by Hua Bai
“Sorry, I don’t smoke. I tried it once, but it’s not for me.”
Tucking a cigarette into his mouth, he asked, “Did you
study painting?”
“Yes, a little. Later, the Cultural Revolution – ”
“I heard you – ” I knew what he was asking.
“I’ve been in prison.”
“I know. I read your files. You were wronged, but why
did you – ?” I could guess what puzzled him.
“I came here of my own accord.”
“Oh?” He looked at me askance.
“Before I came I read a lot of books about this area in a library.”
“Our city is a poor, backward place.”
“I know that. But no matter how poor and backward it is, it’s much better than any prison made by technology.”
“Of course.”
“According to the written records, a country of women
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existed here in the past.” I was merely trying to keep the conversation going.
“Not just in the past. The Mosuo people are still a matrilineal, extended-family community.”
“Still?”
“Yes. Along Lake Lugu, not far from here – ”
“Wow!”
“You can rest now. The conditions of our Cultural Bureau are just as you see them. The bureau is still discussing your assignment. Better stay here for a while. Tomorrow the
county dining hall will open at seven – still dark in this area.” He turned to leave. I posed myself a mathematical problem: how many fifths of ten square meters are there in seven square meters? I even expressed it as an equation: seven divided by ten fifths equals 3.5. Satisfied with the result, I happily went to sleep.
Early in the morning, a heavy knocking at my window
woke me up. It was not yet light. Pushing the window open from outside, Bureau Chief Luo handed me a bowl and
chopsticks. He held an aluminum pot in his arms. “It’s time to buy your meal, otherwise you’ll miss it. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Taking up the bowl and chopsticks, I couldn’t help
thinking that prison was more convenient, because there
you ate what you were given. There were no problems of
overeating or leftovers, and you never needed to pick your teeth or worry about a bone sticking in your throat because fish and meat were not served. Now I had to buy my own
meal tickets and plan every meal – a real bother. But all this was still simpler than frequenting banquets. I tumbled off the board, and my feet slipped right into my shoes. Bowl and chopsticks in hand, I walked into the yard. The whole process took three seconds.
“Already dressed?” the bureau chief asked.
“I never undressed.”
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“Don’t you wash your face?” He pointed to the water tap
in a corner of the yard.
“Sure.” Turning on the water, I splashed some water on
my face then dried it with my sleeves: another three seconds. The deadpan face of the bureau chief cracked into a faint smile.
The bureau chief introduced me to the staff members and
showed them my papers and let them check my ID. Having
bought the tickets, I followed Luo to wait in three lines for three items: a bowl of porridge, two Chinese potatoes, and a little rock salt. As he was about to tell me to take my time with breakfast because he had to feed his wife and children at home, he found that my huge bowl of porridge and two
potatoes and the salt had disappeared in the twinkling of an eye: another three seconds.
“Wonderful!” Apparently he found my swiftness satisfac-
tory. “Nothing has been planned for you today. You may
look around our town.”
“Fine.” I accepted his suggestion joyfully.
Back at the Culture Bureau, I washed my dishes, brushed
my teeth (no time to do this before breakfast), and then went out into the street. The town consisted of two intersecting main streets and several lanes. At a regular walking speed, a tour around it took ten minutes. (By the way, at our parting old Gui had given me a fashionable and expensive electronic watch, a suitable present for a lazy boy like me.) My impression of the town was that, like a sparrow,
although small, it had all the requisite organs. It had everything a town should have: a county revolutionary commit-
tee, a county committee of the Communist party, a league committee, a trade union, a federal association of women, a Bureau of Education, a Building Bureau, a Security Department, a prosecutor, a court, a first prison, a second prison, and a detention cell, a gas station, a post office, a movie theater, restaurants, an interurban bus station, a weather station, a fire department, an agricultural development post. I 3 0 8
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counted one hundred and seventy-two placards, each hang-
ing at the entrance of a unit. Apart from the few people taking care of food stands, kiosks for cigarettes, and portable barber baskets, I wondered whether there were any others who did not live off of the government. Perhaps this was a typical feature of socialist nationalization. My second tour of the town was done in deliberate slow motion. It took me
two hours and six minutes to carefully study all the gates –
their styles, locations, distance from one to the other, and so on. Like a scout, I drew a detailed map in my mind. At noon I ate two bowls of peppery rice noodles, which gave me a good sweat, in the largest restaurant of the town, Four New Things.
Strolling out of the town, I entered a fir forest. A stream rushed to welcome me with its singing. By the stream were several tents put up by the Tibetan caravan men, who were resting around bonfires. Two Tibetan girls, lying prone on the ground, were whispering to each other, their long pigtails draped down their backs. An old man wearing a silver shield sat at the foot of the hill, shaking his prayer stick and silently chanting the name of Buddha. Their horses grazed freely beside the green stream. The azaleas in the woods were burning red like tongues of wild fire. Oh, this was the arcadia that had seduced me from thousands of miles away.
