Winter Pasture

by Li Juan

  Late one evening, Cuma and Sister-in-law were next door drinking tea, leaving me alone in our burrow. Kurmash came over again. This time, he hadn’t come for his phone, nor was he playing music. He sat next to the bed and said some words to me. After several attempts, I still couldn’t understand what he was saying and there was no way to pretend like I’d understood, so I told him outright, “I don’t understand.” After that, I ignored him and went back to reading and writing.

  He sat quietly for a while, then suddenly pointed at the stove, asking me the word for it in Mandarin. After I answered him, he asked for a sheet of paper and pen that he used to write down the word’s phonetic spelling. Then he asked the same thing about the shovel.

  After that, this young man pointed at all sorts of everyday objects and wrote down their names using the Arabic alphabet, numbering and noting their meaning at the side, eighteen words in all. I was baffled—what had possessed him to study Mandarin all of a sudden? Was this some pretext to come chat through the long nights? He seemed so serious about it.

  The next day, when I watched the young man, fully clad, ride into the wilderness behind the flock, I finally understood—herding sheep was excruciatingly boring so he wanted to study something to occupy the time. The previous day had been his first time herding sheep. He felt lonely.

  It’s easy to sympathize with loneliness, but not taking herding seriously can only rouse anger. Every time the young man herded, by four in the afternoon, he was already lingering at the edge of the burrow settlement, looking for a chance to come home. Even the cattle weren’t back yet! Furious, Cuma complained. After that, the neighbors never asked the young man to herd sheep again. They told him to take care of the bigger livestock, chase camels, clean the pens, help Sayna haul snow, and other simple chores.

  But he didn’t take any task seriously. Building a three-square-meter pen for the calves, he was as slow as a lackey, spending a week on the job only to produce a leaky structure! Even I could have done it in two days.

  On top of that, he was always running off to visit relatives. Apparently two cousins of his lived in the pasture to the west of us. Every time he left, he would disappear for two or three days at a time.

  Cuma said that he was off playing cards and gambling, adding with disdain, “Young men like him don’t feel the need to work anymore. Give them a phone and they think that’s life!”

  But what could we really say to him? He was still young, with no girlfriend or property to speak of.

  And then there was the solitude. Despite being with his brother and sister-in-law, he was still living under other people’s roof. While the family sang merrily, Kurmash was off in his corner, lost in his cell phone as if he wasn’t there. Sometimes, they really did forget that he was there.

  During the quiet hours of morning tea, Kurmash would suddenly charge into our burrow and collapse onto the bed. He did nothing, said nothing, and after drinking the bowl of tea Sister-in-law served him, he lay down for a while longer before saying goodbye. I asked what he was up to. He replied, “Looking for camels.” During dinnertime, he would return. Again, he said nothing, ate very little, and after sitting around for a bit, left. I asked him again what he was up to. He replied, “I have to tie up the camels.” How lonesome.

  After our TV was set up, Kurmash’s evenings became substantially enriched. Every day, after he tied up the camels, he arrived early, eager to reserve a good spot close to the screen. He watched and watched until the screen became blurry—still, he refused to leave, even when the show was so terrible that no one else was watching—still, he wouldn’t leave, even when the whole family was asleep, sprawled across the bed—still, he wouldn’t leave, and after Cuma pointed the flashlight at the clock, showing how late it was—still, he refused to leave. Eventually, Cuma couldn’t take it anymore and complained. Right away, Rahmethan and Nurgün stood up and went home. The young man, however, simply made himself even more comfortable and continued watching. Half an hour later, when the picture on the screen had shrunk to the size of a palm, Cuma finally exploded. He stomped over to click on the light, turn off the TV, and shoo the young man out.

  * * *

  CUMA TOLD ME THAT KURMASH wasn’t helping his brother on the pastures for free. For the winter, he would earn a horse or a cow. In the future, his parents, brother, and sister-in-law would pay for his marriage. He didn’t have to spend his own money.

