Ralo had been in town for a few days, and after his money had all dried up he returned home to discover that his wife was nowhere to be seen. According to his neighbors, she’d been taken away by Sönam Dargyé, so off he went to Sönam Dargyé’s house to fetch her back.
“This is my home now,” she said.
“Ah tsi, are you possessed or what?”
“You’re the one who’s possessed!” Sönam Dargyé approached him. “She’s my legal wife, what other home has she got except this one?”
Ralo, incensed, started to butt Sönam Dargyé with his shoulder. “You’ll steal someone’s wife in broad daylight?!”
“If you think I stole her, then go report it to the police. Then we’ll see whose wife she is.”
Only then did Ralo remember that there is a place that can subdue tyrants and protect the weak: a place they call “the courthouse.”
Eight
I took Ralo to the civil court and introduced him, then went back to the office.
The civil court summoned Sönam Dargyé and the woman to investigate the matter. “It’s true that Ralo and I lived together for a while,” she said, “but we weren’t husband and wife. If he says we were, then where’s the marriage certificate? Isn’t it against the law to live together without a marriage certificate? So my marriage to Sönam Dargyé is completely legal.” She produced a marriage certificate from her pocket.
According to the verdict of the court, the woman was Sönam Dargyé’s legal spouse. Ralo’s lawsuit had about as much impact as throwing a stone into Qinghai Lake.
Ralo now finally realized the importance of getting a marriage certificate. He felt a deep sense of regret that he hadn’t sorted out this marriage certificate thing before. He gave himself a slap on the face, and the snot ran down to his chin.
Nine
Ralo exited the courthouse and wandered aimlessly down the street. Coming to the door of a restaurant, he realized that he hadn’t had breakfast or lunch yet. He felt a wave of heat in his stomach, which emitted a long rumble. Unable to stop himself, he went into the restaurant, but unfortunately he didn’t have a penny to his name.
A lot of kids these days will eat without paying for it, but Ralo was not that kind of person—in fact, there was one time he returned four thousand yuan he found on the street straight to its owner without a moment’s hesitation. No one could accuse Ralo of having sticky fingers, unless they were talking about him picking cigarette butts out of the teachers’ trash back when he was in school.
Ralo stood in a daze, staring at the mouths of the diners. As he stared he found himself thinking back to his time as a monk: the faithful masses would always donate congee filled with more meat than rice, and there would even be raisins and sugar. If ever a family that wasn’t so well off substituted dates for raisins, the monks would very likely say, “Hey, they’ve put damn dates in here!” and with no hesitation at all upend their bowls on the table.
I really didn’t know the value of food in those days, he thought, sighing. Ralo swallowed a mouthful of saliva and turned to leave, but his stomach continued to emit the warning sign that he had to eat something.
Ah—what can I do? I’ve got to get some food, no matter what! Ralo cast about desperately for a familiar face. In the old days, he thought, I’d sell a sheep or a cow and drink to my heart’s content, then all my classmates and people I knew would be buzzing around me like bees. Where have all those people gone now? His thoughts turned to the old yak, the one he used to ride. That yak was the only one from his herd of livestock worth any money, as well as his only means of getting around. But what’s more important than your stomach? Don’t all living things, from the lowest ant to the noblest human, rush about madly just for the sake of their stomachs?
Ralo sold that old yak for seven hundred yuan. If he’d been an experienced trader, there’s no doubt he could have got more for it. But as far as Ralo was concerned, that was a most satisfactory sum, as never before in his life had he held so much money in his hands.
Ten
“I’m Ralo, and I’m rolling in it! Drink, drink, drink …” Ralo was a little bit drunk. He was in a restaurant, waving a handful of hundred-yuan bills in the air and drinking beer in the middle of a crowd. “As for Ralo’s paternal ancestry and maternal ancestry …” he began, snot running down to his chin.
