The Chinese Bandit

by Stephen Becker

  He was on the verge of sorrow, of true remorse, of asking help, so he said, “Tough titty,” in a hard voice. He released his second canteen, uncapped it and drank; the water was slush, bitter cold, and tasted of metal.

  He checked his pack and pocket for scraps, and missed a strip of jerky, a pumpkin seed. Nothing. This was not the first time his hands, seeking food, had found clips or grenades; he did not curse, or make bitter jokes.

  He missed Ribs. He remembered stories of men who had gutted fresh-killed horses and crawled inside to keep from freezing. The old Mongols drinking from a pony’s vein, plastering it over with mud, swarming a thousand miles in a week.

  He remembered the smash of that bullet along his side. He remembered the dead bandit grinning at him, and the grinning dog. He remembered the beautiful bride.

  He looked, and saw the blinding darkness. He listened, and heard a snowflake fall.

  He slept.

  IV / NO MAN’S LAND

  34

  Jake woke up in a small, cold, golden cave. He knew that he was alive because his bones ached, also his flank, also his back. He groaned: he was prepared for death, even sleep was a blessing, nature had worked a full night to build him a tomb, and now he was alive and it was all spoiled, with pain and exhaustion and struggle to come.

  As the snow fell and drifted, the easterlies had swirled it higher each hour around Jake’s little scoop in the hillside. He had slept in a frail, spun igloo. The golden light was sunlight on a skin of snow.

  He heard a chant: frogs, or priests, or angels. He did not punch through to the surface. He was too weary for fighting or even for flight, and would rather fade away here in his cool hollow than go forth to war again.

  “Eh-eh-eh,” he heard. “Eh-eh-eh, eh-eh-eh.” It was a sound he had known all his life but he could not place it, not just now. Gloomily he gave up. He wanted to doze again but his bladder pressed. More proof that he was alive. In heaven there was no pressing of bladders. In hell there would not be all this snow.

  “Eh-eh-eh!” His igloo shattered, and he flinched back; his hand went to the butt of his pistol but lay there limp. Bright light dazzled him, and heaving dark drifts swarmed in on him, bleating and plunging. He blinked against the glitter, and his hand rose to ward off a fat sheep; his fingers sank into warm, oily, tangled fleece. “Eh-eh-eh!” They crowded in upon him; he clung, and hugged. The sheep were warm and cheering. They were meat and gave milk.

  Beyond the sheep he saw endless miles of rolling white immensity, and a clear, shining, infinite blue sky, and the blinding golden glare of winter sunlight.

  He also saw two men in sheepskins. They were tall and dark-skinned, and made the big teeth of surprise. Jake was too tired to do more than look. As far as he could see they were unarmed, but carried crooks.

  He filled his lungs. The air was crisp and clean. The sheep moved on, dropping small pellets of dung. Jake raised a hand in peace. He was too weak to stand. He thought he might be light-headed and hallucinating. His breath steamed pleasantly.

  The shepherds approached, showing curiosity but not fear. Jake made no move toward his weapons. He placed his palms together in greeting. The shepherds did the same, and kicked through the trampled snow toward him.

  They squatted to see him close up. Jake smiled feebly. One shepherd spoke; Jake understood nothing. The other unslung a small skin and offered Jake liquid; Jake opened his mouth to the squirt. It tasted like buttery tea, sweet and thick. He felt it trickle into him, and smiled again.

  His hands flapped weakly at his rifle and pack. The shepherds understood: these were all he owned. They pulled off his boots, and for one sad moment he thought they would loot him and leave him.

  No. They examined his feet and chattered, and one rubbed the flesh. Their noses were longer and sharper than the Chinese noses Jake was used to.

  One of them spoke urgently and plunged off after the sheep. The other mimed orders at Jake; wrap your feet, put on your boots. Jake did that, panting and straining. The shepherd nodded, and patted him on the head.

  Jake indicated the rifle and pack. The shepherd told him to carry them, and Jake shook his head, miming collapse. The other spoke and laughed, then picked up the load and waited.

  Delicately Jake worked his way to a standing position. He could see long dark valleys in the distance, patched sparsely with snow.