I walked over to the bonfire of the two Tibetan girls and nodded a greeting. One of them winked back at me naughtily. I boldly sat down before them and they immediately sat up and threw me a saddle to sit on. Then they picked up a big bronze kettle and poured some cocoa like liquid into a wooden bowl for me. They were both beautiful, with high
noses and big eyes, and they looked like sisters. The liquid had a strange taste. They laughed at me and said something to the praying man at the foot of the hill. They must have been talking about my odd look when I drank the hot liquid. “Buttered tea – buttered tea – ” The younger girl
pointed to the wooden bowl and stammered in Mandarin.
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“Good drink – good drink – ” I had heard of buttered tea before but did not know it tasted like this. I can’t say it was tasty.
The elder one took the wooden bowl to feed me, but I
took it back from her. She said, “Drink some more – the
more you drink the better it tastes.” I took another sip and found it better than the first one; the bitterness left on the tongue became sweet. Closing my eyes, I took a large mouthful. The girls laughed so hard they rolled on the
grass. Then they got up and filled my bowl again. Leaning against the saddle, I watched these two hospitable hostesses, who were so delighted with my quick adaptation to the buttered tea. Actually, they did not know I had once adapted my taste to food even a pig would turn its nose up at; later it even became a delicacy I dreamed about day and night. The two were whispering again, obviously about me. They had
forgotten t
hat even if they spoke loudly I couldn’t understand a word they said. They then poured some toasted barley flour out of a lambskin sack and kneaded it with buttered tea for me. I never expected that such an unpleasant food could stimulate my appetite so much that I drank a
dozen bowls of buttered tea and consumed half their sack of barley flour. The more I drank and ate, the happier they looked. They quickly boiled another kettle of tea and
poured it into a bamboo cylinder. After adding some butter and salt, they whipped it with a special stick until tea and butter lost their own identity and mixed into one cocoa-colored liquid. Because they did the work in turns, laughing and talking all the time in their heavy clothes, their faces flamed. The heavy smell of Tibetan girls’ sweat en-shrouded me. As with the buttered tea, I was repulsed at first but gradually got used to it. Then my nose was drawn to that sour and butter-flavored, intoxicating smell. I wanted to take a nap by the fire, but with my eyes wide open
because I could not tear my eyes from the girls. Maybe they 3 1 0
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noticed my tiredness. Exchanging glances, they took out a dented army flask, and as soon as it was open I smelled
wine. They passed it to me. Not wishing to decline their offer, I took a drink. The elder sister took one and the younger one took one. Then she passed it to me again. We drank several rounds like this. The wine, made from barley grown in Tibet and Qinghai, was delicious. We passed it
around without a word, but with laughter and shifting eyes.
Gradually, drowsiness overwhelmed me, although I tried
desperately to keep my eyes open. I wished them to never stop passing me the wine and blocking my view of the emotions conveyed by their beautiful eyes, playful hands, and mischievous lips. My fumbling hands could not grasp the
flask any more. The girls pressed it back into my hands.
Gradually, my fingers lost their hold, and the flask dropped to the ground. In spite of my resolve against the drooping of my eyelids, my vision was soon blurred, like an abstract painting. Next I knew nothing.
When I woke up, the two sisters’ merry laughter in-
truded into my consciousness, followed by a warm feeling. I saw I was covered with a piece of thick sheepskin, and the bonfire was blazing. The old man had also moved to the
fireside, still praying. Seeing me wake up, he paused a second to pass a word to the two sisters, who immediately
poured me a bowl of hot buttered tea. I mumbled in embarrassment, “Sorry, I got drunk – drunk. Thank you, but I
must be leaving now. It’s getting dark.”
The elder sister said, “Have some tea.”
The younger one tried a bit of humor in Mandarin. “Not
drunk – fell asleep.” The sisters burst into another bout of laughter. After drinking the tea, I stood up. When I was three yards away from the fire, I realized it was pitch dark, and I couldn’t tell which way to go.
The sisters came to help me up, and I realized it was the first time I had been so close to a member of the opposite 3 1 1
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sex since leaving prison. The younger sister took my right hand and the elder my left; they saw me onto the road and out of the forest. The lights in the town twinkled.
“I know how to get home – ”
“We can take you.”
“No, thanks.” After all, I was a man.
“We’ll take you home.”
“No.” Take me home? Did I have a home? Was that half
room my home? “No, but thanks.” I bid a firm good-bye to the two nameless Tibetan girls. I even ran a few steps to show them I was sober.
The cool night wind blew against my face and my heart
enjoyed unspeakable happiness. My happiness affirmed the strength of an individual’s belief and judgment. It was here I saw the unspoiled people who preserved human nature and elemental feelings, unpolluted by the commercial world.
