Stories of the Sahara

by Sanmao

  We had experience with this sort of thing. We immediately pulled out an old rug and used our hands to help this foreigner dig four trenches around the tyres. Then we put the rug under his front tyres and told him to step on the gas while we pushed from behind. With the rug in place, the tyres wouldn’t sink even if the sand were softer than it already was.

  It still took us almost an hour to get his car completely out and onto solid ground again.

  The man was a reporter from a news agency. He insisted on taking us out to eat at the Hotel Nacional. We were absolutely exhausted, though, and as soon as we got him off our back we went home. By the next day, we’d forgotten all about it.

  Less than two weeks later, I was at home by myself when I heard someone by the window. ‘No question, it’s got to be this house. Let’s try.’

  I opened the door to find the man whose car we had helped push. In his arms was a big bundle wrapped in cellophane – birds of paradise, what else. He had a friend with him, whom he introduced as his colleague.

  ‘May we come in?’ he asked very politely.

  ‘Please come in.’

  First I put his flowers in the kitchen, then poured some cold soda water for them. I walked slowly since I was carrying a tray. Just then I heard this foreigner telling the other one in English, ‘Heavens! Are we in the Sahara? My God! My God!’

  When I walked into the small room, they leapt to their feet from the sofa and took the tray.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself. Please sit.’

  They were looking all around, unable to keep their hands off the stone sculptures I’d bought in the cemetery, tutting their praise as if in a trance. One of them gave a gentle push to the rusted steel spokes of the little bicycle I hung in the corner, the wheel tracing an arc.

  ‘I had to add a little bit of pop art to this life in the desert,’ I said to him with a smile, stopping the wheel with my hand.

  ‘God! This is the most enchanting desert household I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Salvaged waste.’ I beamed with pride.

  They sat down on the sofa again.

  ‘Watch out! You’re sitting on coffin boards.’

  They jumped up theatrically and gently lifted the cloth cover back to take a look.

  ‘There’s no mummy inside. Don’t be afraid.’

  In the end, they nagged me for a long time about buying one of my statuettes. I sighed heavily and gave them one of the stone birds, which had a touch of pink from the stone’s natural colouring.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘No need. For someone who knows how to appreciate it, it’s priceless. For someone who doesn’t get it, it’s worthless.’

  ‘We. . . We want to give you something as a token.’

  ‘Didn’t you give me these birds of paradise? I think our exchange is complete.’

  They thanked me profusely on their way out.

  A few weeks later, we were waiting to catch a movie in town when another foreigner came over and extended his hand to us. Baffled, we didn’t know what to do but shake hands with him.

  ‘I heard from a reporter at another news agency that you two have the most beautiful home in the desert. I’m not mistaking you for someone else, am I?’

  ‘No, you’re not. I’m the only Chinese person around these parts.’

  ‘I hope. . . if. . . if it’s not too presumptuous, I’d like to come and see your home so I can have a point of reference.’

  ‘You are…?’ José asked.

  ‘I’m from Holland, but I am here at the behest of the Spanish government. I’ve come to this land to build homes for the Sahrawi on contract. We’re constructing a residential area. I was wondering if I could—’

  ‘Certainly,’ José said. ‘You are welcome any time.’

  ‘May I take photos?’

  ‘Yes, no need to worry about these little details.’

  ‘Can we include your wife in the photographs?’

  ‘I’m just an ordinary person,’ I jumped in. ‘Don’t go to the trouble.’

  He came over the next day and took many photographs, asking what the house looked like when I first moved in. I showed him a roll of film from the month after we first moved in.

  When he left, he told me, ‘Please tell your husband for me that you two have built a beautiful Rome.’

  ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ I answered.

  Humans are really strange. When no one validates you, you often can’t perceive your own value.

  For a while, I revelled in this desert castle.

  One day our landlord came round. He rarely comes and sits in our home. But he came, sat, got up and looked about with big lumbering movements. Then he said, ‘I told you long ago that you are renting the greatest home in the Sahara. Now you understand!’

