by Li Juan
He told me that aside from several older brothers who lived far away, his family consisted only of his mother, one older brother, and one younger sister. Because of the winter pasture’s harsh conditions, his sickly mother and younger sister didn’t come along. Then, full of optimism, he said, “It’ll all be better in the summer! In the summer Mother can join us in the mountain and make kurt and all sorts of dishes.…” The two brothers must have been very lonely, with only each other for company morning and night, watching over their pasture of over ten thousand mu. During the day, after the older brother went out with the herd, the younger brother was the only one home. After finishing the housework (did he decorate their burrow lovingly like the girls?), and there was time to spare, what did he do? But the days ahead will be a little better because now he had a little dog, a little buddy to keep him company.
* * *
IN LATE FEBRUARY, as the temperature continued its slow ascent, and the day of the many flocks’ northern migration drew ever closer, more and more people started to arrive on our doorstep, mainly herders looking for pups. And the two other groups of guests who came to visit Sayna’s home were all female. It seemed like women were more eager to make social calls. But on second thought, that wasn’t right—all winter, the men had plenty of opportunity to look for camels, and stop by a burrow or two for a visit. But the women couldn’t go anywhere, so it was about time for them to get out for some air!
It was around then that Kulynbek, who had herded the flock south with us, along with his family, moved into our burrow. All of a sudden, there was another couple, a young man, and two kids in our lives, not to mention all the relatives from the neighboring pastures coming to visit them … the door to our burrow was constantly thrust open with a bang. The children were always running in and out. The young people were always playing cards and gambling. Sister-in-law was always offering everyone tea, and I was always washing dishes, and Kama was always cleaning up … it was so hectic! But the most frustrating thing of all was when the female guests saw the half-embroidered felt that I left on the bed, they would first fawn over it (my needlework was incomparable, even better than Kama’s!), then immediately try to continue the pattern that I started. This inevitably ruined the pattern, leaving the felt looking like it was embroidered by a dog! After they left, I spent hours pulling everything out.
During that whole period, Zhada didn’t dare to sleep in. He had no choice; there were always guests in the morning.
The truck that came to the winter pasture to buy livestock. The animals in the truck bed had already been freezing there for a full day and night.
27.
Peace
CUMA SAT NEXT TO ME watching quietly as I was sewing a pair of leather pants for him. Suddenly, he said, “In the past, people used bark from the larch tree to smoke the leather, giving it a smooth auburn color, which is more beautiful.”
In the past, life in the wilderness must have been even more difficult and isolated. But even in a life like that, beauty was a necessity. When people finished their work and found a moment to spare, they stripped the damp tree bark and carefully smoked their simple leather clothes. When a figure on horseback would slowly emerge out of a forest—his red, not the red of his clothes, but the red of his mind … the red satisfied the world’s tiniest desire for beauty. Even as I sat in this distant burrow across distant time, I could still sense that the man was content and at peace.
In late January, Kama finished embroidering a gül (a “rose”) on a white scarf. As this type of fine white cloth scarf always comes in pairs, she had one more to embroider. After cutting the cloth, she asked Cuma to heat the edges with his lighter so they wouldn’t fray, then she started to repeat the first scarf’s pattern. Completing these two scarves took up every second of her free time. When they were finished, they would be hung up on each side of the tus-kiiz to further decorate their home.
When he wasn’t herding or working, Cuma spent long stretches of time watching his daughter embroider, occasionally offering to help sew a few stitches. His daughter said, “Koychy, go stitch mom’s syrmak or something.”
Having been rejected, Cuma turned to me with hurt pride, “I know how to do everything! There’s nothing I can’t do!”
Then, as if suddenly reminded of something, he dug through boxes until he found a plastic trowel. (It was truly baffling; he wasn’t a bricklayer and there wasn’t any mud in the desert anyway, so why did he bring the thing all the way there?) He sawed off the trowel’s handle, then sawed the remaining plastic plate in two. Next, he sandwiched an old dagger with a missing handle between the two plastic pieces and tightly wound a copper wire around the pieces to form a stylish new handle.
The dagger now had a handle, but the trowel was destroyed. It was like tearing down one wall to patch another. But ultimately, one of life’s cracks had been filled in. And besides, the trowel had been lying around for ages, which made it a burden.
Fortunately, life never ran out of cracks to fill. Or else, once the dagger was fixed, Cuma would have been right back to complaining, “Dagger’s fixed, now what?”
He shined everyone’s boots until they sparkled; trimmed the syrmak’s frayed edge and wrapped it with a strip of red cloth that was then sewn up securely and elegantly; when he noticed loose threads on Sister-in-law’s clothes, he quickly pulled them off. Filling the cracks. Must fill cracks.
* * *
PLUM BLOSSOM FILLED in many of life’s cracks too. After a long period of being quiet and bored, Cuma suddenly grabbed the cat by his hind feet, raised him high in the air, and let go, forcing Plum Blossom to quickly spin his body like an acrobat … more exciting than the ten-foot dive.
Then he threw the cat toward the post, letting everyone admire the cat’s agile turn and ease with which he grabbed onto the wood—as opposed to hitting his head and seeing stars. Good thing he was a cat. Had he been a dog, it would have been a tragedy.
