But how are you? Did your lips who loved drinking butter tea get used to eating rice porridge? Did the bare feet that climbed the side of the mountains get used to walking in high heels on the streets of Shanghai? Did your ears used to the sighing of the mountain pines get used to the din of city traffic? . . .
I READ THE LETTER OVER AND OVER. Suddenly my village seemed so close. Suddenly, it was as though my Ama was standing next to me, smiling, her beautiful face glowing with pride, just as it had when I had come back from Beijing with two hundred yuan rolled in pretty red paper. And Gatusa, who had written, “I am still a single man. . . .” I laughed out loud. A Moso man just could not waste an opportunity! And the Living Buddha, who had been recalled from farmwork and who was saying such good things about me. And all the people were proud of me. “They’ve forgiven me,” I thought. My Ama has forgiven me! I can go home now! I can go home anytime I want. I’m going to see my mother again, and Zhema and my brothers and little Jiama, who must be so grown up.
I ran back to the dormitory, took out a letter pad, and sat down to write my very first letter. I sat, and I thought about what to say, acutely aware that whatever I wrote, I could not write only for Gatusa but also for my Ama and my little brothers and my sisters and all our neighbors — for the Living Buddha even. All of which, in the final count, proved a rather tall order. I did not know what to say or where to start. When at last I had put a few lines on the paper, my handwriting looked so clumsy, my sentences seemed so banal by comparison to Gatusa’s beautiful prose, I could not bear it. I tried for a whole week; I wrote a few pages, and then I tore the letter and threw it in the wastebasket.
At the end of the week, I thought, “Lijiang is in the middle of nowhere, surely you can’t buy Outside the Window over there.” And I took the book off the shelf. Chong Yao was such an eloquent writer, I was sure I could find something in her novel that could express my emotions — something beautiful, something worthy of Gatusa’s letter. I began carefully selecting passages, copying, editing names and places. At last my own eight-page letter was ready. I sent it off, and the following week I had a reply from Gatusa. He thought I wrote beautifully.
For the rest of the school year, I received a letter from Gatusa every week, and I never failed to reply to him, always matching the exact number of pages. Over the months, he wrote ever more poetically and I plagiarized ever more efficiently. I now spent all my spare time in the library and the bookstores, reading, researching, looking for a poem, for a dedication, a prologue, a story that could express what my heart felt and my talents failed me to write. And if nothing else should come of it, I thought, my reading skills were improving dramatically.
In the meantime, I kept all of Gatusa’s letters inside my pillowcase and I read them again and again. I thought of him constantly. I was in love. I imagined, quite naturally, that he looked something like Geko — tall with dark skin, beautiful long and strong fingers, and I pictured him sitting at his office desk at the Camellia magazine, writing, smoking a cheap cigarette, blowing smoke rings into the air, searching for inspiration. I saw myself serving him butter tea, standing by his side, my hand resting on his shoulder, my fingernails painted pink. I slowly massaged his tired shoulders and then I bent my head to his and whispered softly in his ear, leaving a trace of pink lipstick on his delicate earlobe. I imagined we were just like the lovers in Outside the Window.
I was never so happy. My heart was filled with Gatusa’s poetry. Even the voice lessons became easier. I listened to my teacher, and I smiled at her. That year I also made my first professional recording. It was called A Moso Girl Sings of Love, and I sang every song for Gatusa. The world seemed such a joyful place and the future was so bright. Time flew. In the summer I spent part of the long vacation in Beijing with Umbalo and her family, and when school began again in September, I was already looking forward to the New Year and the winter holidays. I had decided to go home — to see my mother and to meet Gatusa. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
Coming Home
In China the idea of spending New Year apart from one’s family is almost unbearable, and I had spent too many New Year holidays on my own in the miserably cold dormitory, dreaming of going home. Early in the fall of 1986, I wrote to Gatusa that I had made up my mind to come home for New Year. It had been such a long time since I had seen my family. And such a long time since I had broken up the school kitchen, surely I no longer had anything to fear. I was now the pride of my people — I had recorded my first professional cassette, and I was two years from graduating from the best music school in the country.
