismembered it with their knives and the earth was covered in hungry birds.
“Perhaps, in the menba’s body, they could taste the sincerity of his desire for peace,” said Qiangba.
“Perhaps there was something magical in the appearance of so many birds. Whatever the reason, the vultures lingered there for a long time, wheeling and circling the summit of the mountain.
“The soldiers saw the Tibetans watching them respectfully from a distance. By your husband’s action, they had realized that the Chinese could also be carried into the sky by the sacred birds. His death had taught them that Chinese flesh and Chinese feelings were identical to theirs. As the soldiers made their way back to the camp, khata scarves lined their path, performing a memorial dance under the blue sky and white clouds.
“The commander continued onward with his troops. I made the journey back to my monastery. Before we parted, the instructor asked if I would take care of Kejun’s package and see if I could find an honest traveler who would take it to a woman called Shu Wen in Suzhou. He was worried that he and his men would not return to China alive. I promised him that I would do as he asked. When I returned to the monastery, I beseeched the abbot to allow me to wander the countryside singing of the Chinese menba who had saved my life and washed away the hatred between Tibetans and Chinese with his own. Since that time, no blood has been shed between Tibetans and Chinese in this area. Try as I might, I never found a traveler I trusted to bring you this parcel. Now, instead, you have come to me.”
HAVING LISTENED to the hermit’s story, Wen prostrated herself before the crowd of onlookers with their fluttering khata scarves, and prayed: “Om mani padme hum.”
9 THE JOURNEY HOME
It was time for Wen to leave the Hundred Lakes, snowcapped Anyemaqen, and the other mountains of Qinghai. For years she had wandered in this region. Its grasslands, waters, and sacred mountains filled her soul. Here she had sampled all the joys and sorrows of human life. Here her love for Kejun had grown in intensity. Here she had found her spiritual home. Though her body was leaving, her spirit would remain in the place that held her dead husband. As she prepared for her journey, her heart was like still water; any ripples of longing or sadness had been gently smoothed away by the influence of the spirits. Wen knew that in the months and years to come, at all times and in all places, she would be like a kite, connected by an invisible thread to Mount Anyemaqen.
She divided in two her book of essays, its pages overwritten with all her words of longing. One half she would carry back with her to China, the other half she would leave with Old Hermit Qiangb
a. In this way, a part of Kejun and a part of herself would live on in Tibet.
It was decided that Wen, Zhuoma, and Tiananmen should make their way to Lhasa, the most ancient and holy city of Tibet. There they could seek out representatives of the Chinese army to see what was known about Kejun’s fate. They could also inquire about transport to China. Zhuoma was determined to make one final journey to Wen’s homeland, and Tiananmen wished to see the place that had been Zhuoma’s inspiration, before returning to his monastery. One of the families camped by the lake promised that they would seek out Gela ’s family and take a message to them.
THE JOURNEY south was arduous, their path a lonely one. However, once they had crossed over the Tanggula mountain range, they met many more travelers on their route, which took them into more populated land. To their surprise, they began to notice Chinese faces at the markets and fairs. There were restaurants and shops with signs written in Chinese characters. Tiananmen was particularly taken aback by what they saw. It was as if they had walked into another world-or century. One day they even found themselves in a village square where young men and women dressed in multicolored combinations of Chinese and Tibetan clothing strutted up and down to music. One of the onlookers told Wen that this was a “fashion show.”
Wen had never expected to find so many Chinese settled here, with families and businesses. She had never imagined that all the terror and bloodshed she had witnessed would have resulted in this. So much had been happening while she had been in the wilderness. What did the Chinese settlers make of this mysterious country and its culture? Part of her longed to be able to engage some of these people in conversation. Another part of her held back, remembering how difficult it had been when she had talked to Chinese people at the Dharmaraja festival.
WHAT THEY had seen on their journey was nothing compared to the teeming streets of Lhasa, the huge white Potala Palace looming over them. As the three friends made their way into the city, they felt faint with the hustle and bustle, the unfamiliar noise and smells. Wen was overwhelmed with a huge nostalgia for her homeland. Except for the temples and the people in Tibetan dress, she felt she could almost be back in China, especially in the streets of the Barkhor market district, where Chinese and Tibetan traders jostled with each other to hawk their wares. Tiananmen was utterly bemused by what he saw. He rubbed the back of his head in astonishment. To him the uses of all these exotic objects were a complete mystery. Zhuoma seemed partly dismayed, partly exhilarated by the scene.
“It hardly seems like Tibet,” she said.
Tiananmen pointed at a group of lamas at a stall shouting out the religious articles they had for sale-rosaries, prayer flags, jewel-encrusted yak skulls, and goods for offerings.
“What scriptures are they chanting?” he asked. Although Wen and Zhuoma knew the lamas were not praying, they were just as surprised as him to see lamas engaging in trade.
In the market, Zhuoma bartered a necklace of precious beads for a pen for Wen, a new robe for Tiananmen, and a scarf and some ready money for herself. Over the years, Zhuoma’s ancestral jewelry had become greatly depleted, but she still owned just enough to allow the three of them to travel to China.
Evening began to draw in and they realized that they needed somewhere to stay. In a little street, they found a small guesthouse owned by a retired Chinese teacher, who showed them where they could keep their horses. He told them he had been sent to Tibet twenty years ago. He had found it very difficult to settle in, but at least there was less class struggle and political study here. Wen pretended to understand what he was talking about, but her tired mind could make no sense of it. What did he mean by “class struggle” and “political study”?
