Ma Jian - Red Dust

I jump to my feet, check my compass and continue west, chanting a verse from Leaves of Grass.

Allons! To that which is endless as it was beginningless,

To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,

To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days

and nights they tend to,

Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys. .

Allons, Ma Jian, allons.

A warm sunset glimmers at the horizon, then the sky slams shut. I keep walking for a while but soon the track vanishes into the night. I switch on my torch and proceed, but find it hard to distinguish the track from the desert stones. A broken trail of bottle tops, soot and horse-dung helps keep me on course.

A biting wind starts to blow. At noon today it was so hot I had to strip to my vest, but now when I put on my down jacket, the collar freezes to my neck. If I lose my way tonight I could die of cold. Occasionally I hear a truck pass in the distance and the sky lights up for a while, but when it leaves, everything goes black again. I remember the water tower at sunset and the ragged line of roofs, and decide they looked no more than four kilometres away. As my nerves calm I hear hooves trotting towards me. The noise gets louder and soon my torchlight falls on a horse-drawn cart filled with spikes of maize. The driver has a white skullcap and a heavy coat draped over his shoulders. Panic flashes through his eyes and the eyes of his horse. As he approaches I shout, ‘Is this the way to Anxi, my friend?’ My torch is no longer shining on his face so I cannot see his expression. He drives past without stopping.

‘Lost your fucking tongue, have you?’ I mumble as he disappears.

Then I remind myself of the Silk Road travellers who passed through here a thousand years ago — Chinese monks on camel-back bound for the holy cities of India; Romans, Persians, Turks riding to the imperial capital laden with goods and ideas, and I press on into the night as the hoofbeats slowly fade. How is it that animals can see their way so easily through the dark?

A little further, and I hear the rumble of a tractor behind. The noise grows louder and the ground starts to shake. I hate it when vehicles pass during the day and cover me with dust, but it is nice to hear them approach at night. As the track lights up the desert opens again, and my long shadow stretches before me. I stand still and wave at the lights. The tractor stops. Through the dust and the roar of the engine a voice shouts, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Anxi, grandfather!’

‘This is Anxi!’

I grope towards his voice, grab a metal bar and climb up beside him. ‘This is Anxi,’ he repeats as we drive off. I shuffle about, trying to find my balance. The cold wind blasts across my face. ‘I want to go into town.’

‘We’ll be there in a minute.’ His breath reeks of tobacco. I watch his headlamps illuminate the track and notice a few small lights shining in the distance. The lights grow larger. I can see windows now and the outlines of houses.

‘We’re here.’ He stops the tractor and I jump off. When I glance back I see he is a young man after all. ‘Thanks for the ride, brother!’

There are no street lamps, just patches of wall lit by the light from half-drawn curtains or half-shut doors, or candles in an open courtyard, perhaps. I remember Su Jin, the tour guide I met in Jiayuguan. On our ride back to town in the Japanese minibus, I told her of my plan to visit the Gorge of Ten Thousand Buddhas and she said, ‘Well, you must look up my friend Zhang Shengli when you get to Anxi. We were at university together. He works for the cultural centre now. You will need an introduction letter from him if you want to see the Gorge.’

I wave my torch along a row of houses and see a window with a light on. I knock on the door. It opens and a middle-aged man peeps out and says, ‘What do you want?’

A woman steps up behind him and glances at me, her forehead is smooth and shiny. I lower my torch and say, ‘I wonder if you can help me, comrade. I’m looking for Zhang Shengli. He works for the cultural centre.’

‘Go to the committee house then.’

‘How do I get there?’

He points his chin into the black night and says, ‘It’s the big building at the crossroads over there, next to the post office.’

As he closes the door I say thank you and walk away into the pitch dark. My pack seems to weigh heavier and heavier.

At last I reach a tall gate. The sign on the concrete pillar reads, ‘Revolution Committee House of Anxi County, Gansu Province’. I shine my torch over the two-storeyed house inside, then rattle the padlocked gate hoping to wake the gatekeeper. A light comes on in the lodge. I shout. A man steps out and points a torch ten times stronger than mine onto my face. I bow my head and he waves the torch down my body. ‘Who are you?’ he says.

‘I’m a Beijing reporter. I’ve come to write an article.’ I am not dressed like a cadre, but there is nothing else I can say.

‘Where is your car then?’ Whenever I have travelled before, there has always been an official car waiting for me at the station.

‘I was posted here at the last minute. There was no time to send a telegram.’

He shines the torch on my face again. I attempt a smile, but know that my skin is dirty and chapped and my mouth is full of ulcers. He steps forward and says, ‘Where’s the introduction letter?’

‘Let me see Zhang Shengli. I will sort out the formalities tomorrow. Can you show me where he lives?’

‘I’ll need the introduction letter first.’ From his voice I guess he is over fifty. His throat sounds clogged with phlegm.

I put down my bag, take out my forged introduction letter and pass it to him through the iron bars. He peers at it and carries it into the building. I am tempted to call him back, but stop myself. A moment later, a light comes on and he walks out jangling a ring of keys.

He wraps the lock and chain around the gate and asks, ‘What are you doing coming here on your own?’

‘The colleagues I left with were called back to Beijing for an important meeting. I didn’t want to proceed alone, but there was no choice.’ I follow him round to the staff barracks at the back. Each room has a light on and a radio playing. He takes me to the farthest room and knocks on the door. A man in a woollen jumper steps out. His shirt collar is rucked around his neck.

‘Someone here looking for you.’ The gatekeeper has thick glasses and is much older than I thought.

‘I will show you my papers tomorrow, grandfather.’ I wish he would go. ‘Hello, you must be Zhang Shengli. I’m a friend of Su Jin. She told me to pay you a visit.’

‘Go back to bed, grandad. I will sort out the documents in the morning.’

‘What about the form?’

‘All right, I’ll come and sign it in a minute,’ Zhang Shengli says, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

He shuts the door. I put my bag down, sink into an armchair and glance around his room. His desk is piled with books, photographs, empty negative tubes. The table by the door holds a stack of bowls, chopsticks, half a cabbage on a wooden board, a wooden spoon, bottles of peanut oil, soya sauce and vinegar, a bowl of noodles, and a few paper bags.

‘Where are you from? You look like a traveller. Most of Su Jin’s friends are artistic types. Would you like some tea?’

‘Beijing. . Just passing through. . Yes please.’

As he heats up the noodles I tell him I have come to visit the Gorge of Ten Thousand Buddhas.

‘There’s no road, I’m afraid. Just dirt tracks left by delivery trucks that drive to the electricity plant nearby.’