This time I would not travel to Chengdu but to Kunming, in Yunnan province. Gatusa had arranged to meet me in Ninglang, where we were to visit the Living Buddha, and from Ninglang I could go all the way to the eastern shore of Lake Lugu by Jeep.
I carried two suitcases filled with gifts — clothes, coffee, tea, candy, tiger balm ointment. I also had a gold ring for my mother, a long wool coat for my father, and two boxes of American cigarettes for Gatusa. The gifts had stretched my resources somewhat and I had to travel third-class on the train, but the thought of Gatusa waiting for me at the end of the journey made everything so much easier to bear. In addition, I was with five classmates from the conservatory — Han, Bai, and Yi students who were going home to Yunnan province. We had four seats among us, which made things more comfortable. At night we took turns resting on the benches or sleeping against each other’s shoulders, and during the day we played cards and sang and told jokes and made the best of it. In Kunming I said good-bye to my friends and took the twenty-four-hour bus to Lijiang, and after a night’s sleep in Lijiang, the twelve-hour bus to Ninglang, via Huapin and Yongshen. On that last leg, everybody seemed to be throwing up, and all I could do not to lose patience was to remind myself of the first time I had traveled by car on the mountain road. And then, as we neared Ninglang, the sight of the open blue sky and the red mountains, and thoughts of Gatusa, almost made me forget my grief.
The bus drove into the station and stopped, and the passengers rushed out of their seats, lighting cigarettes, pushing each other, tripping over bags and feet; they could not wait to get off. I took the time to pour a little water from my drinking bottle onto a cloth and to wipe my face clean. I put on my pink lipstick and brushed my shortish hair. I really wanted to look my best.
Careful not to tread in anything disgusting in my slick city boots, I got off the bus and stumbled past the others on the uneven concrete pavement toward the back of the bus, where I picked up my two cases. Then I went to stand on the porch, from where I gazed anxiously about the yard, looking among peasants in blue cotton garb and Yi women in colorful dusty skirts for a tall, dark, handsome Moso writer wearing a gray wool sweater, a white-collar shirt, and a long black coat.
There was no one fitting this description.
But I noticed, a few feet away from me, a short man in white sports shoes and a ridiculous white jacket who was staring at me. Meeting his eyes, I felt uncomfortable and turned away. And when the short man walked over toward me, I suddenly became desperate for Gatusa to arrive.
“The bus came in early,” he said in Moso.
“Where is Gatusa?” I answered him, barely looking at him, worried that something wrong had happened. Maybe there had been an accident.
“But I am Gatusa!”
I looked at him, incredulous. This was Gatusa! No, that just could not be!
A mischievous twinkle flashed in his black eyes. “Maybe I’m not as you imagined . . . ,” he said, his smile broadening.
I glared at him.
“I really am Gatusa,” he said again.
Oh, he was so right. He was nothing like I had imagined! Nothing like Geko! And that awful smile of his! How dared he?
“You’re Gatusa?” And I threw my shoulder bag at him and shouted in Chinese, “How dare you be so ugly?”
And then we just stood there, silently staring at each other in common disbelief.
Gat
usa did not stoop to a reply. He only bent forward to pick up my bag from the ground and hand it back to me. Then he picked up my suitcases and said in a calm voice, “Come on, let’s go. You must be hungry.”
Oh, how could I not have thought of asking him for a photograph? But I had never even sent him a photograph of myself! Why should I have asked one of him? We were Moso people, we did not exchange photographs! Oh, but I felt so cheated, betrayed. How could he write such beautiful things? How was such a thing possible? I did not want to walk next to him. I fell back three feet behind him.
Gatusa had made arrangements for us to stay with his friend Qin Zhengxing and his family. Qin’s wife had prepared a feast in my honor and by the time we came in, everything was ready to be served. Touched by all this kindness and cheered by the excellent food, I somehow managed to put a smile on my face and even to feel a little ashamed of myself. But when, after dinner, Qin called the children away and they all retired to another room to let us have some privacy, I was furious all over again. I sat in my chair looking vacantly ahead of me, as though Gatusa had become invisible, refusing to talk.
