Xu Xiaobin - Dunhuang Dream

His hands were just the opposite of hers — heavy with thick joints and chilblained in the winter and very clumsy at work. That other young man who was far away.

14

At night, Mingsha Mountain was shrouded in a steel-blue mist, making it look like a dream world. The pyramid-shaped peak appeared solitary and mysterious. At the foot of the mountain quietly trickled Yueya Spring, the same steel blue in color. The strange color made one think of various pieces of blue metal soldered together.

During the day, Mingsha Mountain was a masterpiece in gold that would knock any sculptor off his feet. But at night, the mountain was impenetrable, even to the most outstanding sculptor. It belonged to the mystery of nature, and to the moon, the stars, and to feminine beauty.

Zhang Shu took off his shoes and went barefoot. His calluses were smoothed by the fine silky sand. The steeper the slope became, the more he resembled a gecko, his hands and feet equally stuck to the mirrorlike surface of the sand. By the light of the steel-blue moon, he could almost make out his twisted form in the mirror’s face. The transparent blue resonated with the mysterious sound of a chilly rain dripping on steel. In the cold of night, he ascended to the top of the peak, where, startled, he saw the bluish crescent moon in the ocher sky. It was a crescent moon, but very oddly shaped — it had become a multifaceted diamond. It was suspended over the horizon, imbued with a fragmentary beauty. The countless purplish stars looked dim by comparison. Because they looked so elegant, refined, regular, and scholarly, the entire sky resembled a conspirator’s chessboard and the moon looked like a piece of broken glass that a mischievous child, filled with life and vigor, had tossed on the board.

Someone stood beneath the crescent moon. It was a woman. For a moment he mistook her for that protective deity in Cave 73. By the desolate light of the moon he clearly made out a beautiful young woman, if the word beautiful existed in this world. Not only was she beautiful, she was also coquettish. Her sexy waist swayed between her ample bosom and backside, reminding one of a rattlesnake. Her skin appeared smooth and slick, and suffused with the bright dark-greenish brown in the moonlight. He was awed by the color of her skin, because he had never encountered such a woman.

Later he could distinguish her face, which was filled with the hue of the western region. Her eyebrows were long and her nose high, two full lips half opened rapaciously disclosing silvery bright teeth. Her eyes seemed very deep, shining with the color transparent amber, and her occasional wink made him wonder if a star hadn’t fallen into her eyes.

15

I admit the section about Mingsha Mountain has its fictitious elements.

I have never seen Yu’er, not even a photo. As such, I have no way of determining if she is as beautiful as Zhang Shu claimed. The moment Zhang Shu looked back on this period of time, his otherwise placid attitude became rather confused. He really has nothing from Yu’er. Later, I suspected it was all just a dream. And yet what I just narrated is a dream within a dream.

Men sometimes need such dreams. This is particularly true when they don’t know what to do when it comes to reality.

16

Later the young woman took something from behind her and handed it to him. “My mother told me to give this to Mr. Zhang,” she said. She had a heavy accent. Zhang Shu trembled as he took the painting from her. He couldn’t believe that such an exceptional painting could fall into his hands in such a way. As he trembled, he touched the young woman’s fingers. He assumed he had touched her silver ring, but he later discovered that she wore no such ring. He had, in fact, touched her finger. That finger was so cold and hard that it felt like metal. It would ring if he knocked on it. He was shocked.

“Is that woman in Cave Seventy-three your mother?”

“Yes.” The young woman sat properly on the peak, her two legs bent in a perfect arch. She looked extremely elegant.

He placed the rolled-up painting on his lap and undid the string to open it. The young woman placed her hand on the string.

“Take it home and look at it. The wind is blowing; if you are not careful, it might tear,” she said softly. He redid the string around the painting.

“Tell me, is this painting authentic?” he asked, looking the young woman in the eye.

“Of course it is.”

“Why is your mother so trusting of me?”

“We Yugur people are all very trusting.” The young woman stared at him, her eyes twinkling in the dark.

“What’s your name?”

“Yu’er.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m young and still in school.” She tossed her head, swinging her hair to cover her profile. Her innocence and artlessness touched Zhang Shu.

“Where’s your. . father?”

“He’s no longer. .”

“Then it must be hard for you and your mother.” He watched as she lowered her lashes. He took out his old plastic wallet. Inside was three hundred yuan. He gave two thirds to her.

A jeering smile passed over her face as she took the money. He didn’t understand what it meant until much later.

17

Zhang Shu was the sort who didn’t seem to have had a childhood. He was mature for his age. His face had a strange appearance as if his reticence led to a lack of expression and, perhaps on this account, his face had no lines. His was a face that never showed wrinkles. As a youth, he didn’t look young; and as the years went by, he didn’t seem to age. It is said that fresh blossoms are the most fleeting of things, while an old stump will live to a noble age. Zhang Shu’s face was this way. Save for a little beard, Zhang Shu’s features remained unchanged. His eyes, though, possessed the stubbornness and skepticism of a middle-aged man.

His mind was the exact opposite of his face; it was rich, sensitive, and, had it been a face, it would have been very wrinkled. No one ever suspected the sorts of wild thoughts he harbored. At times he was a daydreamer. As a child, he belonged to the geology group of the Jingshan Children’s Palace, and all he did was dream about mining. He was obsessed with dreams of sapphires. In his obsession to find sapphires, he spent a long time at Mogui City in Xinjiang during the “Great Link-up.” Although he never succeeded in finding a sapphire, he did find agates of various colors as well as an exquisite piece of petrified wood with a tortoiseshell pattern. It was an inky stone in five colors, glittering and shining even in its regularly protruding edges. Soon after determining that it was from the Jurassic period, he and his wife had a falling-out. His wife dropped it, shattering it. He was terribly upset. “You look at this damn stone all day long. Do you expect it hatch? Is it valuable? More valuable than me? A stone is worth more in your eyes than I am!” his wife screamed hysterically. He felt strange that his wife, who was normally so gentle and cultivated in an affected way to outsiders, could suddenly become an enraged mother panther. Hair flying, nose running, and tears running down her face, she broke whatever came to hand. He felt it odd that a woman like her could be more practical than him. She was shockingly materialistic. But he wasn’t at all like so many men his age in being anxious to replace their wives. Perhaps this was due to the fact that he had lost hope in the institution of marriage itself and was confused and frightened by women in general. After a long period of time, this attitude affected his physiological functions.

His fear of women dissipated only after he met Xiao Xingxing. He thought of her as a girl he had met in his distant youth. He could talk to her about his childhood and other matters of his heart that he had kept to himself.