  ‘May I ask if something is the matter?’ I asked him directly.

  ‘You cannot find a house of this quality for my original asking price anywhere else. I want to raise the rent.’

  I wanted to tell him, ‘You’re a pig.’

  But I didn’t say anything. I got out our lease and noncha­lantly threw it down before him. ‘You raise our rent and I’ll report you tomorrow,’ I said to him.

  ‘You— You— You Spanish are bullying us Sahrawi.’ He was actually angrier than I was.

  ‘You are not a good Muslim. Even if you pray every day, your god will not look after you. Now get out of my house.’

  ‘You insult my religion just for raising the rent a little—’ he cried.

  ‘You’re insulting your own religion. Please leave.’

  ‘I— I— You damn—’

  I shut my castle gate and raised my drawbridge, ignoring his curses in the street outside. I put on a cassette tape. Dvořák’s New World Symphony filled the house.

  I walked over to the round cushion-seat made from a tyre and sat down gently, as if I were a king.

  My Great Mother-in-Law

  My wedding to José wasn’t a hugely romantic affair involving elopement and whatnot. We’d simply walked to the courthouse and registered. But even though we accomplished what we set out to do, neither set of parents was able to attend.

  On my side of the family, I could talk to my parents about any topic, thanks to the openness and sympathy with which they treated their children. I’d received my family’s approval before the wedding. Afterwards, I just sent them a telegram to let them know the date. My father and mother had long been concerned about me. Even though the abruptness of my marriage might seem unfilial or disrespectful, how could my parents not, after laying eyes upon the ideal son-in-law that their wandering daughter had chosen, feel joy and sorrow entwined? They warmly accepted José into the family.

  My father even exhorted me again with words like those our Heavenly Father had once conveyed to this mortal realm: ‘He is my beloved son and you must hear and obey him.’

  On José’s side of the family, I don’t know how my parents-in-law got to be so unlucky, but none of the four daughters or one son who were married had discussed it with them ahead of time. (They have two more sons and one daughter who are unmarried, so perhaps there’s hope yet.)

  Among these darling children, there were some who’d announced their marriage one day in advance (like José). Others had written letters after getting married (like the oldest sister in America). And then there were those who sat obediently before their parents in Madrid, all while they were secretly getting an overseas proxy marriage in Colombia (the second oldest sister).

  These siblings had all found their way into beautiful, blissful marriages, but still they chose to do this funny and inconsiderate thing to their parents. They gave no sign of it at home, but outside the house all eight of them would keep watch and help each other out, working together, sixteen hands lifting up the sky. They kept their parents completely in the dark. By the time their parents wanted to get up in arms, the rice was already cooked – alas, too late.

  It might be that their family environment had been too strict, conserv
ative or authoritarian, and this was why such tragicomic situations had emerged. (More proof it’s not just traditional Chinese culture that places emphasis on how you raise your children. The Western world is also full of strange practices!)

  Anyway, ever since I got married, my husband’s surname has adorned my ID, so I totally stopped paying any attention to my own family. (Not actually true.)

  Regarding my mother-in-law, I’m very much aware that heaven is high and the emperor is far away, so I can get away with not paying attention. But in order to clear our filial debts, I write to her once a week to pay our respects, reporting details of our daily lives and diets. If only my humble apologies could curry favour with my mother-in-law, I’d consider this, too, a belated happiness.

  In this mortal realm, men might seem sombre or cruel on the surface. But deep down their spirits are benevolent, their hearts open and minds frail. One need only make a small gesture to dupe them into good faith.

  A good son necessarily comes from a good father. My father-in-law soon started writing to me. The love he had for me was the same as he had for José.

  Because this writer happens to be a woman, the same sex as the mother-in-law, I not only know her as I know myself, I also know how to read between the lines. Accepting that I am but a lowly creature, I realised, too, that she couldn’t be much more clever than me – unless my divination skills had failed me and I was in for a surprise, and she was either like the bodhisattva Guanyin (whether or not Guanyin is actually a woman, I still don’t know), or else she was like Holy Mother Mary (definitely a woman and, what’s more, a virgin). Anyway, in either case, I was bound to receive her goodness and mercy.

