–
Ai-Lien has been crying and vomiting. I have had no more than one hour or so of sleep over the past few nights. When I do sleep there are nightmares: Millicent holding crows, empty suitcases left on platforms, Lizzie lost and looking for me, Mr Hatchett presenting my book proposal to a board of croaking toads, a walnut-cased clock from an elsewhere place called home.
–
We met with a doctor in a tiny native mountain town with hardly any Chinese or Russians. The paths zigzag endlessly up. It took an age for us to reach the town and it is an unwanted diversion from our course. We saw fires in the distance. As soon as we arrived Mr Steyning went to find some local men about a doctor and soon they arrived with an elderly man and a severe-looking woman who is his daughter. This woman took Ai-Lien in her arms and began to examine her; the old man asked Mr Steyning a lot of questions.
Initially I was hopeful as she pulled down Ai-Lien’s lip and stared professionally into her mouth, then peered at her eyes, all the time talking in a harsh yammering clamour, but then she went away and before long returned holding a foul-looking concoction in a bowl. I asked what it was but they would give no answer. I looked at Mr Steyning with frustration. They left and I whispered to him, ‘I will not give that poison to her.’
He rubbed his palm against his black beard in a weary manner. It was the first time he had sighed in such a way at me, making clear the extent of my troublesomeness, and instantly the illusion of blankets and safety fell away. I held the concoction closer so that he could see for himself.
‘I think you are right.’
‘Where have they all gone?’ Little Ai-Lien was still and pale, wrapped up in her cottons, though breathing.
‘They are organising a ritual now to trick the Gods into not taking her,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘They think she is going to die?’
‘It is a possibility.’
‘What does this ritual involve?’
He told me: they intend to place Ai-Lien on a funeral pyre and pretend that she is dead in order to confuse and trick their vile idols. I was flabbergasted and refused immediately, exasperated with all the hocus-pocus, but even Mr Steyning, whom I had taken to be a practical man, simply knelt down to pray as if he had given up on Ai-Lien’s survival and wished to ensure she passed to the other side safely.
My anger solidified into a clear state of mind, petrifying thoughts and vision into a brightness. I examined Ai-Lien’s pale, sweet face – again, that twist of love; the preciousness of her, delicate sculpture of the finest bone and skin. I decided that practicality must out, that I must be calm and decipher the symptoms. Her stools were bloody and her breath was tight which could possibly mean dysentery. I ploughed through my memory to remember what she would, as a consequence, need and decided: lots of fluids and lots of sleep.
It was difficult, but I managed to frequently get sips of boiled and cooled water into her mouth. I massaged her, remembering Rami’s hands – wishing that I had Rami’s knowledge now – wishing, in a strange way, that Millicent were here; she might know what to do. I rocked her and sang her to sleep.
–
She was a little brighter when she woke. Mr Steyning did not comment, but smiled and I read in his fingers as they moved over his moustache that he truly believed that his prayers had been answered. His useless prayers! And by the end of the day we agreed to push on to Urumtsi as fast as possible now that Ai-Lien seems slightly better.
I wrapped Ai-Lien tightly into her sleeping bag, put it on to my back and it was a joy to feel her small hands wriggling about, her fingers twining about my hair. I still fear for her, desperately, and too many eagles seem to hover overhead.
–
The roads have been good and flat and yesterday we decided to ride through the night, both anxious to reach Urumtsi as soon as possible. A messenger arrived over the dune, a brown-skinned Kirghiz wearing a decorative coat on a small pony, with news that riots and uprisings have even reached this side of the mountains. He described a group of Moslem soldiers in sheepskin trousers with knives hanging from their belts, looking to avenge their mistreatment. It is very unsafe for us still.
The messenger accompanied Mr Steyning and me as we travelled by moonlight through a pass. The tall cliffs on either side sent eerie shadows across the narrow path and as we rode through I examined the outline of Mr Steyning’s back in front of me. He is a big man and his expansive frame brings to mind shelter from storms and unhappy dreams. I have not forgotten his weakness regarding Ai-Lien, but watching his back as he rode ahead was reassuring, but also new and strange and it combined with the unusual atmosphere of the pass through which we travelled.