It was dusk, and the restaurant was lit up. A woman kept peeking in through the doorway and looking around. As Ralo was coming back from taking a piss, he saw her and stayed outside for a moment to size her up. From the look of her clothes, she wasn’t a local.
“Where are you from?” asked Ralo, staring at her.
“Amchok,” said the woman, turning around to look at Ralo. She was just over twenty years old, her clothes were worn out, and she had cracked lips, but her deep-set eyes gave off a sincerity and a purity that called to Ralo’s mind the image of the water-fetching girl from the year before.
“Have you ever been to the Tsechu to fetch water?”
Not understanding the meaning behind his question, she stared at him in bemusement.
“You’ve definitely been to the Tsechu to fetch water.” Ralo continued to interrogate her as though he were a policeman. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to eat something … but …”
Ralo realized that she must have no money. “I know you. I’ve seen you before. Just wait a second.” He went into the restaurant and whispered a few words to a young man who had the appearance of an official. The man passed him a key, and he returned. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
The woman was hesitant and stayed where she was. “Don’t be afraid,” said Ralo. “I know you.” He tugged on her sleeve and she somewhat reluctantly went along.
Side by side, they went into a narrow alley.
“There’s no happiness in samsara, but you can dispel your troubles!” blurted out Ralo. On top of the proverb, he added: “Let’s get a marriage certificate.”
“Ah tsi! What are you talking about? I’ve got a husband.”
“Ah, but after we get a marriage certificate, you’ll be my legal wife. Then no one can interfere, whether you had a husband before or not!”
“Really?”
“Really! I had a wife before too, but she got a marriage certificate with some other guy so the court said she wasn’t my wife, but the other guy’s wife. ‘Chinese rely on writing, Tibetans rely on their word,’ as they say.”
“Then it’s up to you. I can’t get along with him anyway. If I could, then what would I be doing all the way out here, wandering around on my own?”
The strange thing was that, in this place, it was hard to get divorced but there were no procedural requirements at all for getting married. As long as both parties consented, that was it. So Ralo and this virtual stranger went down to the county government and got a marriage certificate, no problem.
Though there was no way that she could be the water-fetching girl, compared to the yellow-toothed wife—or partner—he’d had before, she was prettier and a whole lot nicer. So Ralo swore from the bottom of his heart that he would change his bad and idle ways and resolved to spend his days with this honest woman. He even swore off the drink before a lama.
Ralo genuinely fell in love with her. This love was something he hadn’t felt at all with the previous two women. For instance, when he went to the county seat to buy grain, he wouldn’t waste a single second messing around and would hurry back as soon as possible with a new shirt or some sweets for his wife. And as soon as she saw Ralo coming back in the distance, she would rush out the mile or so to meet him, bringing food and drink with her. Things were going well for the two of them. They used the old tent that Ralo’s mother had left behind to store dung, and the brand-new one they moved into was filled with the sound of laughter.
Eleven
Some people said that this woman put Ralo on the straight and narrow. Others even said that she might be the reincarnation of Ralo’s mother. Either way, ever since th
ey’d been together Ralo really had become a different person. There was even less snot on his upper lip than there used to be.
However, one day, two men from the Public Security Bureau showed up completely out of the blue and took Ralo and his wife away to the county seat.
According to the court, his wife had committed bigamy, so she was sentenced to six months in prison. Ralo cried until the tears and snot mingled on his chin. Coming up close to him, she said, “Ralo, don’t lose heart. Six months isn’t that long. I’ll always be yours.”
What sincere and kind words! These words gave Ralo a kind of courage and hope that he had never felt before. Wiping away the snot and the tears, he stood up straight and called out, “Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you!”
PART II
Twelve
I wrote the story of Ralo in 1988, and it was published in Light Rain magazine in 1991. In the autumn of 1992 I was working in a small town about thirteen miles from the county seat. Once, when I was drunk out of my mind, a colleague took the opportunity to phone the county police with a false accusation against me and I was put in jail. For a writer like me, this seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity to experience prison life, something you wouldn’t come across in a hundred years, and it also seemed like it had been arranged especially for me to write the end of “Ralo.”