Meanwhile, he drank his tea, ignored my mood, and began to tell me about his work, his dreams, how he was planning to collect and translate Moso oral literature for Camellia magazine, and his ambition to record every Daba ceremony and every song and story. “It will take years, but I am young. . . . You’ll see, things have changed a lot since you left. Almost all the children go to school now. They learn Han values and the ways of the modern world, and if we do not record our culture, in another generation everything may be forgotten. We Moso must not stay out of the world.” He gazed at me thoughtfully, his eyes shining with intelligence and perhaps a little scorn. “The problem is, how do we become part of the world without losing ourselves in it?” But I had no answer to that question, and he went on talking about other things concerning our people, about our past and our future — things I had no idea about. He was often very funny, and he spoke more beautifully and he was more intelligent than anyone I had ever met. I felt myself charmed again, as I had been by his letters, until later in the evening, when it was time to sleep, and I asked Qin’s wife to show me to her youngest daughter’s room.
Next morning at breakfast, I was in a bad mood again and there was an awkward tension all around, relieved only by the chatter of the children. The Qins must have felt grateful when Gatusa looked at his watch and announced that we had to leave because the Living Buddha was waiting for us.
We hurried to the ugly modern building where our guru resided under the official title of Chairman of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, the CPPCC. Gatusa pushed the door open, and a sweet scent of incense enveloped us. I followed him inside and then up a dark staircase and into a large hall cheered by the warm glow of butter lamps. As my eyes adjusted to the half-light, I made out the couches and the low tables, the mural paintings, the butter sculptures, incense burners, a photograph of our Living Buddha in his yellow robes, and next to it, a larger portrait of Mao Zedong. The hall was something halfway between a Communist Party meeting room and a Tibetan temple, but everything here was clean, pure, calm. I gazed at the mole on Mao’s chin . . . just like my Ama’s — and I realized that this was the first time since the bus had pulled into the station at Ninglang that I thought of my Ama. I realized that all this time, I had been so preoccupied with being angry with Gatusa that I had completely forgotten about my Ama. And yet it was not only for Gatusa that I had come home after all these years. The truth was, I was afraid. I was terribly afraid of going home. What if my Ama had not really forgiven me? What was the point then? What worth were all the dreams in the world, if I did not deserve my mother’s love?
Guru came in from a side door, wearing a gray Mao jacket and a People’s Liberation Army winter hat, with the fur ears tied in a bow at the top of his head. He looked just like a party cadre but for the rosary around his neck, his face filled with kindness, his thick eyebrows and large forehead radiating intelligence. He was a living god and even under his PLA headgear he had what we call a Buddha face. On seeing him, on feeling his presence, I felt unworthy of the honor.
We kowtowed with our heads to the floor. Guru touched my head and then Gatusa’s, and he invited us to sit next to him on a couch while a servant brought us butter tea. I took a sip and looked at Guru’s portrait. He was so much more handsome in his tall yellow hat than in his PLA headgear.
“How is your life at the conservatory?” Guru asked.
I described my life the best I could. I told him about Shanghai, about my friends, my voice teachers, but I did not talk about my gigs at the nightclubs.
Guru listened carefully, smiling and nodding, and when I had finished talking, he crossed his hands in his lap and said, “You must study hard. You must become a great singer. And you, Gatusa, you must continue to write about our people’s customs and our history. You two will let the world know about the Moso. You two will tell the world about our culture. Don’t forget your roots.” He paused for a moment and took a sip of tea, and then continued in the same tone, “You two must continue to love your people. You two are an example for the younger generation. I am old. You two must work together.”
Gatusa glanced at me and I shot him a dirty look in return. Although Guru’s attention filled me with pride, I was beginning to get irritated with all the advice and especially with the way he kept saying “you two” — as though Gatusa and I were already a couple. I was beginning to feel as I had when my mother had left me alone in the house with Geko. It seemed that someone was always wanting to arrange my life. Why should I love a Moso man? Why did they all want to keep me in the mountains?