Thoughts such as these collided – I don’t know why – with images of my sister running to the bottom of the garden at Pavilion House and putting her hand on the bark of the handkerchief tree. Thoughts of her come unbidden and leave a stamp of brokenness. Soon, we will reach Urumtsi, the greatest city of Sinkiang. I have been travelling so long to this place that it has taken on an element of the fairytale castle, and unlike Lizzie, I have always disliked fairytales.
32. Eastbourne, Present Day
Sunnyside View B&B
The water was as hot as it could possibly be. Frieda lowered a foot and the sting of the heat made her make an involuntary sound, like zzzzaaaah. Light-headed, she watched her submerged skin grow bright pink and she pulled her foot out quickly.
She sat on the edge of the bath with her feet balanced at the opposite side. There were rosebuds on the towels, lilies on the shower curtains. In fact, most items in the B&B bedroom were covered in stamen and petals and other elements of floral reproduction. The steam clouded her glasses so she took them off and surrendered to the blur. The taps became silver non-shapes suspended against whiteness.
‘She wasn’t what you were expecting?’ Tayeb had asked, but Frieda didn’t answer then. In some ways, yes; some ways, no. The brevity of the meeting was a shock after all those years of wondering and all those endless conversations she had had with her in her mind. There was the raggedness of her mother’s hair, black and grey and hanging unwashed and netted. It was curious, the odd mixture of low self-esteem and arrogance that came through her expression. The fact that she had chosen that life, over her, left Frieda with outrage in her chest. No, less than outrage, something duller, more like a stomach ache: none the less it was unwanted.
Steam curled its way around her, easing the nausea that had come when she re-read the pamphlet in the car. The bath water took her down and evaporated thoughts of razor blades on the tiny strand of skin that connects the tongue to the bottom of the mouth. As a child she once told her dad that she wanted to be a mermaid: I want my feet to bleed from dancing on swords and walking on glass: I want to dissolve into the crack of the froth and foam, to be left to fizz on the edge of the beach until oblivious. He had answered, ‘You don’t know what you are saying.’
As Frieda rose noisily out of the water she heard Tayeb open the door and come into the small room. She had left all of her clothes outside the bathroom on the bed and so had no choice but to go out just wrapped in the large pink floral towel. Tayeb placed a takeaway bag on the table and the room immediately smelled of cardamom and grease.
Frieda smiled at him. ‘You got curry?’
‘Yes.’
She looked down at herself, with a towel wrapped around her, tucked under her arms. Tayeb was looking at her shoulders.
‘Curry is a good idea,’ she said, grabbing the bag. ‘Shall we eat?’
After the food and a glass of beer Frieda lay back and rested against pillows. Tayeb flicked on the portable TV and sat awkwardly next to her. She was conscious of being naked under her towel. She should get dressed. She only ate half of her curry portion, and stood up to go to the bathroom to get some water. As she walked back in, Tayeb was sitting upright on the bed.
‘Frieda,’ he said, ‘your back it’s . . . beautiful.’
‘Oh.’ She felt a b
lush rising in her neck.
Tayeb put all of the curry wrappings into the brown bag, tying it all up. Then he opened the door and placed the bag in the corridor and immediately the smell began to fade.
‘Frieda,’ he said again.
‘Yes.’
‘I would really like to . . .’
She looked at him. The sound of a TV from another room came through the wall, a bang bang bang thumping theme tune to something. Frieda stood in front of Tayeb looking at his face, she rubbed one foot against the other, hyper-aware, suddenly, of her exposed feet, her unlovely, knobbly feet.
‘I would really like to draw on you.’
Frieda twisted her head, looked at him. ‘Draw?’
‘On your back,’ he said. She paused for a minute, her mouth was dry, her eyes were sore. She opened and closed her fist. Why not? She liked the idea, actually.