  Because he was still a bachelor, even though he was twenty-two years old, his status at home was still that of a child. Before the siblings arrived, whenever they ate hand-pulled meat, it was his role to pour water for everyone to wash their hands. A kettle in one hand and a basin in the other, he served us, one at a time. Having a young man of his age to wait on everyone was a little awkward for everyone involved. Further, when Sayna invited Sister-in-law for tea, she was still asking Kurmash to deliver the message.

  Bolat, who lived in the western pasture, was the same age as Kurmash. As a married man and a father, his visits were greeted with respect and courtesy. He stepped around Kurmash with dignity to take the seat of honor while Kurmash could only sit in a corner and play with his phone.

  Whether it was because he felt out of place or because of a genuine preference for being alone, like a child, he never joined the conversations.

  It wasn’t until Shinshybek’s two children arrived in the burrow that Kurmash was able to find something new to do with his days. Every day, he studied the siblings’ Chinese textbooks, a crash course of sorts (of course, the eighteen words that I already taught him were long forgotten), and humbly asked the children for guidance. But his questions were so basic that the children couldn’t stop laughing and they didn’t bother to answer him.

  Nonetheless, the young man’s desire to learn was admirable. When he had a free moment, he laid a small plank over a corner of the bed, took out a pencil stub, and set to scribbling line after line on a crumpled elementary school student’s workbook. His approach remained the same: first, spell a word out phonetically in Arabic, note the meaning at the side and add a number, then review and test himself. Quietly, I thought to myself, if only he’d been this industrious as a kid at school, he might have a different life now.…

  The black sheep of the family, Kurmash saved his warmth for Karlygash, whose name he’d gently call when he passed her. And only Karlygash was willing to smile and giggle when she heard his voice. Only Karlygash treated him as an equal, being unaware that he was somehow different.

  Aside from Karlygash, the only other person he enjoyed interacting with was Kama. It was probably because they were about the same age, so they had shared concerns and topics of conversation. Even though Kama didn’t think much of him behind his back, face-to-face, she was very polite. One important element of their relationship was the exchanging of memory cards so that they could listen to each other’s music.

  Less than two years ago, when young people visited each other, they still swapped cassette tapes. In a mere two years, it had become memory cards. The times really are changing.

  Another person with whom Kurmash shared a close bond was Rahmethan. The two often laid out the chessboard to see who was better. As it turns out, the two were quite evenly matched. It was clear that Kurmash liked to listen to the things Rahmethan said, quietly admiring him. Rahmethan was a clever student full of knowledge that might impress a herder. He demonstrated a trick: lighting a candle under a paper box filled with water, yet the paper never burned, much to everyone’s amazement.

  Besides Karlygash, Kama, and Rahmethan, Kurmash had two other true friends, which were the cousins that he often (often meaning three times) visited in the pastures to the west of us. Like Kurmash, these two young men often came to visit over the winter (often meaning twice). The two young men were humble and timid, always smiling, never speaking. They looked different too, dark-skinned, curly hair, like Indians or Tajiks, which is why Cuma dubbed them the “foreign Kazakhs.” When they were here, the trio did everything together, her
ding sheep, chasing camels, and so on. That or they did nothing together, quietly standing in a row on top of the northern sand dune.

  Anyway, that’s all I have to say about Kurmash. I knew so little about him, which could be why he seemed like a shadow to me. But don’t all living things need to manifest themselves somehow? No matter what, for better or worse, this young man didn’t seem like he could ever leave the pastures or leave this life behind. What else could he do? He couldn’t speak Mandarin, and he wasn’t a child anymore. I can only hope that he will have his own family and his own cattle and sheep someday, that he will find a life that suits him, that he will no longer be so lonely, so dejected, so lost.

  * * *

  ONE DAY, WALKING IN THE WILDS, after skirting a sand dune, I bumped into him. He was holding several large sacks under his arms, heading west to collect snow by himself. After waving hello, he asked me if I wanted to join him. I asked if it would be far. He said it would be far. Then he set out by himself, slowly shrinking into the distance. Deep into the wilderness, he continued walking slowly, determined to reach his destination. That scene left a deep impression on me, like a blade slicing softly across my skin. In that moment, Kurmash was no vague shadow.

