Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

I wondered if the museum people knew that both the Gold Buddha and the Diamond Sutra now on display were but reproductions, albeit very skillful ones.

I took another look at the sutra. Whose blood was on this fake one? A cow, a stray dog, a pig—a fat one for its abundant supply of blood?

I looked carefully around the display case and found that the statue and the manuscript were actually placed inside the same case. This meant I only had to break open one case to get both objects.

One stone for two birds.

One arrow for two eagles.

This time I laughed out loud, but then instantly killed my laughter. There was nothing to be happy about, not until I had exchanged the two objects and disappeared from the museum.

I suddenly noticed two men in their sixties milling around the room, talking to each other in heated whispers. When did they come in? Why hadn’t I noticed? I must have been so immersed in my thoughts that I became inattentive. I bit my lip; I could not let this happen again.

The two men, both wearing white shirts and gray suits, looked like they were scholars or archaeologists. Judging from their intense expressions and animated discussions, they must be arguing about the objects on display. Not wanting to arouse their attention, I lowered my head and hurried outside the room. At the entrance, the same receptionist was now cracking watermelon seed between her teeth and reading a newspaper. She did not bother to look up at me.

A good sign.

After I left the museum, as I was wondering what to do next, I spotted a small eatery across the street. I headed straight there, sat down, and ordered peanuts, buns, dumplings, and tea, which I couldn’t possibly finish but just so that I could stay longer. While eating, I studied the museum but didn’t see anyone going in or anything unusual. A few hours later, when I was sipping my tea and picking at my leftover food, the two “scholars” came out, followed by the receptionist and the guard.

I had come up with a plan and would be back tomorrow.

The next day, I put on a T-shirt, blue jeans, and a thin jacket, then pulled my long hair up into a chignon and wore a baseball hat, trying to look as unremarkable as possible. This time I arrived about an hour before closing time. Today more people, about eight or ten, milled around, watched by the same male guard as yesterday. I walked around looking for places to hide while consciously staying outside the guard’s vision. About fifteen minutes before closing time, I sneaked inside the storage room and hid myself inside a closet. The room was a mess with piled-up boxes everywhere, so I didn’t think anyone would find me.

Half an hour later, once all was quiet, I cautiously opened the closet door. But then, just as I was stretching my stiffened arms and legs, I heard footsteps in the distance. Instantly I moved back inside the closet, closed the door, and pressed my ear on the door to listen. A man and a woman had come into the storage room, talking and giggling. Who were they and what were they doing in the museum after closing time? My heartbeat accelerated as the noise came closer so that they seemed to be right outside my hiding place.

A man’s voice said, “See? This is the best place. I guarantee no one will find us.”

Then the woman’s harsh voice floated in the air. “You’re bad, so bad.”

It was the receptionist! What the hell was she doing here?

The man teased. “You’re bad, too, following me like a puppy.”

Both laughed nervously, then mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

Soon I could hear clothes dropping on the floor, followed by groaning and moaning.

The man declared in a heated whisper. “Oh, heavens, how come you have such huge, soft fucking breasts like pillows!”

This was followed by the woman’s laughter and her sky-rocket-shooting scream. “Harder, please, harder! Oh, yes! Don’t you dare stop, or I will tear off your turtle head!”

The receptionist looked so prim and sloppy. Who would’ve imagined she could fuck with such abandon?

Listening to this couple’s coupling, I thought of my lovemaking with Alex and felt an unspeakable sadness. What was he doing now? Was he thinking of me?

Then the moaning and groaning stopped, followed by the man’s urgent voice. “Quick, let’s get out of here before any mishaps. I don’t want to lose my easy job just watching a few assholes pace around!”

Then the receptionist’s, “What time is it? Damn, I have to go home to cook for my husband and son!” followed by the sounds of pulling on clothes, then footsteps hurrying away.

The guard, the bored receptionist—a married woman with husband and child—a rendezvous in the museum’s filthy storage room. I couldn’t believe it.

I waited fifteen minutes, making sure no sounds came from anywhere in the museum before I sneaked out of the closet and headed straight to the exhibition room.

I again inserted my Swiss Army knife’s screwdriver into the keyhole. This time I twisted it with more force, but the lock refused to budge. Frustrated, I thought of breaking the glass but soon dismissed the idea as stupid. Then I put on my gloves and used my whole force to turn the knife. Bit by bit the lock yielded, painfully, like a pretend virgin.

Quickly I took out both the fake Gold Buddha and the Diamond Sutra and put them inside my backpack, then, with utmost care and respect, replaced them with the two authentic ones. After that, I closed the case, muttered a short prayer to the authentic Enlightened One now sitting in his rightful place, then left the room.

Of course the main door was locked, and this time no matter how I abused the Swiss knife, the door adamantly refused to succumb. My heart beat fast as different scenarios flashed across my mind: spending the night here and sneaking out tomorrow, getting caught, suffocating from the heat and turning into a mummy….

Then a lightbulb went off in my head, and I hurried to the toilet. Inside, human excretion filled every trough to the brim, looking like hot chocolate mousse but not smelling like it. I had to use all my willpower to ignore the stench so I could concentrate.

Yesterday when passing by the bathroom, I remembered seeing sunlight filtered through windows. Yes, here they were! I reached to open the nearest one, and to my delight, it was not locked. Swiftly I climbed up to the ledge and jumped down to soft sand. It seemed too good to be true. But it was, like the Chinese say: “When water arrives, the trough forms naturally.” Ha!

Outside it was already dark and there were no cars around. The restaurant was still open but with only one customer, and I didn’t feel comfortable eating there, lest the owner recognize me. Even if I did, what would I do next?

The only way seemed to be to walk the five or six miles to the nearest station and see if I could catch a train back to Urumqi—although it was unlikely there was more than one train per day. Fortunately both the reproduction Buddha and the fake manuscript were light, so my back was not strained or my neck crushed. Nonetheless, my mind was weighed down almost to the ground.

Three hours later, my legs wobbly from the long march, the train station happily came into view.

Finally back in Urumqi after a long, fitful train ride, I checked into the Xinjiang Hotel. Once again in this now-familiar city, a sense of comfort and security returned. After all the nerve-racking events of the past months, I felt I desperately needed a respite before continuing my journey. My next move would be to visit the blind fortune-teller—they are assumed to be able to “see” the future, though no one has ever explained how. Still ahead of me was the crossing of the Taklamakan Desert to search for a treasure buried under a wall. My final destiny—assuming I was still alive and in one piece—would be to meet my aunt and her lawyer, Mr. Lo, then collect the three million dollars. I needed a break but did not want to delay receiving my fortune.