‘OK.’
Tayeb grinned, and went to his bag and pulled something out. ‘These are bamboo sticks, for Arabic calligraphy. I will draw on your spine, the ink will stay for a while, but it will come off, eventually. What do you think?’
‘OK,’ she said again, calm, as if drawing Arabic calligraphy with bamboo was a perfectly normal activity for her and the skin on her back. She lay face-down on the bed and turned her head to the side away from the window, towards the wall. He moved about a bit and then settled on to the bed next to her.
‘Once,’ Tayeb said, ‘calligraphers made their own ink from walnut, mixed with pomegranate skin and water.’
‘I like the sound of that.’
Tayeb tugged at the towel gently, and Frieda shifted slightly. He pulled the towel so that the whole of her back was exposed and the air was cool on her skin. His eyes must have been looking at her, but instead of becoming self-conscious or ticklish, she closed her eyes and forced herself to be still. There was a tap-tap, the feeling of a point, and then a tracing of a line along her spine. Tayeb pulled the point away and paused, and then it began again. A long, drawn pressure along her back, pushing quite hard, followed by a sharp, almost ticklish sensation of the nib on her skin and for the next few strokes she flinched at each strike, each line, but by the fifth or sixth her muscles responded, flaring under the skin and then melting down. The TV sang its clanging noises.
‘What are you drawing?’ she said, mostly into the pillow.
There was a pause before he answered, ‘An Arabian Ostrich feather.’
‘Oh.’
It seemed to Frieda that each stroke grew more delicate, longer. In a slow voice, with his velvet-Arab accent, he began to tell her about this bird, this Arabian Ostrich.
‘It’s extinct now.’
‘Oh no,’ Frieda turned her face so that it was not so squished into the pillow.
Tayeb continued, ‘My father used to tell me stories about the desert ostriches,’ he said, as the strokes grew even longer and softer on Frieda’s back. ‘They could run faster than any other beast and their necks were long, like snakes. They were more graceful, more beautiful than any other bird.’
‘Did you ever see one of these birds?’ she asked.
‘No. They became . . . I was born in 1967 and they became extinct sometime before then.’ His voice was low, almost like a hum.
‘That’s very sad.’
‘Hmm.’ The strokes continued, like rain. ‘Nobody bothered to preserve them; where I come from, they kill birds with no consideration of their survival.’
‘But I thought you said they were the fastest birds.’
‘Not faster than a bullet, sadly.’ Frieda pictured the graceful ostriches shot and heaped in a pile.
‘I used to believe they were magic,’ Tayeb continued, ‘and that I could ride on the back of one, fly across huge distances.’ As he talked, the pace of his drawing slowed down slightly.
‘Now I realise that it was stupid of me to dream of flying away on a bird that cannot fly.’
Frieda opened her eyes. She could feel the weight of him moving around on the bed. He himself had not actually touched her; it was just the bamboo stick tracing his message. Each feather-touch rang through her skin and a soft, sleepiness came over her. Behind her eyelids she saw her mother, with her striped hair and her broken tongue, but then she disappeared again; then Frieda was sinking as if she were taken with Tayeb’s skin and he with hers, as if their bones could come together with this delicately drawn tattoo.
She had fallen asleep. She sat up. Tayeb was not in the room; he had gone out somewhere, for a cigarette perhaps. The owl was completely awake now and staring at her. It was looking at her with a distinct expression of expectation and hunger and, for the first time, it called to her, a light hooting noise as she stood up from the bed, naked, and walked into the bathroom, twisting her neck around to look at her back.
There was a beautifully drawn feather along her spine. Its tendrils stretched from the vertebrae and spread along her ribs in a rippled flow. She twisted further to try to see the whole thing but she needed a changing room mirror to see it properly. The ink was drying and as it was doing so it was tickling her skin, a pleasant feeling. She wandered back into the room, looking at the owl, wondering if it were hungry, and thinking that she would like to remain naked for ever, so that the entire world might see her back.