During the night, Wen and Zhuoma heard an urgent knocking at their door. Wen instinctively reached for her half book of essays, and Kejun’s photograph and diary, which she had placed under her pillow before going to sleep. When she opened the door, they found Tiananmen standing there in a state of high excitement.
“Come and look,” he said. “We are in heaven.”
Wen and Zhuoma followed him to his attic room. He stood by the window. Outside, Lhasa was a blaze of electric light.
Wen and Zhuoma looked at each other. They had each passed nights in Nanjing and Beijing. It was hard to imagine what a modern city must look like to someone who had never seen electricity.
In the morning, the owner of the guesthouse told Wen she could use his bathroom. As she stood beneath the primitive shower-a thin plastic tube that protruded from a tub of water above her head-she was reminded of her luxurious wash at the army base in Zhengzhou all those years ago, at the beginning of her journey to Tibet. What if she had known then that she wouldn’t enter a bathroom again until now? Her older self was astonished by the innocence and bravery of her youth.
Zhuoma said she didn’t understand these Chinese gadgets, and scrubbed herself down with water from a bowl. Tiananmen declared he could only wash in the river, and there was nothing the two women could do to persuade him otherwise.
Later that morning, they went to worship at the Potala Palace. Wen stood at the foot of the steep, ladderlike steps that led up to the towering palace. It was the most extraordinary building she had ever seen-vast, beautiful, and taller than she could have imagined. In front of her, crowds of people were climbing the stairway to the palace entrance, stopping every three steps to prostrate themselves. Maybe Kejun had always meant to bring her to this place. Perhaps it was preordained that she should travel all the way to Tibet from the Yangtze delta to make this ascent and be received into the religion of the spirits. She began to climb, bowing like the people around her and quietly intoning, “Om mani padme hum.”
Once inside the palace, the three friends made their way along dark corridors, first through a magnificent assembly room, then through courtyards and chapels. There were rooms lined with precious books and scrolls, finely embroidered wall hangings, statues of the Buddha draped in beautiful silk brocade cloths and colored scarves, and many shrines. All was aglow with yellow light from the burning yak-butter lamps.
In the so-called White Palace they marveled at the luxury of the Dalai Lama’s living quarters. The architecture and furnishings were exquisite. Delicately wrought golden teapots and jade bowls rested on tea tables. Brocade quilts dazzled the eye with their magnificent embroidery. In the Red Palace they saw the spirit towers, encrusted with gold and precious gems, which contained the remains of past Dalai Lamas. There were thousands of rooms. Wen had had no idea that Tibet contained such wealth. Her head was spinning. She paused to catch her breath. Beside her was a wall painting depicting a marriage. She realized that it was the marriage of Songtsen Gampo to Princess Wencheng, for whom the original palace had been built in the seventh century. She thought of Kejun’s last words: “All we wanted to do was bring Chinese knowledge to you, to improve your lives, as Princess Wencheng did more than a thousand years ago.” While all around her pilgrims chanted the scriptures, she sat and prayed until Zhuoma drew her away.
EVERYONE THEY talked to in Lhasa told them that they would need permission from the personnel department of their “work unit” to go to China. They could travel to Beijing by airplane, but not without written authority to do so. Zhuoma and Tiananmen were bemused by this. What was a “work unit”? Did they have such a thing? When Tiananmen suggested that his monastery might be his work unit, Wen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She told them that she would appeal to the military headquarters for the necessary travel documents.
It was not difficult to find the headquarters. All the locals seemed to know where it was and they soon found themselves in front of a military compound whose large gate was inscribed with the words TIBET REGION MILITARY DEPARTMENT. As they stood before it, debating about what to do, an armed guard came toward them and asked politely what they wanted.
“I am here to try to trace my missing husband,” she said.
Wen watched the guard make several telephone calls inside the compound an
d, before long, a man appeared who seemed to be an officer. After asking their names and relationship to each other, he took them into a reception room comfortably furnished with sofas and tea tables.
Tiananmen kept very close to Zhuoma and copied everything she did. He sat down gingerly and was clearly amazed at how soft the sofa was. Wen felt as if she had just walked into a Chinese home. She could still remember how comfortable the battered old sofa in her parents’ house used to be. As she sipped the green tea that the officer had brought to them, tears of recognition came to her eyes.
Wen told the officer as briefly as she could about herself and her experiences: about Wang Liang at the Zhengzhou military base, the vehicle convoy that had brought her into Tibet, what had happened to her during the intervening years, and the story of Kejun’s martyrdom. She told him that she wished to know what records the army held of Kejun’s death and whether they knew of his heroism. She said that she would like to return to China.
The officer looked at her in amazement. He seemed profoundly moved by what she had told him. He would very much like to help her, he said, but he had only arrived in Tibet eight years ago and had no idea how to start making the inquiries she asked for.
Could he, nevertheless, give them a permit to travel to China? Wen asked him. The officer explained that he needed to confirm their story before he could do so, but he would certainly get in touch with headquarters in Beijing and see what he could find out. He warned her not to be too hopeful: during the Cultural Revolution, many files had been lost or burned.
“What do you mean by the ‘Cultural Revolution’?” Wen asked, bemused.
The officer looked at her.
“If you can stay a little longer,” he said, “I will try to explain to you what has happened in China over the past thirty years.”
Wen and Zhuoma listened in bewilderment as the officer talked of the “Famine” in the 1960s, the “Cultural Revolution” in the 1970s, Deng Xiaoping’s “Reform and Opening” in the 1980s, and the “current economic reforms.” Tiananmen sat cross-legged in a corner, telling his rosary beads and reciting the scriptures.
