Xu Xiaobin - Dunhuang Dream

“Then you certainly must have met this rare breed, haven’t you?”

“Don’t be jealous. I know what you’re implying.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m sure you’re thinking that this third type I mentioned doesn’t exist, that all guys are pretty much the same and it’s the women who categorize them.”

“Don’t you think it’s just a way of deceiving yourselves?”

“Of course it is — the ways people deceive themselves are all different. But no one is strong enough not to deceive himself.”

“I am,” he replied somewhat disdainfully.

“Forget it. So what is it you had to come to Dunhuang to do? You could have stayed in Beijing and looked after your wife and son. Why all the interest in Lakshmi?”

His expression changed.

“You’re right. It’s my own way of deceiving myself,” he replied, depressed, kicking an empty box that was lying on the floor after some time.

8

A letter from Mousheng arrived. It contained a few words written by Weiwei. They were round, just like him: “Mommy, I miss you.”

This had to have been engineered by Mousheng. The words were like an all-powerful atomic bomb to her, as Mousheng certainly knew they would be.

Her cute little Weiwei, an angel, a little daring, he was so mischievous and had turned a somersault in her belly so that when she was about to give birth, he had turned himself upside down. The doctors busied themselves preparing obstetric forceps, suction unit, and oxytocin. She felt herself tied down with many tubes. It was a painful, frightening, petrifying moment. Even now she couldn’t bear to recall it.

It was a stormy night. The unbearable pain she experienced cut her off from the world around her. She made an effort to recall the familiar faces of her friends and relatives but found it impossible to do so. She didn’t know what the birth of the child meant for her, but a voice deep inside her began to speak, “One can only thoroughly understand life by marrying and having children.”

The voice became louder. She finally recalled who it was that said this, him and his golden “tiger eyes.” When he said this, he was still a child, but his expression at the time was very serious. It was at dusk at the Miyun Reservoir. They came ashore after swimming and everyone sat in a circle leisurely drinking cheap wine and eating bread and fried chicken. At times such as those, Xiaojun always had to express some shocking opinions.

He contradicted what she had just said. She said, “A true artist can’t have kids or marry.”

To this day she didn’t know who was right. The problem was that so many things in life were paradoxical. No one could imagine what something was like from a position of inexperience, and once one had experience, they could never return to a position of inexperience.

There was a downpour that day they went swimming. She wasn’t a good swimmer, and when the sky and the water merged and she couldn’t get her bearings, she became quite agitated. She began flailing with her arms and legs and she felt very heavy. Before she could shout, her mouth was filled with dirty water. When she was certain she was going to die, a hand reached from behind and held her tight. At the time she felt like shouting the chant “Namu Guanshiyin bodhisattva” the way her grandmother had taught her. But she soon realized that it was no Buddha or bodhisattva. It was Xiaojun. Xiaojun had been watching out for her from behind. As he swam using one arm, he clutched her with the other and made his way toward a boat anchored in that vast whiteness. To this day she could remember his steel-like grip and the heat of his breast that penetrated her thin swimsuit and her frigid body. It was the first time in her life that she had been embraced by the opposite sex. But the struggle for life overpowered everything else. She forgot her embarrassment and clung to him tightly. Even after they were on the boat, she refused to let go of him. It was then that she became aware of his strength and the pounding of his warm heart. Ten years later, when she told all of this to her sister, her sister smiled as if it were nothing and said, “These are the feelings all women experience. It was much simpler for him. He got to squeeze a nearly naked beauty, that’s all. In your eyes Xiaojun is sacred, but he was nothing more than any other guy.”

She was not disappointed by these words. But after thinking about it, her face grew hot and prickly. A nearly naked beauty? She blushed and looked down at her breasts. Immediately she thought of that young man with his pure, clear eyes. At the time he embraced her somewhat embarrassed and nervously. As they sat in the boat, neither one of them said a word. Finally, he lowered his head and said that he had broken up with his girlfriend.

No one could bring back that purity of emotion, that vagueness, that beauty, even with one’s life.

She shed a few tears. Then she wrote, “Dear Mousheng.” But this time she was smart and didn’t waste paper. On one sheet of letter paper she proceeded to repeat the same words over and over again. Then she crumpled that sheet of paper into a ball and threw it out the window.

It was then that she saw two people whispering under the bright blue sky to the northwest. One was the old man Chen Qing; the other was that old woman she had seen hobbling alone outside Cave 73.

9

That evening Yu’er had a big row with her mother. She had no idea who had a rotten big mouth and had come and told her mother about what she had been doing. Trembling with anger, her mother stood pointing at her for a while before uttering a word.

“You worthless thing! No one is good enough for you but a Han Chinese we know nothing about. Although he is a guest of Bodhisattva Pan, it was enough to simply loan him the painting. But you have to go and offer yourself!”

“Who is being nice to him? I wanted to practice tantric yoga with him,” replied Yu’er in tears.

“Nonsense! Has he been consecrated? Is he a yoga adept? Practicing tantric yoga with a common person, you really have some nerve to even say such a thing!” Guonu had even more energy than her daughter.

“Father says he has the face of a respectable person and that he’ll eventually become a Buddhist. What’s wrong with initiating him to the Tantric path?”

“Shameless! Didn’t that bastard of a father of yours tell you that you will end up in hell by practicing tantric yoga with someone who has not been consecrated?”

Yu’er softened her tone and said, “Then. . then can Father consecrate him?”

“Don’t do him any harm. Hasn’t that bastard, your father, harmed enough people? He’s a guest of Bodhisattva Pan’s. Treating him well and seeing him off is a merit and a virtue. Don’t get any bad ideas!” Guonu raised her cane and shouted, “Foolish girl! I’m telling you that I’m going to have a word with your uncle, Chen Qing, and if you go running over there again, I’ll break your legs.”

Yu’er pressed her lips together and threw a furious glance at her mother and put her golden snakelike braid across her chest. Her mother would be true to her word, but she wasn’t afraid. All her life, her mom hated no one more than the Han Chinese because Yu’er’s father is Han. Her mother said that her father played the part of a lama and then a monk, but in neither case was it her dad’s forte. “Your daddy is an evil demon,” said her mother. “His true appearance was seen in the ‘transparent tablet,’ and he’ll soon be called back by the guardian deity.”

But Yu’er didn’t hate her father in the least. Her daddy doted on her and was always giving her money and pretty clothes and jewelry. Her daddy said that he made money by teaching the Five-part Vajra Dharma when he was a lama. The living Buddhas and headmen in Tibet all had countless treasures.