Also, Cuma was always forcing Plum Blossom to sleep on his back, legs sprawled. And often, the cat even cooperated.
When Cuma slept during the day, the kitten slept next to him. Their postures were always the same—lying on their sides, heads resting on their arms.
* * *
MOST OF THE CRACKS were filled with silence. One morning, when the mount went missing, Cuma woke up early to look for the horse. He walked slowly along the sand ridge to the east, a lone grim figure shrinking into the distance. We were all waiting for him to come back to have tea together. Sister-in-law spun thread. I read. Kama embroidered. By the time the pitiful man returned, his hat and neck were covered in frost … and the cold and pain that he had just endured subtly but bitingly seeped into the morning tea. No one spoke. It wasn’t until Cuma suddenly put his bowl down and declared that last night, he’d taken seven trips to the toilet, that the rest of us let out a “Koychy!” and burst out laughing.
At the end of January, life’s cracks grew bigger and bigger. The days grew long and warm. And with the kids around taking care of most of the little jobs, Cuma had even less to do. So, when some insignificant little thing came up, he decided to make a trip back to Akehara!
After finding out that a car might come in the next two days, he began to make preparations to depart at a moment’s notice. He cut up an old, broken poly-weave bag to patch another, less broken poly-weave bag. One patch over another, the bag was as strong as can be. Everything that he intended to take back to the permanent encampment was stuffed inside: a part for the satellite dish (in need of repair), a broken spade (to be welded), a goat hair comb, a large roll of camel fur (which was clearly brought there from the encampment, so what was the point in taking it back?), and some old clothes.
Additionally, Sister-in-law wrapped a few candies in gauze for him to take back, to be given out when visiting relatives and neighbors. She also baked two nans in sheep-manure ash to give to Apa.
At three in the morning, Cuma was woken up by Sister-in-law, who had him wash his hair and body in the
dark (normally, there wasn’t the opportunity …). Then, Cuma put on that new jacket of his, carefully stacked his cell phone, address book (why not enter the numbers into the phone?), and sunglasses into his pockets, and was ready to head out—a proper man.
I said, “When you get back to Akehara and they look at you, they will say, he couldn’t possibly have come from a winter burrow, he must have come from Kazakhstan!”
Soon, in the morning glow, a green Beijing jeep took Cuma away. Sister-in-law, leaning on one side with her hand on her hip, watched for a while from on top of a sand dune.
After that, Kama began herding the flock for her father. As she set out in the morning, Sister-in-law would stop her, “Wait a moment,” and run back inside to fetch a few candies, rush outside, and hand them to her daughter on top of the horse. Gleefully, in Mandarin, her daughter said, “I love my mother. Bye!” before kicking the horse and galloping over the sand dune. Sister-in-law clambered slowly up the dune where she stood in that same pose and watched.
* * *
WEIRDLY, WITHOUT THAT busybody, everyone kept on doing what they were doing and no one seemed the busier for it. Only now, it was just much quieter. Only now, the Indian singer’s bewitching voice coming out the speakers sounded all the more bold. Only now, we didn’t boil tea as often and the tea was much milkier. The three of us who remained quietly drank tea, with nothing to say.
It was only in the evenings after the cows had been milked that the children came to life and started to play a game of hide-and-seek—truly a game that will never go out of fashion anywhere in the world! But where was there to hide? In this world, there was nothing but sheep pens and cattle burrows. Nevertheless, everyone relished the fun times, a cacophony of squeals.
The nights were especially quiet. The dinner of rolled noodles required considerably less dough than before. I thought about the baozi that we had eaten the day before. At around the same hour, everyone sat together wrapping them in an assembly line. Kama cut the dough, Sister-in-law rolled the skin, Cuma added the filling (this specialization seemed unnecessary …), I folded and pinched the edges, Zhada nitpicked. Whenever one of Sister-in-law’s skins wasn’t quite round enough, he’d “Koychy” at it.
Bedtime was so quiet that it was eerie. There was no one repeatedly going to the bathroom, no one snoring or violently coughing, no one waking up in the middle of the night to roll a cigarette, drink water, or take painkillers.
As usual, at six o’clock in the morning, when the world was still wrapped in darkness, Sister-in-law quietly climbed out of bed. Since the ashes in the stove were cool enough to be moved without billowing, she cleared out the stove before filling the chamber with more sheep manure. Then, she went back to sleep. At seven, as the world outside brightened, she rose once more to add manure into the stove’s waning flame. On top of the stove, she placed a kettle to brew a strong tea. A new day had begun. By the time everyone woke up, the burrow had warmed to a comfortable temperature and the tea was waiting for us.
Morning tea became a pleasant time once more. We played the game that we never tired of—when Sister-in-law said, “Karlygash, dance!” I grabbed Plum Blossom’s paws and rocked the kitten back and forth. When Zhada said, “Karlygash, where’s Apa?” I pointed his paw toward Sister-in-law. When we all asked at once, “And Big Sister?” I pointed his paw at myself. Everybody laughed. Then Sister-in-law said, “Where’s Ada?” I had to think about it for a second before lifting the cat high in the air and pointing his paw to the distant north.