When I awoke, or rather when I sobered up, it was already light, and only then did I realize that I was in jail. The other prisoners gathered around me, and before long prisoners from other cells also arrived, like vultures landing on a corpse. One after the other they came up to ask me why I’d been “invited” here. Later I discovered that when a new prisoner arrived, the older prisoners would come surround him and press him with all manner of questions, regardless of what ethnicity he was or whether they knew him or not. This wasn’t really out of concern for him, it was more a way of passing the time. Unfortunately I was a great disappointment to them, as not only did I have no idea why I’d been “invited” here, I couldn’t even say how I’d been “invited.” They left, feeling very let down. Thinking about it now, I realize this must have been the first time they’d ever met someone who had no idea why or how he’d been “invited,” and they probably thought it bizarre or hilarious, which I suppose had to count as their entertainment for that day.
Ralo loitered by my side. “Yeah, you were wasted when they brought you in last night,” he said. He lowered his head, revealing that braid like a marmot’s tail.
Ralo’s braid had completely lost its luster, like a tattered rope left for years in a pile of manure. On top of that, it was filled with lice and lice eggs, making it look gray, as though covered in yogurt. Some of these lice were alive and some were dead, and some it was hard to tell. “Lice as big as yaks,” as people fond of exaggerating would say; or “as many lice eggs as atoms,” as those of a more scientific bent would have it. If Ralo’s head had been the earth, then the lice and their eggs would have been like humankind—each one extracting nutrients in accordance with its relative strength and intelligence. Ralo’s brother-in-law had once pulled out the braid at the root and left him with no way to face people. But how true that Chinese proverb is, “If the old doesn’t go, the new won’t come”: Ralo’s braid had now grown even thicker and longer than before.
The editor of Light Rain kept urging me to continue the story of Ralo and see it through to its conclusion. He even expressed the hope that the spring wind of Reform and Opening Up could transform Ralo into a successful entrepreneur or a wealthy businessman or something. Either way, he wanted me to present the readers with a new kind of man. What a rare thing that is these days—I could dash off something without even thinking about it and get a paycheck. But in reality, no matter how that spring wind of Reform and Opening Up blew, it wasn’t going to turn Ralo into a successful entrepreneur, and it wasn’t going to turn him into a wealthy businessman either. I’d heard that Ralo had become an accomplished practitioner who subdued many demons. Some said that Ralo had become a master of divination with a flawless awareness of the past, present, and future, and moreover that he’d determined that his mother had been reincarnated as a dog, and he brought that dog home and kept it on a diet of meat and milk. In Drakmar Township the district head allegedly declared that their primary development target was to bring the living standards of the township’s residents up to the level of Ralo’s mother/dog by the year 2000. I’d heard these and other incredible stories but didn’t believe a word of them, so I never bothered to check their veracity with Ralo. Our unexpected meeting here was, therefore, a heaven-sent stroke of good fortune, but I felt that this opportunity would be short-lived, as in my mind I was positive that at any moment a policeman would arrive and say, “Comrade Döndrup, I’m very sorry. You can go now.”
“The cops brought you in by your arms and legs, holding your head up,” Ralo continued. “At first we thought it was the body of a prisoner who’d killed himself, and they were putting it in our cell temporarily. It was scary. Later on I realized it was you, and I thought when you woke up we’d talk. I waited for ages, but you didn’t wake up.
“Eh—drinking’s really bad for you. You don’t even know what you’re in for.” As he spoke, Ralo shook his head, giving the impression that he’d grown much wiser. Judging from the fact that he no longer drew out his speech in a slow drawl—“Oh … really,” “There’s an old saying …” and the like—you could tell that he’d fallen on hard times, or at least that he was feeling low.
