Ma Jian: Stick Out Your Tongue

As I drifted off to sleep, I heard a terrible noise outside. It sounded like a wild beast stamping its hoofs. I sat up, grabbed my knife and lifted the door curtain. The old man was walking towards the tent dragging a yak behind him. He clutched the yak’s horn with one hand and put the other over its mouth. The yak struggled to break free. I offered to help, but the old man told me to stay away. He yanked the yak’s head down, flicked a knife from his belt and thrust the blade into its neck. Then he whipped off his hat to collect the blood that poured from the wound. The yak kicked and brayed. At last, the old man released his grip, pushed the animal away and watched it stagger back into the darkness. He walked back inside the tent and handed me the hat of blood. ‘Drink!’ he said, as he returned to his sheepskin rug. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, then sucked the blood that dripped from his fingers.

I placed the hat of blood in front of me and watched the steam and froth slowly disappear. I was no longer in a mood to sleep, so I started a conversation with him while we waited for the blood to congeal. He told me that he was a nomad from the pastures near Chiu village. Six months ago, he’d travelled to Shigatse, sold his entire herd of yaks and sheep and donated the proceeds to Tashilumpo Monastery. I asked what his plans were now, and he said that he was on his way to the Gangdise Mountains to pray to the Buddha, and to wash his sins away in the sacred waters of Lake Mansarobar. He told me that he had a daughter. I asked him where she was, but he didn’t answer me. His eyes darted from left to right. I could tell that he was dying for a drink, so to distract him I took a cigarette from my pocket and tossed it to him.

When he finished telling me his story, I thought of a girl I had seen in Lhasa, and wondered whether I should mention her to him. In the end I decided not to. I was afraid that if I told him about her, he would pester me for more information. And I was also worried that if he’d known what state his daughter was in now, he might have lost his mind. This is what he told me:

‘After I sold my herd, I went to Tashilumpo Monastery to pray to the Buddha. I asked the Buddha to protect my daughter, and to allow me to see her again in heaven after I die. I begged the Buddha to help me complete nineteen circuits of Mount Kailash, then allow me to rise to heaven. It was all my fault …

‘I drank from my mother’s breast until the age of fourteen. Her milk never ran dry. My father was killed during the Tibetan Uprising in 1959. The Chiu Pastures are almost deserted now. You will see that for yourself when you travel through them. I was sixteen when I first slept with my mother. Although I saw other women when I went to Chiu village for the annual Sheep Shearing or Yoghurt Festivals, for some reason, I could never break my attachment to my mother. Sometimes she cried about it, but there was nothing we could do. She’d brought me up alone. After my father died, she devoted her life to me and distanced herself from the other nomads. Then one year in Chiu village, I heard that Sera Monastery in Lhasa was recruiting workers to help repair their bronze Buddha. I saw this as a chance to escape from my mother, so I left home and travelled to Lhasa. Our daughter Metok was nine years old by then. If she’d known that she was my mother’s child, how could she have lived with herself?

‘I learned many things while I was in Sera, but told no one of the sins that I’d committed. Every day after work, I’d prostrate myself before the temple gates to wipe the sins from my soul. But I’d grown used to suckling at my mother’s breast, and during those years at the monastery, I chewed my fingers raw.’

I remembered how he’d looked like a greedy child when he sucked the blood from his fingers a few minutes ago. His skin was dark. His dishevelled hair was drawn back from his face and fastened with a purple thread. Red light from the fire danced across the veins protruding from his forehead. He thrust his hands out as he talked, and when he shook his head loose strands of hair swung across his eyes.

‘After five years in Lhasa, I thought that my sins had been washed away, so I returned home. Metok was fourteen. I’d bought her some clothes and a pair of felt boots.

‘Metok could already weave her own apron by then. Sometimes she’d sit on my lap and let me put up her hair in the Lhasa style. Over the next two years, she grew up a lot, and began to remind me of her mother. In the grasslands, women strip to the waist at midday, you know, just like the men.’

I told him that I’d seen women do this, then I asked him what had happened to his mother.

‘She died two years after I returned from Lhasa,’ he said. ‘When Metok rode with me to the pastures to round up the yaks, the sight of her bare breasts made my heart jump. One day, I lost control. I grabbed hold of a ewe and sucked its udders. Metok saw me do this, and from that day on she kept herself covered at all times and slept as far away from me as she could. I started to drink. I was terrified that my old habits would return.

‘Last summer a trader came to our tent asking if we had any leopard skins or antiques to sell. His name was Dondrub. He was well educated, he could speak Chinese. He told us that he’d had a salaried job in Lhasa. But the truth is, he was a very bad man. May he go to hell when he dies! His cart was loaded with goods to sell to the nomads: aluminium pans, plastic teapots, coloured braid …’

‘Did he fall in love with your daughter?’ I said, interrupting him.

‘I let him stay in our tent. He put his quilt down next to my daughter, and on that very first night, he slept with her. I could hear Metok groaning softly. It upset me. But part of me wanted Dondrub to marry her and take her away, so that I wouldn’t fall into my old ways. That night, I started chewing my fingers again.

‘Dondrub stayed with us for two weeks. Every day, Metok served him roast meat and wine. In return, he gave her a hair slide and two plastic bracelets. During the day, I’d stay outside with the animals so that they could be alone together in the tent. But Dondrub’s behaviour got worse and worse. Although he wasn’t yet thirty, he could swear at women like an old man. If Metok hadn’t been so fond of him, I’d have given him a good beating and kicked him out.

‘The day before they were due to leave I drank a lot of wine. I should never have drunk so much.’ The old man seemed nervous now; he looked me straight in the eye. The yak blood had congealed. I scraped it out, passed him the empty hat, then took out my knife, sliced the blood in half and handed him a piece. He took it from me without looking, then with trembling hands scooped it into his mouth.

‘It was Dondrub who kept filling my glass,’ he said, glancing up at me again.

I had a feeling that he was lying, so I lowered my gaze and stared at the blood in my hand. The light from the fire flickered across the freshly-cut surface of the congealed blood. I could sense that the light bouncing from my knife was darting across his face.

‘Dondrub was probably drunk too,’ the old man continued. ‘I asked him to look after my daughter. I told him that it hadn’t been easy bringing her up on my own. He promised that he’d be good to her. But later, when he called me “father”, I laughed out loud. I told him that Metok was my mother’s child. Metok shrieked when she heard this, and told Dondrub that I was speaking nonsense. But Dondrub seemed excited by what I’d said, and he poured more wine into my cup. I lost all sense of reason after that. I asked Dondrub to let me sleep with Metok. Dondrub agreed, but Metok flew into a rage and started kicking and punching me. Dondrub grabbed hold of her and said, “If you don’t sleep with your father tonight, I won’t take you away with me.” After that, Metok stood still and didn’t say a word …