They had not asked my name, profession, education, or
political status, and I had not asked them theirs. They had no knowledge of the tortuous road I had traveled or that I was a newly released prisoner. We had not talked about
world affairs, politics, society, family, philosophy, or human experience. Because of the language barrier, we could express only simple responses to eating and drinking, pleasure and joy. Like a bird of a different flock, I had accidentally landed near their nest for a while and had flown away again.
Following that old man, perhaps their grandpa, they would help the caravan safely reach the inland or Tibet. Although their road was also long and tortuous, it was only under their feet. I had to struggle down mine both with my feet and with a bleeding heart. Looking over my shoulder, I
could still see the bonfires in the woods yet could hardly believe they were real. Perhaps it had all been a dream, including the girls.
Luo Ren was waiting for me at the entrance to the Cul-
ture Bureau. He must have thought I was lost. But he mere-ly asked, “Have you eaten?”
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“Yes. I met some caravan Tibetans in the woods. They are really hospitable.”
“Oh, I see.” As he accompanied me to my room, he said,
“Today the county has made a decision on your job. By coincidence, Manager Ding of the movie house passed away, and you can step into his shoes. After a long deliberation, the county found this job is closest to your specialty.”
“Really?”
“The movie house team is quite small.”
“How many people?”
“Besides the projectionist, the other one is you.”
“Only two?”
“Yes. It’s sort of a hard job. You have to do everything yourself: selling and collecting tickets, ushering, cleaning the theater. But it has only five hundred seats. It’s closed during the day and has two shows every night. The power
plant stops producing electricity at midnight. The box office will be both your bedroom and your office. You can
move in tomorrow. There are two advertising boards you
can use to show your talents.”
“I’m happy with this arrangement. Thank the leadership
for their consideration. It’s nice to have a job.” I was truly content with my job. Although the work might be physically demanding, there would not be a lot of human complications. In fact, I would be my own boss. The projectionist would only show movies upstairs, while downstairs I would sell tickets, usher, and sweep the floor. It was not likely we would meddle with each other’s business. My day in the
woods was a pleasant dream, and my appointment was
another; the doubled pleasure thrilled me indeed. I moved to the box office the following morning. Fortunately, I had arrived only the day before and had not done any shopping, so I did not need a truck for my belongings.
The box office was rectangular with a floor area of ten
square meters. Entering it, two mathematical equations
popped into my head: ten divided by ten fifths equals five; 3 1 3
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and ten divided by seven equals 1.428, that is, four feet eight inches. It only had a small ticket window, below
which stood a desk with three drawers. Against the back
wall was a single bed. As soon as I came in, I saw traces of the late Manager Ding all over the place. From the sunken straw mattress I could easily figure out his height and
weight. Numerous black dots made by cigarette butts on
the wall told me that he had suffered from insomnia and was a heavy smoker. The gobs of dried spit on the floor proved he had a phlegmy cough. A drawer full of medicine bottles told me the root of his disease was in the liver and lungs.
The drawer on the left was filled with his self-criticism and minutes
of criticism meetings, all written in neat brush strokes, about a million characters in all. A quick leafing through them would give a comprehensive knowledge of his history and spiritual development. The middle drawer, used for movie tickets, showed that the public interest occupied the center of his mind. Replacing a dead per-son so fast upset me a bit; however, recollection of the past helped relieve my mind. When I was put in cell number 10045, I
was told that three previous cell mates had been shot
recently. People say being shot belongs to the category of brutal death: a man who dies in that manner will turn into an avenging ghost. But a man who dies of illness is merely an ordinary ghost. If I had not feared an avenging ghost, how could I be afraid of an ordinary one? Besides, given the length of human history, which house has not witnessed a person’s death and which inch of land has not buried a dead soul? I didn’t even bother to give the room a thorough
cleaning. I even used his old straw mattress.
Xiao He, the projectionist, had welcomed me at the
entrance as my underling and colleague. One could tell at a glance that he was a talented young man born at the wrong time. He told me that he was born in a city twice the size of this town and that his father was a middle-level cadre. Because of the Cultural Revolution, he was forced to discon-3 1 4
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tinue his education. Last year he had graduated from the prefectural technological training class as a projectionist with an official diploma and license. But during the job-distribution period he had offended his supervisor and was sent to work in a town half the size of his hometown and two
hundred miles farther from Beijing. Nevertheless, technicians like him were rare in this place. Apart from showing two movies a night, he had to rewind the reels, clean the projectors, adjust the amplifiers, make repairs, study new technology, restack movie introduction booklets, and make slides for family planning education. If that weren’t enough, he lived on the eastern street and had to rush back and forth.
“I am almost crushed by all these duties. Manager Ding
appreciated my efforts.”
I was no fool. I knew what he was driving at. Being a