  A pity my mother-in-law wasn’t either of these two types of women.

  Half a year of married life passed. I had been writing diligently to my mother-in-law, but nary a word she returned. I wasn’t about to get discouraged, intently focused as I was on stealing her heart. This project would take some time yet. (I hereby give myself the title ‘Great Pirate of the Seven Seas’, certainly a ne’er-do-well.)

  To all the daughters-in-law reading this, know that if you had a hand in setting up your own marriage, like Eve deciding to feed Adam the forbidden fruit herself, then your situation is similar to mine. I urge you to treat your mother-in-law well. Do not, by any means, overlook this.

  If you are still Eve, but your mother-in-law created you from your husband’s ribcage and presented you to him, then don’t read any further to avoid wasting your precious time. (But, a word of caution, don’t forget the tale of Southeast Fly the Peacocks.1)

  It’s said that the couple who ate the forbidden fruit knew they were in the wrong. Long ago they exiled themselves to the end of the world to become shepherds and live together as man and wife. This kind of life, sometimes marked by dispute and conflict, other times by love and tenderness, is a dull existence that easily gets frittered away.

  In my letters to my parents, I included photos of myself with a tousled mane, reciting to myself – wild hair like fragrant grass / growing each day you’re farther away.2 The photos of our home looked dismal and bleak as the underworld. The true happiness within was boundless as heaven.

  Being far from the emperor, my old mother-in-law, gave me leeway to misbehave at home, doing as I pleased, indulgent and complacent to the point of forgetting my very form.

  Fine. Don’t forget now about a certain Mister Bai from days of yore who spoke these words:

  Lush grass on the plains,

  in one year, withers and thrives once each.

  Wildfire does not burn it completely;

  when spring winds blow, it lives again. 3

  Winter came. The master of this lush land, old boss José, suddenly spoke up. ‘It’s almost Christmas. We have to go home to see Mother.’

  Hearing this, tears of excitement overcame me. I seized he who spoke and urgently asked, ‘Which mother? Yours or mine?’

  Answer: ‘Ours.’ (Such diplomatic language. Not clever at all.)

  It’s at this point that you know the period of thriving for the grass on your plains has passed. Withering time has come! (Whither the withering.)

  Don’t bother getting appendicitis, colic, stomach bleeding, bronchitis, back spasms or a broken leg or any of these desperate measures in early December. I myself have tried all of these. By the time it’s 20 December, you’ll still be lugging your little suitcase onto the plane, your man holding a knife to your back. Warriors must pay the price.

  Having grown up in a family of lawyers, I’d seen and absorbed every kind of criminal behaviour that our society can produce. On top of that, my own parents are truly honest citizens of the highest order. They often warned me that I’d have to first respect and restrain myself in order to manage my affairs in the outside world, put myself in others’ shoes, think of others’ circumstances and feelings. Only then could I be a good citizen of the world… (This is always the first step to a legal settlement, they say.)

  So after I got married, I often reflected on and evaluated myself carefully, counting the ways in which I’d done wrong as a daughter-in-law of the Quero family. What a disaster, keeping these accounts. Whether civil or criminal matters, I had committed all sorts of heinous crimes, more than just those that provoke a simple rebuke.

  For example, in my mother-in-law’s eyes, I’d been involved in illicit sexual relations, robbery, fraud, embezzlement, trafficking, abuse, damage, hindrance and so on and so on – all sorts of unforgivable offences. Once I had this self-awareness, I realised I was caught in dire circumstances.

  Let me tell you. Don’t be afraid. No matter what bad deeds you’ve committed, you might as well toughen up. Your guilty conscience will be your own little secret. Don’t let your mother-in-law see through you.