  He felt like an old man, but a raffish zing buzzed through him. He was not panting fiercely with the joy of life; all the same, his heart still beat. There seemed no way to kill him off, and he wanted to thank somebody.

  The shepherd pointed after the receding sheep, and urged Jake along. The sheep were winding slowly down a narrow valley, not much of a valley, more like a sunken trail, drifted now, but its banks hemmed men in and kept them safe and sheltered. Beyond the sheep, farther down, there was less snow. In spring the gully would be a stream, and the snow would melt and run off to join some river flowing north, and the river would make an oasis a hundred miles across like the Yarkand oasis. All that from the snow that Jake had thought his shroud.

  He labored for breath. So high up. He wobbled forward after his new friend. His boots crunched the snow; he lurched, and caught up with the shepherd in a drunken burst of uncontrollable strides. “Bless ’em all,” he sang. The shepherd peered back, startled, and grinned a great grin; his eyeteeth were missing, symmetrical gaps. “Bless the long and the short and …” Singing was tremendous work. The altitude. So near to heaven. The cold. How could angels sing? Jake squinted, and seemed to rise to meet him.

  The days without food, or the cold, or the singing, or the thin air, or all of those: the white world spun slowly, and then faster, snow and sky merging in one brilliant blue-white sheen, and Jake crumpled in his tracks, out before he hit the snow.

  35

  He woke again one day smiling vacantly, like a not very bright little boy who wanted to make a friendly impression. A man in a sheepskin hat with upcurling eaves was bending over him. Jake was sweating under a thick pile of blankets; he was sluggish and drowsy, as if lamed and gelded by peace; he was safe.

  His vision cleared. He was lying in a yurt, or a tepee, or something between, spacious and warm, above him a slit for smoke and a line of blue sky. Daylight filtered yellow through the hide walls. Half a dozen men sat about a small fire, eating and drinking. Their murmur was the murmur of gossip, of work and money and politics.

  Jake’s doctor spoke, in a language Jake did not recognize, and the men set down their bowls and padded to him. Jake was naked and warm, and wanted soup. But first other needs: he sat up, placed a grateful hand over his heart, and said, “Pss-pss.”

  The Doctor understood, and helped him to his feet, and led him to a large iron kettle half full of urine. Jake bowed thanks and prepared to contribute. The others consulted gravely, and he supposed they were discussing his circumcision, or his grenade scars. Then he found that he could not perform this simplest and most automatic of functions. He waited foolishly. After half a minute the Doctor, or the Chief, anyway the wearer of curly-brimmed hats, spoke decisively, clapped twice, and led the others out of the tent. Immediately Jake flowed.

  He stood by the fire afterward and sniffed at a vat of soup, and wondered what customs he was violating, what defilement he was committing and what demons he was offending. “Tum and det me,” he called. “I am froo.” The men crowded back into the tent. They examined the vat of urine, as if expecting color changes, or foreign fish.

  Jake meanwhile slipped back under his heap of blankets. They were not sheepskins but true blankets of rough and oily wool. He was in a remote but luxurious mountain hotel, with snuggly blankets, central heating, indoor privy and—he saw now—room service. A boy seven or eight was bringing him a bowl of soup.

  Jake sat up and offered his cheeriest thanks. He was not tired now, only weak, as if he had been sick for a long time, feverish. He sniffed the soup; his mouth watered in a rush. He sipped. “Aaah,” he said. “Mmmm.” The others appr
oved. It was a mutton soup, with strings of gamy hot meat and chunks of some small tuber. Lotus root. Who could tell. He felt his flesh seize upon the nourishment, felt his blood take it in.

  These men were darker, yes, and their noses sharper. He saw a pair of dark hazel eyes. Light woolen tunics, sheepskin trousers, sheepskin shoes like moccasins.

  They jabbered softly as he sipped and slurped. He listened. He knew nothing of this language. Or almost nothing. At moments he seemed to remember it dimly, as if it had been spoken by a fat uncle when Jake was in the cradle. But he was happy not to speak, or understand. He was God Almighty tired of wrapping his tongue around other people’s noises.

