Ma Jian - Red Dust

‘Quite a lot. There are only two things people write about in China: the contradictions of market socialism or painful memories of the Cultural Revolution. Tibet has so much more to offer: relations between man and man, man and God, the primitive and the modern. Tibetan Literature is featuring our work next month. I think it will make a great impact. They have dubbed us the Asian Mystical Realists.’

‘Sounds interesting. But be careful not to form a group or you will lose your individual voice. That Roots Group is a farce. They write stories about brave men killing wolves in the grasslands, but never mention communism, which is the biggest wolf of all.’

I remember the political argument we fell into last night, so I stop talking and take a chunk of beef.

‘And what have you gained from your month here?’ Liu Ren asks.

‘I didn’t come as a tourist, or a writer looking for exotic stories. I came as a pilgrim. I was hoping for a revelation, or confirmation at least, but now I am more confused than ever. I sense man and Buddha exist, but not in the same realm. I feel I have walked onto a stage. The people around me are absorbed in their parts, putting on this great show, but nothing seems real. Every object looks like a prop. Since I have no part I am reduced to the role of a spectator, but there is nowhere to sit, so I have to mingle with the actors on stage. It is a terrible feeling.’

‘It’s not always a performance. The older generation worship the Buddha as sincerely as the Chinese used to worship Old Mao. For them life and religion are inseparable. The Buddha is in their every thought and move. I met some lamas in Drepung who have spent their entire lives in the monastery. Their souls are not human any more, they have reached a higher plane. Do you think the government can change all that?’

‘Communism can wipe out individual rights, but it cannot destroy a nation’s traditions. Although, when traditions are too strong, they can smother the individual as much as any political tyranny. This country is now caught between the two faiths. I saw little boys in Young Pioneer scarves drop their school bags in front of Jokhang Temple and perform five full prostrations.’

‘Tibetans are different from us. They care little for material wealth. If you give them plimsolls and a packet of seeds, they will sell them the next day for beer money. But they are kind people, and when they accept you as a friend they will trust you with their lives. They are not as crafty or sly as the Han.’

‘It’s easy to be kind when you are poor. I’ve met a lot of kind people in my travels, but the cost of their kindness is exclusion from the outside world. As soon as a road is built, the kindness vanishes. The communists are pushing China into the modern age and our values are changing. Soon kindness will be perceived as a weakness. I came here hoping to see man saved by the Buddha’s compassion, but in Tibet the Buddha cannot even save himself.’

Liu Ren picks the largest chunk of beef from the pot. The smell of meat has filled the room.

‘For us Han Tibetophiles, Tibet is an escape from China, but we are drawn to it for aesthetic rather than religious reasons. So much of the culture is being lost, though. The Tibetans in our office are more westernised than us. They wear jeans and perm their hair. The only people left who can talk to us about art are a few mad painters hiding in the hills.’

‘You shouldn’t confuse art with religion. Buddhism is a very practical philosophy. Disciples have to abide by the rules and control their desires. But art requires you to push your individuality to the extreme and break all the rules.’

‘What can I say to them, Ma Jian? I have a child, after all.’ He changes the subject suddenly just as he did last night.

‘What are you talking about?’ I am slowly getting used to speaking to my mirror image.

‘The work unit has received another vasectomy demand, and my name has come up. There are only three of us left to choose from and the other two have just got married.’ He snorts, and I instantly think of the peasant I saw being sterilised in Guizhou.

‘You can promise not to have another child, but don’t let them operate. If I were you I would resign. You could go home, go travelling. No one is forcing you to stay here.’

‘I like my job. You only have yourself to think about, but I have a family. Besides, I’m a Party member, I am expected to set an example.’

He is sitting on a wooden stool. The table is strewn with bones and half-eaten rolls.

Beimu has not barked for some time. I push the door open and peep outside. ‘Oh no. Where’s that dog gone?’

We run outside. The dog has vanished and so has the rope that tied her to the post.

My ears start ringing. ‘Bloody hell. What’s Mo Yuan going to say?’ I grab a torch and run through the front yards shouting her name. The gatekeeper tells us he has just come on duty but has seen no one leave with a dog. We scour the office block, canteen, boiler room, water tower, then search the yards again.

‘He gives me the keys to his room and I go and lose his puppy. What a disaster!’ My throat is burning.

Back inside in the room, Liu Ren turns on the electric heater. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘She can’t have left the compound. Maybe someone has stolen her. When everyone has gone to bed, we’ll go out and have another look.’

A few hours later we creep outside and start whispering her name. Suddenly we hear a dog bark.

‘It’s her,’ says Liu Ren. ‘No doubt about it. That room belongs to Lobsang. He’s one of our technicians.’

‘Go and get her then. She might be hurt.’

‘I can’t. He’s Tibetan, it could cause trouble. Let’s wait for a while. He can’t keep the dog in the room all night. He will have to take her out later and sell her in the market.’

‘I’m not waiting!’ I make for Lobsang’s door, but Liu Ren pulls me back. We sit down and half an hour later the door opens and Beimu is dragged out. When I snatch hold of the rope, Beimu bounces at me and wags her tail.

‘Why did you take this dog?’ I shout. The man laughs awkwardly.

Liu Ren pulls me away. ‘Please, Ma Jian. Don’t make trouble.’ He mumbles some placating words in Tibetan then tells me to take Beimu home. As I turn to leave, Lobsang whips his belt off and tries to hit me. I grab his hand but Liu Ren pounces between us and shouts, ‘Ma Jian! Don’t fight! You can run away, but the rest of us have to live here.’

Lobsang knows my hands are tied, so he catches up with us and starts thrashing Beimu with his belt. Beimu rolls to the ground and yelps in agony. I control myself and whisper, ‘Stop, or you will get hurt.’

But he ignores me and continues to attack the dog. The people who have gathered to stare pull me back to Mo Yuan’s room. I tie Beimu to the post, my hands still shaking. Then suddenly Lobsang runs up with a rock in his hand and throws it at the dog. It misses Beimu by a hair and smashes through Mo Yuan’s wooden door. I untie Beimu and carry her inside, and tell myself if he comes at us again I will not hold back.

I lie awake for hours, smoking cigarettes. I have calmed down now, but Beimu has lost all her spirit. She is on the brick floor now, trembling with fear. Liu Ren brought her a plate of beef a while ago, but she didn’t even sniff it.

Three days after leaving Yangpachen, I am still walking south-west along the banks of a clear stream. The high plateau is covered by green grass and brown hills. The dark dips in the land are lakes.

As the sun reddens, wisps of white cloud drift to the horizon. I can tell the sunset will be beautiful. I check the view through my camera. There is no snow on the mountains to the east and the hills in the foreground make an awkward silhouette, I will have to climb the hill for a better shot. This region is wonderful for photography, but the land is criss-crossed with rivers and streams and it is easy to get lost. As I crest the hill the sun rolls below the horizon. I scan the grasslands in the fading light but see no sign of the pilgrims I have been walking with, or of their large white tent. I will have to sleep under the stars tonight.