“Eh—maybe you didn’t actually do anything wrong.” Ralo scratched his head repeatedly. “’Cos—I swear to Alak Drong—I’m not a thief either, but they still brought me here.” As he spoke he discovered two yak-sized lice struggling for all they were worth between his long fingernails. With the practiced and nimble movements of a monkey Ralo tossed the lice into his mouth, and two crisp and clear crunches rang through the room. A few days later, when Ralo took off his fur jacket, laid it on the ground, and began popping lice into his mouth like peas, I told him to knock it off. “Lice blood won’t fill the belly, but the crunching will please the ear,” he said, which is true, I suppose. The weather that day was lovely, and for some unknown reason Ralo was also in a great mood. Our belts and shoelaces had all been confiscated, meaning there wasn’t much we could do but hold up our trousers with our left hands. Ralo likewise held up his trousers with his left hand, and with his right he laid out his fur jacket and sunbathed for a spell. The army of lice emerged like mushrooms sprouting after rain and began to dance about on the tips of the jacket’s hairs. By a common impulse the other prisoners gathered around Ralo’s jacket, shouting “Over there! Over here!” as they pointed and grabbed at the lice. “Don’t rush—don’t rush—” said Ralo calmly in the manner of a general returning triumphantly from battle. He picked out the largest lice and ate them, a sight that made the roots of my teeth itch. “Hey, Ralo, don’t do that,” I protested. “There’s an old saying—‘Lice blood won’t fill the belly, but the crunching will please the ear,’ ” he responded, and began to pluck the lice from the others’ hands and toss them into his mouth with a crunch. He had the look of a man enjoying his fill of an inexhaustible supply of riches.
Thirteen
With a piercing metallic clank the cell door swung open, and the guard and cook came in bearing food. There was a large plate of mutton momos sent by my family, as well as some toiletries. “Is there anything else you need them to bring?” they asked.
“No, nothing. I’ll be out soon.”
“I don’t want to disappoint you, but you won’t be getting out today, at any rate.”
“Then tell them to bring a book.”
“I’m afraid you’re only allowed to read books about law.”
“That’s fine,” I said, thinking that I would write down the name of a book for him, but when I put my hand in my pocket I discovered that I didn’t have a pen or a notebook—not even a piece of paper. Seeing my confusion, the guard placed his pen and a piece of pape
r in my hand. “Your things are all being kept for you,” he explained.
“And ask them to bring some cigarettes,” I added as the guard was leaving.
Ralo came over to me. “Looks like the warden’s being good to you. Do you know him?”
“Everyone knows everyone in a little town like this. Besides, I used to run into him all the time back when I was a public defender. Why, does he treat you badly?”
“No, no. It’s the other guard who’s hard on us. He’s a real son of a bitch. Calls me ‘snotnose’—the guy has a serious attitude problem. This guard treats us okay, but there’s no way he’d give me a piece of paper and a pen and let me write a letter home. Eh—it really helps to know Chinese.”
The food in jail couldn’t compare to my mutton momos, so I told Ralo to share them with me. I’m not sure why, but I used to think that fat people could put more away and that the fatter you were, the more you could eat, but I was completely wrong—or at least I guess you could say that that day provided some proof that skinny people can put it away too: by the time I’d eaten two or three momos, Ralo had polished off the entire plate.
“Maybe you didn’t actually do anything wrong, just like how I never stole that horse—swear to Alak Drong. But they still brought me here, didn’t they?” I don’t know if it was by way of thanks for the momos or if he was trying to get on my good side, but either way, he said this to me again. I thought that Ralo probably had been framed. As I heard it, the sole basis on which Ralo was accused was that he’d once invited Alak Drong to his house, and as he was accompanying him out, Ralo had said, “Ah la la! Machu horses really are a rare breed. I’d swap my wife to get my hands on a horse like that.” That was it.
When I asked Ralo if that’s how it happened, he said, “That’s exactly what happened.” That was the first time that Alak Drong had graced Ralo’s home with his presence, and Ralo was so happy he had no idea what he was saying.
The Handsome Monk and Other Stories Page 5