  They took the bowl from him, and brought his pants, shirt and boots. These had been boiled, or somehow laundered; they felt soft, clean, luxurious. He saw his rifle, and a bandoleer and the pistol belt, lying across his pack near the wall. Grenades, he remembered. Grenades and children, a bad combination. He stood up, and once again they inspected this foreign body, covered with curly golden hair like a gilt carving of some totem, half man, half bear.

  The flap rose and fell, and two women slipped into the tent. They wore trousers under tunics, and conical fleecy hats. They were young, but shapeless in the winter clothes; their dark eyes smiled; they were pretty. They stared at his body and murmured.

  It did not matter to Jake that he was naked. He was clean too; someone had bathed him. He sniffed the skin of his arm: bathed and oiled. He rubbed at his beard; these men were clean-shaven. He bobbed a short bow to the women. They spoke a few joking words to the men, who laughed. Jake felt at home, warm and well-fed.

  Yah, he said to himself. Easy now. These folks probably do a human sacrifice once a year. And guess who.

  The women handed garments to the Doctor, who passed them to Jake. They were of rich, soft wool: one was like a sweater, the other—for God’s sake, long johns! Balbriggans! With feet! A dirty yellow in color but soft and not scratchy.

  He grinned at the women, and dressed.

  36

  In the frosty air goats and sheep came into heat, and bucks and rams were encouraged with songs and shouts. The Doctor—his name was Zang-aw, but Jake always thought of him as the Doctor—undertook Jake’s education. “Gyag,” he said, pointing. Jake said, “Yak.” The Doctor nodded and said, “Gyag.” These animals were huge but gentle, almost six feet at the shoulder, mostly black and a few black-and-white; they were about halfway between a bison and a hairy cow, except for the long bushy tail. The calves—Jake thought of them as calves—were skittish.

  Jake kept looking over his shoulder, but no man pursued him. Maybe after enough trouble a man was absolved. The passes and hills lay peaceful. He practiced sign language. The Doctor introduced him to two shepherds, calling him Jay-kha, and Jake recognized his rescuers; he flattened his palms together, bowed and made thank-you music. They grinned and patted him. Jake waved northeast and asked, somehow, if they would show him the trail. They laughed, and their snowflake-fingers fluttered: no, they would not show him the trail.

  The passes were closed.

  The sheep were black and gray and curly-haired. The goats’ hair was long and fine; half-grown kids cavorted. Jake was allowed to carry skin buckets of milk. Yak’s milk, goat’s milk, sheep’s milk. On racks of wood and bone, scraped hides stretched, drying; the vats of urine were tanners’ vats. In the corners of tents bales of wool stood heaped; men and women spun, on simple wheels, and wove, on simple looms.

  On the fourth night the entire tribe gathered in the Doctor’s tent. Jake hoped it was not the whole tribe, that there were watchmen, outriders, shepherds sleeping among the flocks; he could not shake the lingering fear of pursuit and invasion.

  Supper was over, roast yak and a kind of wheatcake or bread, and that buttery tea, salty, greasy, hot and tasty. They were ogling Jake and discussing his fine points. Jake understood not one word, but he was sure they were being witty: “Look at the size of that beak,” and such. As they chattered, they patted one another on the head, shoulders, arms, cheeks.

  Then jugs appeared, and women poured from them into earthenware bowls; the children too drank. The Doctor proposed a toast. They all sipped. It was beer. A third cousin to beer. Jake belched. The tent was warm. Jackets had come off and were heaped in a corner, and the nomads—Jake too—sat in their undershirts, like at the boilermakers’ picnic.

  Jake was having a fine time but wondered about the evening’s purpose.

  After a round of drinks, the flap opened and a man entered briskly, a medium-sized man much like the others but with a few differences. He wore a blue skullcap embroidered in gold, and when he had removed his jacket and flung it on the pile Jake saw that he wore a necklace of turquoise and silver strung on rawhide.

  A woman had entered beside him, a tall, strong-featured woman who seemed to stand apart, as if even in a crowd a certain space and privacy must be hers. Her hair was braided into dozens of plaits, and each plait was bound by a bit of colored thread. Her face was broad and friendly, and her dark eyes glistened in the firelight. She too discarded her jacket, and Jake saw that she was a good big-boned woman with big round breasts. He thought he might have known that from her face.

