Soul Mountain

by Gao Xingjian

  “Fuck you, think you can get someone to stop like that? Don’t you want to go on living?” The driver pokes his head out of the window to swear at me. He is a Han Chinese and I can communicate with him.

  I quickly run up to the cabin door to explain. “Driver, I’m a reporter from Beijing doing interviews in the Miao stockade. I’m on an urgent job and have to get back to the county town to send a telegram!”

  He has a wide face, a square jaw and a big mouth. This sort of person is usually easy to get on with. He looks me over and frowns. “The truck’s got a load of pigs and doesn’t take people. And my truck isn’t going to the county town.”

  I can hear the squealing of pigs coming from under the canopy.

  “As long as it’s not to the abattoirs, anywhere will do.” I put on a smile.

  He looks reluctant but finally opens the door. I hasten to thank him and jump into the cabin.

  I offer him a cigarette but he declines. We travel some distance without a word. Safely seated, I don’t need to explain any further. However from time to time he glances at the camera hanging from my neck. For the locals around here Beijing means the central government and reporters sent by the central government authorities have a certain style. But I have neither a county interpreter nor a special jeep to take me around. Nothing I can say will allay his suspicions.

  I suppose he thinks I’m a fraud. I’ve heard about pranksters going into the mountains with empty cameras and putting on a big act. They say their rates are cheap and go from place to place mobilizing families to have their photos taken, then after a bit of free fun in the mountains, the money they trick out of the locals is just perfect for a night out in a city restaurant. Maybe he thinks I’m in this racket. I start laughing to myself, I have to find something to amuse myself otherwise this long trip will really be boring.

  He suddenly looks at me and asks with undisguised coldness, “Where in fact are you going?”

  “Back to the county town!”

  “Which county town?”

  When I came in the Miao king’s car I wasn’t paying attention and can’t come up with an answer. “Anyway, I’ll have to go to the nearest county committee reception office!” I say.

  “Then get out of the truck.” A fork in the road appears up ahead, it is just as desolate and there are no houses in sight. I can’t work out if he’s trying to frighten me or trying to be funny.

  The truck slows down and stops. “I’m turning off here,” he adds.

  “Where are you taking the truck?”

  “The pig buying company.” He leans across and opens the door inviting me to get out.

  I see that he is not joking and it is inadvisable for me to stay sitting there. As I get out I ask, “Are we already out of Miao territory?”

  “We left long ago. It’s only ten li into town, you’ll make it there before dark,” he says coldly.

  The door bangs shut and the truck goes onto the side road and, in a cloud of dust, disappears into the distance.

  If I were a woman on her own this driver wouldn’t have been so cold. I know women have been kidnapped and raped by drivers on mountain roads such as these, but then, women wouldn’t lightly get in one of these long-distance freight trucks. People are always on guard against one another.

  The sun has gone behind the mountain and only a stretch of dusky sky with clouds like fish scales, remains. Up ahead is a long dirt slope. My calves ache, sweat is pouring down my back and I’ve given up hope that a vehicle will come along. I resign myself to going up to the top of the ridge for a bit of a rest and to prepare myself for walking all night.

  I didn’t expect to encounter someone like myself on top of the ridge. He arrives about the same time as me. His hair is like a tangle of weeds and he hasn’t had a shave for days. He also has a bag, the only difference is that I’ve got mine hanging on my shoulders and he is clumsily carrying his in his hands. He is wearing dusty work trousers, the sort coal miners or cement factory workers wear. As for me, I have been wearing these jeans since I set out on this trip and they haven’t been washed for several months.

  The moment our eyes meet, I sense he is a bad person. He looks me over from head to toe, then his eyes immediately return to my backpack. It is like running into a wolf, the difference being that for a wolf the other party is food to be hunted, whereas for people it is the other party’s money. Instinctively, I too can’t help looking him over. I cast my eyes over the bag he is carrying, does it contain some dangerous weapon? If I walk past him, will he attack me from behind? I stop in my tracks.

  This bag of mine isn’t light, especially with the camera in it, but it’s heavy enough to swing at him. I take the bag off my shoulders, hold it in my hand, and sit down on the dirt slope by the road. I take a deep breath and get ready to deal with him. He also takes a deep breath and sits on a rock on the other side. The two of us are not more than ten paces apart.

  He is clearly more powerful than me and if there’s a real fight I’ll be no match. However I remember the electrician’s knife which I always take travelling, it is handy and can also serve as a weapon to defend myself. I don’t think he’ll be able to produce a decisive weapon and if he pulls out a small knife he won’t necessarily come out the winner. If I can’t beat him I can turn and run, but this will only encourage him and indicate that I do in fact have money on me. From his eyes I can tell there’s no-one behind me, that no vehicles are approaching and that it’s as desolate as behind him. I must signal that I am on the alert, that I am on guard, and at the same time that I am not panicking.