Had Cuma been home, he would’ve snatched the cat by now and sung at him loudly in Mandarin, “Long, long tail, yellow, yellow eyes, where have I seen you before …” to the tune of a Mandarin pop song that was trendy at the time. We practically started every day with that song.
Had he been home, as soon as he woke up he would have been sitting in front of the tablecloth to announce some fake news. Such as: he would ride to Urumqi and return the day after next. Or: yesterday, he spotted seven puppies crawling through the desert.… In response to that, I asked, who left them there? He said maybe a dog gave birth while a family was migrating and they left the pups behind. That instantly tugged at my heartstrings.
But when I asked for more detail, he said it was nighttime. Only then did I realize that it was all made up!
Most of the time, his jokes were really lame. “Yesterday, when I was herding, I saw an airplane! I bet it was looking for you!”
I asked with a straight face, “Why didn’t you invite them here for tea?”
“It was too high up, they wouldn’t have heard me even if I shouted.”
Sometimes, he would talk about government leaders. He envied them, always talking about how they must be living fine lives, not having to herd every day.
In the evening, there was no one who came home from herding, too tired to speak, until all of a sudden, he wrapped his arms around Sister-in-law and whimpered, “Old lady! I haven’t seen you in eight hours.…”
And he would spend the next two minutes locked in a steadfast embrace with Sister-in-law.
Dinnertime was quiet as usual, even though the food was just as delicious as ever, even though everyone still ate a ton.
* * *
WHILE OUT COLLECTING snow during the day, there were several times when I clearly heard the sound of a car behind me. I was so excited that I threw down the sack of snow and charged up a sand dune. But after looking around for a long time, there was nothing.
By contrast, while sitting around in the burrow, the sudden whir of an actual motor felt like a hallucination. Whoever was speaking was cut off: “Shhh! Listen!” We all turned one ear toward the sound and waited. Yet, after the motor sound drew closer and closer, it gradually faded away into the distance … always only passing by. Always only a motorcycle.
Nowadays, many young people’s preferred mode of transportation in the desert is a motorcycle rather than a horse. They don’t care that gasoline is becoming more and more expensive or how tiring it is to ride through the sand.
Compared to the long night, dawn, dusk, and daytime in general felt fleeting. After quilting felt for a while, I suddenly noticed the light turn dim. When I walked out to check, the sun was already veering west.
I was reminded of a time when Cuma said that I was a quick sewer, “Like running on an asphalt road.” Then, when I began sewing even more rapidly, he began to praise: “Like flying a plane!”
While he was away, I managed to finish a large, square orange syrmak with a basketball-sized pattern in the middle. Just wait until he comes back, how amazed he will be this time!
The felt was stiff. Toward the end, my right hand, which held the needle, was so sore that I couldn’t make a fist and I had difficulty raising my right arm.
Needing to stretch, I went outside for a stroll.
During the days when Cuma was away, even though beautiful thick clouds padded the sunsets, most of the time the sky was clear. A week had passed without snow. To the west was a slim crescent moon and the faint outline of its missing ellipse.
Not far into my walk, I ran into Kurmash on the dune to the north. With a bundle of yarn and a felt mattress on his back, he walked slowly along the dune by himself. When he saw me, he slowly changed course toward me. When he came up to me, he asked where I’d just come from, and whether I had seen the horse. I said I hadn’t. He asked when Cuma was coming back. I said didn’t know. He then turned and walked away by himself. I hated not having seen anything, not knowing anything.…
28.
The Final Peace
IT WAS THE FINAL DAY of the lunar year. Not long after lunchtime, we were finished with all the chores. I decided to head north for a long walk. Though the weather was overcast, there was a hazy sun in the sky so I wasn’t likely to get lost. The temperature was rather warm, only twenty-four degrees.
I remember that when we first arrived in the wilderness, Kama had pointed in this direction and told me that the graves of four people were out there! I h
ad been thinking about it ever since and was determined to take a look when the weather was right.
I was so curious—what would a grave in the desert look like?
Kazakh graves are made in a unique traditional style. After the corpse is buried, four walls are erected around the mounds. In the meticulously built cemeteries found in suburban areas, rows of graves resemble little courtyards, each fitted with a colorfully painted wood door and windows, their walls decorated with colorful patterns and trimmings. As a result, each cemetery looks like a bustling village. Mountain graves are a little simpler, but still require logs that are stacked into beautiful and durable pyramids. Even the graves in rocky deserts, built with stone or mud bricks, were lovingly decorated. But in the desert, there was nothing but soft, flowing sand. What material was there that could be used to construct a grave?
I walked for a while before turning to check the sun’s position in the sky to make sure that I was going in the right direction. After roughly two miles, I began to approach a long row of dunes that marked the end of this stretch of desert. Climbing up a dune, I scanned the world and saw nothing but yellow sand and white snow, without a hint of perturbation, much less graves. I wondered if I hadn’t gone far enough or if I had veered off course. Perhaps it wasn’t in the cards for me to see the graves that day. But the day was still young, so I wasn’t sure where to go next.