  Alright, so, the more you think about it, the more clear-headed you become. You realise that your mother-in-law must hate you from the bottom of her heart. Don’t second-guess your all too trustworthy powers of thought. You can’t be wrong. She hates you. She is your number one imaginary enemy. On the plane en route to her home, you should be forming an initial mental image: the imaginary enemy has been born. Don’t be too naive. She might be the CIA, and it just so happens you’ve joined the FBI. Don’t take this lightly, thinking she’s still family no matter what. Even if you’re both part of a set-up, maybe there’s some kind of conspiracy or bet you don’t know about.

  When you get off the plane in Madrid, there will be no one offering flowers to a criminal like yourself, even though you’d given them advance notice of your arrival. (Lucky you if there are no plain-clothes officers waiting to arrest you. Already a great fortune bestowed upon you. You should go and buy a lottery ticket.)

  At the airport, I’ll say I’m thirsty and want to go and sit in a cafe for a little while. After dawdling over three soda waters, I drag my feet all the way to a taxi. (Too bad there isn’t any E. coli in the soda water to give me acute enteritis so I can get hospitalised and not have to deal with anyone!)

  Finally, both my legs trembling, I’m standing outside the gate at my mother-in-law’s beautiful apartment. I put down my suitcase and say to José nervously, ‘Ring the doorbell! Say I’m here.’

  The son certainly won’t pay any attention to your crazy talk. He takes out the keys from his pocket and opens the door himself. (The return of a prodigal son is more precious than gold!)

  Your husband strides into a hallway with no end. ‘Papá, Mamá,’ he calls. ‘We’re home.’ Even if I were more bold, I wouldn’t be able to step over that threshold. My face is frozen into a smile. I stand outside the door, counting backwards by the second. Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…

  Then I see the end of the hallway. A large number of troops appear out of the blue. Father leads the way, followed by Mother. Little Sister squeals and squeezes. The Brothers come with arms wide open. (All with big beards.)

  I know the hour has come. My fate, my luck, I accept it all and fly towards them. Originally I thoug
ht I would throw myself into Father’s arms to be safe. Didn’t think Mother would grab me first in a tight embrace, taking me in from all angles, face lit up.

  The imaginary enemy is mighty indeed, with many a clever trick. Need to be on the defence. Thus the Quero family’s new daughter-in-law is dragged indoors.

  ‘Father, Mother, I’ve done something I feel terribly sorry about. Please forgive me.’ (Note that you should say ‘I’ and not ‘we’. Their son has escaped blame. Innocent, he remains.)

  If your mother-in-law is Chinese, you must be even more shrewd. Get down on both knees as soon as you enter. Kowtow like a mortar and pestle grinding garlic. Don’t worry. You won’t be asked to stand and freeze for three hundred days.4 If your mother-in-law’s spiritual practice runs deep, she’ll pull you up herself. It will be a struggle to call out ‘Mother’ to your imaginary enemy. Don’t be so unwilling. There’s still ‘Mama’ – this is the true term of endearment. You mustn’t ignore the power of diplomatic language. Would you rather call her Señora Quero? (Then you lose in the first round. A stupid person, you are!)

  I enter the in-laws’ home and look around me, finding this household to be neat and tidy, bright and spacious. The bathroom is spotless, the balcony filled with abundant flowers and plants. Every bedroom is immaculately made up, the kitchen cutlery spick and span. Father is a retiree with a clean and elegant style. Eldest Brother and Second Brother wear well-ironed trousers. Little Sister is cordial and courteous. I take in all of these achievements and quietly mark them to Mother’s credit. The imaginary enemy has just risen another level in her martial prowess. Take a deep breath. Prepare to take on a heavyweight battle with your featherweight self. (Mother is your enemy. You must sleep on brushwood and taste gall. Do not forget this – do not!)

  Alright. In your own home, or your Mama’s home, you can sleep until one in the afternoon; you can serve your husband soy sauce and water for a meal; you can forego doing the laundry for a whole week. You can also pull your husband’s hair, kick his legs, open his chequebook on a whim and so on and so on. You can do all sorts of bad things as you please; there won’t be any retribution.