  Jake was impressed by the knife at the man’s belt. It was the first long knife he had seen here, almost a sword, curved, in a leather scabbard decorated with brass coins and seashells. Seashells!

  A long knife that could be reserved for strangers. Jake stepped to his pack. The tent fell silent. He dumped his worldly goods to the floor. He found what he wanted: his .45.

  He squatted there for some seconds, and finally decided he was the biggest god damn fool east of Suez. He shoved the .45 back into the pack. These were decent people, and he would not molest decent people, and if he was to be the star of some sacrificial performance—well, they had plucked him from a snowdrift and granted him a few days more of life. Easy enough to live like a wolf; he wondered if he was man enough to die like a lamb.

  He returned to his place and breathed easy. He did not believe that people in their undershirts, who patted one another all over, who fed him meat and beer and then belched with him, would take his life.

  The man in the blue skullcap cleared his throat, tipped up a bowl of beer, gargled and launched an oration. The tribe encouraged him with cries and grunts. His eyes flashed at Jake; more than once he pointed. Jake made an effort to look agreeable and trustworthy.

  When the speaker drew the long knife, flourished it, and spoke with boisterous emphasis, Jake coiled some; but the man restored his blade to its sheath, delivered one more vehement phrase, and sat down to a swell of applause.

  After that they all congratulated Jake, clapping, patting him, bowing; they brought him another bowl of beer.

  He did not know what had happened, but he accepted their tributes, their friendship and their liquor, and beamed like a trained bear until the party broke up. “Good night,” he said as they left. He could not help himself. “Good night. Good night.”

  The fire burned low, and there was a great sound of pissing, and men and women went to their blankets, in couples and threes and alone, and then all was night, and silence.

  37

  Jake unloaded the rifle but not the pistol. He left the pistol in his pack, with the grenades and ammunition, and spent some minutes discussing these engines with the Doctor, laying down an absolute prohibition, nobody was to touch, man, woman or especially child. The Doctor reassured him. The pack was set between Jake’s bedding and the wall, and covered with a goatskin.

  The day was fresh and sunny, only a few tiny clouds scooting westward like a squad of fluffy owls. Children smiled shyly as Jake passed; women grinned openly. He smiled back but minded his manners; local custom was still a mystery, and there would be no escape here from an angry husband.

  Jake climbed a hillside, sat upon the ground, and took stock. Close as he could count, these people numbered about sixty, half of them female and a quarter of them children. A rich tr
ibe and a happy one. Doubtless they sold off wool, or bartered for supplies: those knives, and the jewelry, and the sacks of barley.

  This valley was their winter pasture, cut off by the high snows from everything, everyplace and everybody.

  They were a peaceful people and somewhat Buddhist: by the Doctor’s bedding stood a portrait, in many colors on a wooden board, of the Buddha or one of his followers, and in the four corners of the painting were a chicken, a cow, a yak and a sheep. The Buddha, or a similar reverend, was holding a flower, maybe a lotus.

  The valley was three miles long and a mile wide, and a narrow, icy stream trickled through it. This was home until the spring thaw.

  Well then, he told himself, I will do honest labor and be one of them.

  Family life was odd here: uneven, you might say. It seemed to Jake that there were men who bedded down with two women and women who bedded down with two men. He was not sure. A new boy would not shuffle around gawking. Ten large tents for sixty people, supplies and ceremonies. So more than one family in a tent, if family was the right name for it.

  The women used rouge: blushes of crimson on the forehead and cheeks. They wore conical hats trimmed in lambskin, and were beautiful; even the old women, who looked like gods’ wives. The men were beautiful, too, and Jake wondered if he was going soft in the head. Or really dead. Was this some other place? Or maybe he was just learning about folks.

  He remembered tales of people who lived a long time, mountain people in many countries who worked hard and breathed the high, thin air, and wrinkled slowly; whose blood ran fresh and clean, whose legs were springy at a hundred. He wondered if the Doctor here was five hundred years old or so.

  He wondered if there were wolves in these mountains, or leopards.

  He asked if men could cross the snows.

  The Doctor enjoyed the joke. Flutter, flutter: snow. In the dirt, with his knife and fingers, he made a relief map: the valley, the mountains, the passes. He snowed. Snow filled the passes.