Guru spoke with us for more than an hour. Before we took our leave, he handed me a hundred yuan, to help with my schooling. I was touched and very embarrassed. One hundred yuan was no longer such a lot of money for me, now that I worked at the nightclubs, but it was certainly over a month’s salary for our guru. I refused to take it, but he insisted, and Gatusa also insisted. So I thanked him for his kindness and kowtowed one last time. On the way out, Gatusa tried to hold my hand to help me down the stairs. He meant well — there was no electric light and the stairs were pitch black — but I pushed him away. We returned to Qin Zhengxing’s house without talking. Qin’s wife brought us a cup of tea and Gatusa lit a cigarette, and seeing I was not in the mood for a conversation, he told me Guru’s story.
Our Living Buddha, Losan, was born on Nyoropu Island on Lake Lugu. His mother was the wife of the old Yongning feudal lord. When she was pregnant, she had a recurrent dream that she was standing in the library of a monastery, surrounded by holy books. There was no way out of the room, there were no doors, only shelves filled with books. In a later dream, a voice called out to her, “Dear precious lady, don’t worry. You will give birth to a little Buddha.” The day our guru was born, half of heaven turned bright red and a dragon flew from Mother Lake toward the sky, churning torrents of water in its wake, and it hovered above the mountain goddess Gamu until our lady gave birth. When little Losan was three years old, Tibetan lamas came from Lhasa looking for the reincarnation of a former saint from Delimin monastery in Sichuan, and they took him back with them. He did not return to our Moso country until 1954, when he took charge of the monastery and the temples in Yongning, but the following year the People’s Liberation Army came to liberate us from our feudal oppressors and our guru was sent to live in Ninglang town. Then, during the Cultural Revolution, after Mao Zedong declared religion a poison, the Red Guards destroyed the Dgebo lamasery and our guru was sent to work on a collective farm, where he lived like a simple peasant, growing vegetables and herding goats in the mountains. Everything he had learned had become useless, but he never gave up hope. He always believed in our people. After the Cultural Revolution, our guru was moved back to Ninglang, where he was given the title of Chairman of the CPPCC. And the previous year he had presided over the festival of Goddess Gamu, for the first time in more t
han two decades.
Gatusa paused. “Did you know that the county government insisted we build a wall to separate women and men at the hot springs?” He laughed. “It’s only shoulder high, so it’s completely useless!”
But I wanted to talk about something else. Better even, I did not want to talk at all. I barely excused myself and went out for a walk. I could not bear to hear any more about our country and our people. I could not bear to think about home, until I had seen my mother.
THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE VERY EARLY . Gatusa was already up, waiting for me in the Qins’ living room. He suggested, perhaps only out of politeness, that I stay in Ninglang for a few days, but I declined. “I miss my mother too much. I want to go home.” Besides, I had arranged with the Living Buddha’s driver to take the Jeep to Luo Shui, and no doubt he was already waiting for me. I gave Gatusa the American cigarettes I had brought for him, and some tea and candy for his mother.
Outside, a fine cold rain was falling. I had gone only a little way down the street when I heard footsteps and turned to see Gatusa running after me, carrying an umbrella. “What now?” I thought. But he wanted only to give me the umbrella.
“I don’t need it!” I snapped.
“Ooooh, but where did you get such a bad temper?” he answered, partly talking to himself. He took his umbrella back, turned around, and walked away without turning again.
I sat next to the driver and we began the thirty-mile, five-hour drive to Luo Shui. It was still dark. I looked at the cold rain beating on the black window, and Gatusa’s words rang in my ears — Where did you get such a bad temper? Yes, I thought, where did I get such a bad temper? I thought of Geko and how much I had hurt him, and Hong Ling. Ah, but Hong Ling had asked for it! And what about Gatusa, what had he asked for? For months I had lived by the thought of him, my heart filled with joy and light, my thoughts striving for beauty. It had been the happiest year of my life, and I had achieved so much: I was thoroughly literate now — reading all those books, looking for that perfect sentence, the exact word to echo the love singing in my heart — and I had recorded my first cassette, and I was no longer alone, I had a soul mate, I was in love. . . . And in a single moment, in the little time it takes to place a name on an unfamiliar face, I had thrown everything away! How could that be?
Leaving Mother Lake Page 23