  I light a cigarette and pretend to be resting. He also takes out a cigarette from the back pocket of his trousers and lights it. Neither of us looks directly at the other but we each watch from the corners of our eyes.

  Unless he is sure I have something valuable on me he won’t risk his life, but still a fight is inevitable. The old cassette player in my bag is like a brick and the sound is distorted, if I had the money I would have got rid of it long ago. Only my imported Japanese camera is in good working condition but it’s not worth risking one’s life for. I only have a hundred yuan in cash and it certainly isn’t worth getting hurt for such a small amount of money. I look at my dusty shoes and blow smoke at them. Sitting still, I feel my cold sweat-soaked singlet sticking to my back and hear the howling of the mountain wind.

  He sneers contemptuously, revealing his front teeth. I think that I also have a contemptuous look and probably some of my teeth are showing, and my face is undoubtedly as mean as his. If I open my mouth I can also spew out a barrage of foul language. I can go on the attack and I can stab a person with a knife, and at the same time I am ready to flee for my life. That look of insolence as he holds his cigarette in his fingers, is it because of a similar line of thinking? Is he also protecting himself?

  These shoes which I bought for this long trip have been in rain and mud and fully immersed in rivers. They are out of shape, black and dirty, and no-one could imagine that once they had been offered at a high price as fashionable travel shoes. There is nothing about me to make me the target of robbery. I drag hard on what’s left of my cigarette, toss down the butt and tread on it. He also flicks his cigarette butt onto the ground, as if in response, of course contemptuously, but at the same time guarded.

  After that both of us get up. Neither makes way for the other and both walk in the middle of the road, brushing past one another. People, in the final analysis, aren’t wolves but more like feral dogs. They sniff, look one another over, and then walk away.

  In that direction it is a long downhill slope. Once I start walking I can’t stop and keep going until the road levels. Looking back, the dusty highway crawling on the desolate mountain range under the dusky sky looks even more lonely.

  She says she’s getting old. When she combs her hair and washes her face in front of the mirror in the morning there are deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes make-up can’t hide. The mirror tells her the best years of her life have been
wasted. Each morning when she gets up she feels miserable and lethargic. If she doesn’t have to go to work she doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to see anyone. It’s only after she goes on duty and has to interact with people that she starts talking and laughing, forgets herself, and gets some relief.

  You say you understand.

  No, you can’t possibly understand, she says you can’t possibly understand the despair a woman feels when she finds no-one loves her. It is only as night approaches that she starts feeling lively. She likes to have a packed schedule every night and has to go out or have people visit – she can’t stand the loneliness. She’s anxious to live, do you understand this feeling of urgency? No, you don’t.

  She says it’s only on the dance floor when she closes her eyes and senses the touch of her partner that she feels alive. She knows no-one really loves her, she can’t bear someone looking at her close up, she’s afraid of the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, this gradual aging. She knows men, when you need women your words are sweet like honey, then after you have satisfied yourselves, you tire of the woman and just go off looking for new thrills. When you see pretty young women you start talking and laughing again. But how many years are there in a woman’s youth? Such is the fate of women. It is only at night, in your bed, when you can’t see her wrinkles and she gives you pleasure, that you say words of thanks to her. Just listen to what she has to say! She says she knows you want to get rid of her, that you’re making excuses just to make it easier to get away from her. Don’t say anything!

  You can relax, she says she’s not the sort of woman who clings to a man and won’t let go. She can find other men, she can console herself. She knows what you want to say. Don’t talk to her about a job. When she can’t find a man, then she can go and find a job. But she won’t bother herself with other people’s private affairs, pull strings or act as a go-between for them, or listen to them complaining about their sufferings. She won’t become a nun. You don’t need to pretend to laugh, the temples today only accept very young women: it’s all a put-on show for foreigners. The nuns who enlist nowadays get married and have a family life. She can look after herself and have a child out of marriage: a bastard. Listen to what she’s saying!

  Surely you can give her a child? Will you let her give birth to it? She wants one of your seeds, will you give it? You don’t dare, you’re afraid. You don’t need to worry, she won’t say it’s your child, he won’t have a father and will be the result of his mother’s wantonness. He’d never know his father. She’s seen through you, you’re only capable of seducing young women. But do they understand love? Will they really care for you? Love you like a wife? A woman’s body doesn’t have sexuality alone, it’s not just for you men to release your lust into. A healthy woman of course needs sexual love but sexual love alone isn’t enough, a woman’s instinct is also to be a wife and to have a regular life. Whoever you find will inevitably want to become attached to you, a woman wants to attach herself to a man, so what can you do? But another woman will not necessarily care for you like she does, like a mother loving her child: in her arms you are just a pitiful child. You’re insatiably greedy. Don’t have illusions that you’re young and robust, you’ll soon be old too, then you’ll be nothing. Go ahead and play with young girls, in the end you’ll still be hers, in the end you’ll still have to come back to her, only she can put up with you, excuse your weaknesses. Where else could you find a woman like her?