  When I asked if I could take a picture of him, he said, “Wait a second.” Casually, he took out a comb and a mirror from his jacket, took a look at himself, combed his hair a bit, looked again, then turned to me with a smile. In that moment too, he wasn’t a shadow.

  21.

  Zhada

  NEAR THE END OF JANUARY, Kama returned to the wilderness, having spent over a month at the summer encampment. Dressed in green, she emerged over the peak of the sand dune to the north, hands full, slowly descending. I was off in the distance hauling snow. The moment I saw her, I dropped the sack of snow and scooping plate and dashed toward her, shouting her name. I shook her hands, hugged her, then took her luggage from her. Together, we walked back to the burrow. Kama asked, “Li Juan, no me, good or bad?” I cried, “Bad!”

  Kama arrived with her fifteen-year-old brother, Zhada, Cuma’s only son. Our burrow had gained a new member.

  Even though I had never met Zhada, I already knew everything about him. There were clues all over the burrow—a heart-shaped wooden ladle he had carved, with a little heart engraved into the handle and painted red. The redbrick oven to the right of the door was his handiwork. Even though it was never used, no one wanted to tear it down.

  The burrow’s floor was made of a mix of sand and soil. When we first arrived, Cuma coated it with a precious layer of mud, but after days of people walking in and out, not much was left. As a result, some amount of sand had to be swept up every day. Would the floor sink lower and lower over time? At this point, the doorway was already a foot and a half above the floor. You had to hop down every time you came home. A trench was beginning to appear along the base of the walls. Every few days, Cuma would fill in the trench with sheep manure, then coat it with mud. But how long would that last? I suggested taking apart the brick oven and using the bricks to pave the floor. But that proposal was quickly dismissed, the reason being, “Zhada built it when he was thirteen; just look at how perfectly the bricks are laid!” I could only agree: “You’re right, it’s perfect, what a talented kid.” Cuma said proudly, “Like father, like son.”

  Starting about half a month in advance, Sister-in-law had begun to wear the boy on her lips, counting the days on her fingers until winter vacation. To prepare for her children’s arrival, she carried all the rugs and wall hangings and blankets outside to be beaten clean; she swept the whole house and even fried fresh baursak.

  No one was as jubilant as Sister-in-law. Her eyes sparkled with joy. As soon as he came in through the door, the boy embraced and kissed his mother, though not without a hint of self-consciousness. With his father, he kept a respectful distance. Zhada sat quietly near the tablecloth and listened while the adults spoke. Once the driver who had brought the siblings back had finished his tea and left, the room quieted down and the son at last shuffled his way over to the tablecloth. Suddenly, Zhada wrapped his arms around his father and kissed him. Cuma couldn’t help but pull him in close.

  At this point, Kama began unwrapping the packages, pulling out all sorts of treasures as if they were tributes. Mostly, there were bags upon bags of candy sent over by the throngs of aunties. Neatly wrapped and tied in handkerchiefs, they were salutations from afar. Then, there was the bolangu, a two-headed toy drum with beads attached by threads to the handle, clearly a present for Karlygash. We all gave it a whirl, “gu dun gu dun,” before tying it back into its original packaging. This entire time, Cuma didn’t manifest any of his usual tomfoolery. Solemn and patriarchal, he sat at the host’s seat and received his children’s reports.

  With the addition of two able bodies, the evening’s milking and herding chores were finished quickly and easily. When we all returned to the burrow, the light was turned on right away—previously, only what little electricity was left after the TV was turned off was used for the light!

  While preparing dinner, Sister-in-law snatched a brief moment to embrace her son, rocking him back and forth while kissing him. Kama took the opportunity to dive into her father’s arms while chirping, “In that case, you can kiss me!” But Cuma pushed her away, feigning anger: “Go away, you’re no daughter of mine! Not a single box of cigarettes for your daddy, or even a lighter! Even Li Juan helped me herd the calves and sheep and mended clothes.…” Kama protested childishly and everybody laughed. The kids were back. It was like a family again.