The Art of Wheeling: The rule for climbing universally recommended reads, ‘Pay no attention to hills. Ride them.’
33. A Lady Cyclist’s Guide to Kashgar – Notes
September 19th
I am blessed to be sitting in an English-style study complete with a fireplace. How we remove ourselves from the elements!
Urumtsi is very Turkic and reminds me of Kashgar with its Moslem area situated a mile in length from the South Gate and the mosques calling their siren-songs to stop the men working at noon.
Mr Steyning’s house is simple, but also luxurious, if shelter from the desert is to be counted as luxury – and, to my mind, it very much is. Last night I slept on a bed, an actual bed, imported from Russia, and there was a jug and a basin and the water was clean. We were met at the Outer Gate by another Cingalese servant who had new animals for us to ride on, and refreshments: brick tea and soft bread. I was surprised because Mr Steyning abruptly left me under the care of the Cingalese and with a slight wave, disappeared. The city is not beautiful but it throbs with life. The roads are filthy and the low buildings unattractive. There seem to be flies everywhere. I was led through the streets and huddles of men and women stood up and openly stared at me. For the first time I could see the influences of Russia: Cyrillic script on walls and signs, and Russian bublikis rolls and black bread displayed on bakers’ trays.
We drew up at the Mission House, finally, an almost European-style house with two floors. The house next door also belongs to the Mission, apparently, and houses the servants. Mr Steyning was at the door, fully suited, with shining shoes and black hat – he had changed, specifically to receive Ai-Lien and me to his house, and he looked, I realised, extremely robust, eyes shining, not at all tired from the journey.
I am the first British woman ever to visit Urumtsi. But, more on that later.
September 21st
Trouble with sleep: The moment I close my eyes then I am back in the hovel in the ground, being buried in the dark with Mah who might crush Ai-Lien and me at any moment and outside are the thieves. To assuage this I have been re-reading my books for courage. Dear Richard Burton, how you’ve watched over me. Dear Maria E. Ward, your wisdom never fails. Millicent’s Bible does not bring me solace.
September 25th
Mr Steyning’s associate, Mr Greeves, has returned from a research tour to the Outer-Mongolia where he has been recording the speech of the natives on his recording machine. He arrived flanked by a small army of native boys carrying his possessions which included bundles of fabrics and botanical specimens, his recording machine equipment and goodness knows what else.
Let me attempt to draw him here since his arrival has brought a change in the atmosphere:
so, a vivid presence, he is small, blue-eyed and simmers with England, despite his obvious ease at being here. He is shimmery, like a Dorset dew-pond, all green and blues. His moustache looks much-sculpted and held together with some sort of grease, and he moves in flashes, like a grass snake, rendering Mr Steyning larger in contrast and even more bear-like than usual. Apparently Mr Greeves was a doctor in London. He examined Ai-Lien fully on his return, concluding that apart from dehydration, she is otherwise in full health.
Urumtsi is an unhygienic town not at all helped by the rotting melon that is flung everywhere by its inhabitants, which in turn encourages the flies. Nevertheless, Mr Steyning’s accommodation is extremely comfortable. Ai-Lien and I have been given over a whole room and an ‘auntie’ comes to help look after Ai-Lien. This has freed me some time to write my book, and I sit at Mr Steyning’s own personal desk to write it. His room is like the personal study of a Yorkshire squire, full as it is with his collections and artefacts and bits and pieces kept under glass. Mr Steyning is, perhaps, rather the Victorian.
I am fairly stuffed with meals and conversation. We have had entertaining meals most nights so far, with some of Mr Steyning’s Russian colleagues and their glamorous wives. This evening, Mr Greeves and Mr Steyning both spoke enthusiastically of my book. After dinner Mr Steyning let me know, in that soft voice of his, that he has written directly to Mr Hatchett on my behalf to assist the arrangement for the transfer of the £150 payment.
A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar Page 24
