Ma Jian - Red Dust

‘How far is it?’

‘Over seventy kilometres. I’ve been several times myself, but only in the committee car.’

‘Could I walk it in two days?’

‘It’s stony desert all the way. If you miss the tracks it is easy to get lost.’

‘I have a compass and a water filter.’ I hand him a cigarette.

‘Try one of mine — they’re a Gansu brand. If you really want to go, I’ll lend you my bicycle.’

‘How come the Japanese documentary on the Silk Road that was shown last year never mentioned the Gorge? I only found out about it myself when I was leafing through a book on the Mogao Caves of Dunhuang. The Gorge has fewer cave temples than Dunhuang, but from the photographs, the frescoes seemed much more interesting.’

‘The Japs only visit famous places. They won’t go anywhere their cars can’t reach.’

‘Su Jin said you’ve taken many pictures of the Gorge.’

‘I was born in Anxi. I’ve photographed all the local sites.’

‘What camera do you use?’

‘A Minolta, and a Shanghai Reflex — nothing special. I applied for a Nikon once but the provincial cultural office turned me down. They allotted one to the cultural artefacts department instead.’

‘No more thanks, I’m full.’ I have swallowed several cloves of garlic and my stomach and face are burning.

‘Could I spend the night here? I’ll sleep on the floor. I have a raincoat.’

‘Of course. You can share my bed.’

We lie across his single bed, our feet propped on chairs. He tells me he visited Beijing once as a student, and that his ambition is to own a Nikon camera and three lenses. He says the Gorge of Ten Thousand Buddhas is much more important than Dunhuang. He wants to organise an exhibition about it in the provincial museum. He thinks that in five years’ time the Gorge will attract more tourists than the Terracotta Army in Xian. He asks me where I met Su Jin. He says at university she used to sneak off into the woods with her boyfriend and listen to Deng Lijun tapes. As he chatters away, I close my eyes and see the photograph he showed me of a Buddhist master who died in the lotus position: flesh fallen from his face, red robes fraying to dust. I see the gatekeeper and his forms, the wife with the shiny forehead, then my mind goes black and I fall asleep.

When he wakes me in the morning, the room smells of fried eggs and kerosene. He removes the noodles from the stove and starts frying some peanuts.

‘Don’t go to so much trouble. I can’t eat that much, really.’ As I search my mind for his name, I spot his identity card lying on the table: Zhang Shengli, male, 27 years old, Party member, single, cadre.

‘Shengli, the gatekeeper still has my introduction letter. I will need it for the rest of my time in Gansu.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll pop over in a minute and fetch it for you.’

He is crouched down, stirring the peanuts with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. ‘A letter from our centre will open more doors though. People always prefer a local recommendation.’

He slurps the noodles and pulls out a blank introduction letter from his drawer. ‘I’ll sign this for you. It should get you into the Gorge. There’s no need to ask the centre’s head for his permission, he would pass you on to the county propaganda department. You must promise not to take any photographs though. If they got published one day the authorities would trace it back to me. The gatekeeper at the Gorge is called Wang Zhenglin. He’s a good friend of mine. I’ll write him a note. Sorry, what’s your name again?’

I leave town on Shengli’s bicycle, along a road that passes through a succession of small villages. The young poplar trees planted along the sides are just starting to bud. Peasants ride into town on horse-drawn carts. The men wear Muslim skullcaps, the women wear scarves tied over their mouths. When I cycle out of the last village the desert opens again. Apart from the snow peaks of the distant Qilian range, everything is flat and grey.

For three hours, I alternate between riding my bike and pushing it. The tracks are too smooth and sandy for my wheels to grip. I try cycling over the stones by the side, but it is too bumpy and I hate having to keep my eyes on the ground. My throat feels sore. It occurs to me that perhaps the local women tie scarves around their mouths to retain the moisture of their breath. I pull up my face mask, and my mouth soon feels less dry. I regret bringing the bike. It would have been simpler to walk.

When the sun rises overhead the desert becomes a sheet of burning red iron. I strip to my vest and finish half the water in my bottle. I dare not drink any more. I am not a camel after all. One day without water and I would die.

At the banks of a dry riverbed the track forks. It is not clear which is the main path. I check the map Zhang Shengli drew for me, but there is no sign of the riverbed.

I decide to bury the bike and walk the rest of the way. I push it along the riverbed looking for a place to hide it, and suddenly notice a wooden cart parked on the crest of a sand dune. From this angle it looks like a wrecked boat lying at the bottom of a river. I examine it through the zoom of my camera, but still cannot make out what it is doing there. Then I spot someone seated in the shade underneath. He is looking at me. I walk towards him.

An old man with a white beard is sitting under the cart. He has boarded up the sides to make a nest sheltered from the desert sun. I step forward. He has a rifle on his lap, he is rubbing it. I drop my bicycle and say, ‘You look tired, my friend.’

He looks away, his face is blank. I long to sit under his cart. It must be the only patch of shade in this entire desert. I move a little closer.

‘Do you mind if I rest here, old man? I’m walking to the Gorge of Ten Thousand Buddhas. I seem to have lost my way.’ I squat down and stretch my head under the cart. It is like plunging my face in cold water. The old man keeps silent, but watches my every move.

He obviously sleeps here. There is a sheepskin on the ground and a leather hat on the heap of quilts at the back. I turn and see an axe by his feet. His hand is no longer rubbing the rifle. I remain still for a while then slowly crane my neck into the cool behind his shoulders.

The man must be over sixty. He has short-cropped hair and, judging by the size of him sitting down, he is not much taller than me. If we were to come to blows, I could look after myself. But there is a glint in his eyes. Perhaps he practises martial arts. He has the air of an ancient swordsman. I play things by ear, and keep my eyes on the rifle. After a while, he moves a little as though to make room for me.

Then he turns and stares at me, and says, ‘You won’t make it there today.’

I slide in beside him, pull my legs up and gaze at the sunlight beating on the dry riverbed. I wonder when a river last ran through it. The stony channel cuts through the desert like an open wound.

I offer him a drink from my water bottle to repay him for his hospitality.

My temperature falls. I swallow the steam in my mouth, then — Peng! The bicycle tyres explode.

‘It was stupid of me to leave it in the sun,’ I say, and imagine my body exploding with the bike, my innards splayed over the hot sand.

‘So you are walking to the Gorge on your own, then?’ he says.

‘Yes, just want to see what it’s like. Where are you heading?’

‘There’s nothing but ruins there now. All the valuables have been pillaged.’ The old man twists a piece of wire around his hand.

‘I heard that when the Gorge temples were abandoned five centuries ago, a sage went to meditate in a cave and died in the lotus position.’ I picture the sage’s spirit floating through the cool breeze of Nirvana. The stony desert is a dazzling white now, waves of heat tremble in the sun. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dried to a bone.’