  * * *

  ZHADA WAS A TALL, handsome, and rather serious lad. Padding the floor of the sheep pen at dusk, he threw himself into the chore with a boyish pride, eager to prove himself through his hard work. Before long, he and Kurmash became buddies. After the pen was padded, the two climbed up the sand dune to the east and made their way up the metal tripod, where they perched beneath the moonlight. There, they exchanged words about this and that as they stared off in the direction from where the sheep would return.

  When he first got home, Zhada was as fashionable as a city kid. It wasn’t until work time that he traded his cool new coat for a green plush jacket his mother made, which instantly transformed him into an ordinary shepherd boy. Cuma picked up the new coat that had been discarded on the felt mat on the bed and studied it from every angle before asking the boy how much it cost. It was moments like these that revealed that his boy was slowly becoming a stranger.

  That evening, Sister-in-law boiled a huge pot of meat, the biggest pot of meat so far! Of course, Shinshybek’s family joined us for the feast. The burrow was bustling. With the ten of us and a baby, we could barely fit! During the banquet, the youngsters seemed especially courteous and serious. At home, Nurgün was always a hungry girl. But as a guest, she insisted on sitting behind the grownups, refusing to sit at the tablecloth even when invited. Before the mouthwatering hill of meat, which the grownups urged her to eat up, she slowly nibbled only a few pieces—reluctantly. Clearly, she had a strong intuition for feminine grace! Zhada was just as courteous too. When he saw his sister wipe her hands, he promptly followed—a signal that he was full and would retire from the meal early.

  Later events proved that in the absence of guests, the boy’s appetite was second only to Cuma’s.

  When there were too many people at the tablecloth to eat mutton on the bone, the women and children would crouch in a corner and eat from a smaller bowl. On such occasions, Zhada would want to sit with me, Sister-in-law, and Kama, but Sister-in-law would insist that he sit at the main dastarkhān, like a real man.

  When it came to eating noodles with sauce, Sister-in-law would add a hefty portion of meat and vegetables to Zhada’s noodles and only a small amount to Kama’s noodles. Though there is a saying, “Girls shouldn’t eat too much,” this was clearly favoritism! Kama lived in the pastures all year round; how many opportunities did she have to eat anything good? But she didn’t think much of it. Even if she did comp
lain once in a while, Sister-in-law firmly rebuked her.

  That said, as a boarding student, Zhada led a spartan existence too. The free canteen meals were likely no more substantial than the food served at home. And he was a growing boy after all.

  One evening, while everyone else was busy working outside, I was in the burrow preparing dinner. I had decided to make dumplings for everyone. Soon enough, Zhada, who had finished his work, came in to help, full of enthusiasm. I rolled the dumpling skins, he wrapped them. In the dimly lit space, he sang as he wrapped, then joyfully announced that dumplings were his favorite; then he asked me what my favorite was. I listed off one dish after another, unable to help myself. Of these, hot pot and fried rice noodles were things he had never heard of before, so he asked for more details. When I mentioned noodle salad, he shouted excitedly in Mandarin, “Yeah! Noodle salad! Mine like it too!” And so his gaiety continued.…

  When I went to collect snow and saw Zhada, distant and tiny, patiently trudging toward me from the dune to the north with a saxaul branch in hand and Panda Dog tailing him, framed against a background of boundless white—I found it deeply moving. Those hushed hearts in the most distant crevices on earth.

  * * *

  AFTER THE TWO CHILDREN had returned home, every day the boy hauled manure, herded sheep, and cleaned the pen; the girl tidied the burrow and cooked. I gathered snow and embroidered. Cuma exclaimed, “Tomorrow, me and Sister-in-law might as well head back to Akehara! What are we still doing here? There’s nothing for us to do!” Yet, on his face was a look of sheer bliss.

  When Zhada was away, Kama was Mom and Dad’s only spoiled child. Now that Zhada had returned, Kama readily stepped aside. She held her tea bowl gracefully, looking on as her little brother nuzzled into his parents’ bosom like a piglet, and occasionally offered a mocking “Koychy.”