  She’s empty, she says, she has no feelings. She has been drained by pleasure and only the empty shell of her body remains. It’s as if she’s fallen into a bottomless abyss and she is a piece of torn netting, slowly drifting down. She has no regrets, she has lived and that’s all there is to it. She has loved and may count as having been loved. What’s left is like a bowl of insipid and tasteless tea, so what if it’s thrown out? It’s the same loneliness. She doesn’t get excited, and if she does, it’s like performing a duty. She is a piece of bleeding snake you have chopped off. You’re cruel but she has no regrets and only blames herself. Who asked her to be born a woman? She won’t run crazily onto the streets in the middle of the night and sit under a streetlight weeping stupidly by herself, and she won’t run about in the rain shouting hysterically making cars brake suddenly and swerve to avoid her. She’s no longer afraid of high cliffs, she no longer controls her own body, it is already decaying. Her remaining days are lifeless, this piece of torn netting no-one will pick up just drifts on the wind and reaching the bottom will quietly die. She is not like you, so afraid of death, so cowardly. Her heart was dead before this. Women are hurt much more than you men, from the very day they are possessed their flesh and hearts are trampled, what else do you want?

  Go ahead if you want to get rid of her! Stop saying nice things to her! It gives her no consolation, she’s not the one breaking off with you. Women can be far more vicious than men if they want to because they have been hurt far more by men! She can only put up with it, how else can she get revenge? If women were to seek revenge – she says she’s not thinking of taking revenge, she will put up with everything, unlike you men who cry out at the slightest pain. Women are more sensitive than men. She doesn’t regret being a woman, a woman has her womanly pride but it’s not arrogance. In any case she doesn’t regret being a woman and when she is reincarnated in the next world she wants to be born a woman again and to experience the sufferings of being a woman again. She wants again to experience the agony of giving birth, the joy of being a mother for the first time, the sweetness following parturition. And again to enjoy a virgin’s first tremors, the unbearable suspense, the unsteady gaze, the confusion at meeting a man’s eyes, the unstoppable tears at the pain of invasion. She wants to go through it all again, if there is a next world. Just remember her, remember the love she has given you, she knows you no longer love her, so it is best that she leaves.

  She says she wants to go into the wilderness on her own, to where black clouds meet the road, the end of the road. She will head towards the end while clearly knowing that in fact it is an end without an end. The road stretches endlessly and there is always a point where the sky and earth meet, but the road just crawls over it. She will simply follow the desolate road under the shadow of the clouds and go wherever her legs take her. When, after great hardships, she gets to the end of the long road, it will stretch further still and she will keep walking endlessly like this, her body and heart empty. She has thought about death, thought about ending it all just like that. To commit suicide requires the urge but even this urge has completely vanished. Suicide has to be for someone or for something but she no longer exists for any person or any thing, and she no longer has the energy to kill herself. Her heart has been numbed by all the humiliation and pain she has experienced.

  “Are you leaving?” she asks.

  “Doesn’t the bus go at seven?” I ask instead.

  “Yes, but there’s still quite some time.” She seems to be talking to herself.

  I am getting my backpack ready, bundling up dirty clothes and stuffing them in. I had intended to stay a couple more days in this county town to do my laundry and to get over my fatigue. I know she is standing right behind me, watching me, but I don’t look up, afraid I will succumb to the look in her eyes, not be able to leave, and be filled with even greater remorse.

  The small guest room is sparse, with only a single bed and a small table by the window, and my things are spread out on the bed. I have just come from her room, having spent last night there, and lying on her bed had watched dawn break with her through the window.

  I came down in a bus from the mountains to this small county town and it was at dusk, on the only long street in town, just outside the window, that I met her. The shops all had their shutters up and there were few people on the street. She was walking ahead of me and I caught up and asked her where the cultural office was. I wanted to find lodgings but this seemed a better opening gambit. She turned around. You couldn’t say she was pretty but she had a pleas
ant face, a fair complexion and thick red lips with well-defined corners.

  She said I could go with her and asked who I wanted to see there. I said anyone would do but of course it would be best if I could see the head. She asked why I wanted to see the head and I said I was collecting material. What sort of material was I collecting? She also asked me what I did and where I was from. I said I had documents to verify my identity.

  “May I see your documents?” She raises her eyebrows and seems to want to interrogate me.

  I take the Writers’ Association membership card in the blue plastic cover from my shirt pocket and show it to her. I know my name is already on documents circulated to various echelons of the central government down to the provincial cities and county towns, and could be seen by the heads of party committees and cultural offices. I also know there are people who like making reports and can use what I say and do to write up reports along the lines of the government documents. Friends who have had such experiences have warned me to avoid such people and so avoid getting into trouble. However, my experience in the Miao stockade has shown that sometimes showing this card comes in handy. Especially when the other party is such a young woman. I’m sure to be looked after.