Ma Jian - Red Dust

‘You would go to prison for that in China. Although in Yunnan, I visited a Naxi village which still practises the Azhu system. Women can take as many lovers as they like. The more they have the higher their prestige.’

‘Here a women’s role is to mediate between her husbands and keep a good house.’ He tugs at the brim of his cap.

‘Sharing is a virtue that modern society seems to have lost. Could you take me to one of these families?’

‘We are going to Sangye’s house now. She is head of the village women’s association and has three husbands. The oldest, Gelek, was the village’s first entrepreneur. He built a grain mill last year and grinds barley for a living. He never charges widows or orphans. The middle one, Tashi, operates the village generator. He bought a truck recently and has started a delivery service. The third one, Norbu, is a bricklayer at Tashilhumpo Monastery. They live in the new house up there.’

I step inside their door and see a large poster of Chairman Mao, and on the lacquered chest below, a gold buddha surrounded by small incense burners and plastic flowers that are sold on every market stall. A few butter lamps flicker beside a photograph of the Panchen Lama.

Liming and I sit down. While he chats with Gelek in Tibetan I watch Sangye drop salt and tea leaves into a black kettle and carry it to the stove in the yard. When the kettle boils she pours the brew into a wooden churn, adds a dollop of yak butter, and stirs with a wooden stick. The liquid gulps and gurgles. Sangye is wearing a white shirt under a sleeveless robe that is tied at the waist with a striped apron. She knows I am watching her, she keeps turning round and smiling into the room. She brings the kettle inside and pours the tea into three wooden bowls. I take a sip. It is oily and salty but richer in flavour than the brew Tibetans served me from thermos flasks in Lhasa.

I take advantage of having an interpreter and ask Gelek about his family background.

He says that before Liberation his father worked for a living buddha to repay a ten-thousand-year debt. His mother’s family owed the temple forty thousand jin of barley so she worked on their fields from the age of thirteen. When she was released from her duties in 1951 she met his father and got married.

‘What is a ten-thousand-year debt?’ I ask.

‘It means you can pay back the interest but not the loan, so you are always in their debt.’

Tashi walks through the door smelling of petrol. He removes his sunglasses and white cotton gloves, extends his tongue in greeting, and takes the stool next to Sangye. The corner of her mouth rises towards him in a half-smile. Gelek explains his brother is just back from a trip to Shigatse.

I ask Sangye how much butter she uses for the candles. ‘We are still quite poor. Yeshe’s family has thirty-six candles. When they sheer their flock of sheep they can make two thousand yuan in a day. They invite lamas to recite scriptures every month.’

‘Which scriptures?’

‘We invite two lamas a year, three if we can afford it. We had two this year, they stayed with us for a week.’ Perhaps Liming did not translate my question properly, or maybe it is not important what the lamas recite.

‘We visit Tashilhumpo in the slow months,’ Gelek says, picking a date from the table. He is on his second bowl of tea.

‘If Tashi’s business takes off, what would you spend the money on?’ I watch Sangye’s coarse hand stroke the corner of her prayer book. The red socks peeping between her trouser legs and black shoes are almost threadbare.

When the soldier translates my question everyone laughs.

‘All his money goes back into his truck!’ Sangye squeezes Tashi’s leg. His eyes redden as he smiles. His speech is slower than his brother’s.

‘When we are rich, we will invite three lamas a month.’

‘Wouldn’t you like a wife of your own, your own family?’ I ask Tashi. Liming fidgets with his cap, he looks uncomfortable.

‘If we have too many wives it will split the family inheritance.’

‘More wives mean more children, and children are expensive to keep.’

‘Sons kill oxen and sheep, daughters tread on insects and worms, this is harmful to life.’

Before I have time to ask another question, Liming puts his cap on and stands up. Gelek goes to fetch us six bottles of beer. Liming places the money on the table and whispers, ‘You shouldn’t ask so many questions. They are not used to it.’

In the evening we open the beers and talk about sky burials. Suddenly he pauses and says, ‘The woman was only seventeen. Her name was Myima. She haemorrhaged during childbirth. The baby is still in her womb.’

I crush my cigarette and watch his pale fingers rub the edge of the table. Five red stars and a regiment number are printed on the headboard of the single bed against the wall. Above his desk are posters of aircraft carriers and a photograph of a Japanese actress torn from a magazine. There is just one window in the room. The lower pane is pasted with newspaper. Through the top pane I can see the sky slowly darken. It has been hours since I heard a truck pass.

The soldier stands up, kicks an insulator out of the way and sprawls on the bed. ‘You can go to the burial. The people are more relaxed here. Most of them have never seen a camera before. Myima’s husbands certainly haven’t.’

‘How may husbands did she have?’ As the question leaves my mouth, I realise how disrespectful it is. The soldier turns his radio down. A woman’s voice sings through the speaker, ‘You came to me with a smile but brought me only pain. .’ It reminds me of the Chengdu Ballroom and the girl in the red dress called Ding Xue. She was always humming that song.

‘You will see her for yourself tomorrow.’ He closes his eyes. ‘Myima was not born here. She was a weak child, the youngest of eight. Her parents could not look after her so they sent her here when she was six. After a while she grew stronger, and even attended school in Nangartse — but that was before her adoptive mother died.’

‘And what was her name?’ I ask, opening my notebook.

‘No. You mustn’t write this down. . Her adoptive father is a drunk. When he’s had too much wine he starts singing and grabbing women. Sometimes he grabbed Myima. Everyone in the village knew. She was still a child. How could she defend herself?’ His voice trembles, I can tell he is about to swear. When he was showing off just now, he let out a torrent of abuse.

‘Fucking bastard! Wait till I’m out of this uniform!’ His face flushes from red to purple and fumes with the stubborn rage typical of Sichuan men. I keep quiet and wait for his anger to subside.

He goes to the door to check the wind’s direction. The telephone line is completely still. There are no mosquitoes up here, even in summer. Damp air from the lake rolls into the room and chills my bones.

‘Will you take me to meet them?’ I ask. He flinches, so I say, ‘No, don’t worry, it’s not important.’

Without looking round, he puts his cap on, tugs the brim down, and takes the keys and torch from the table. ‘All right then, let’s go.’

We climb to the village again along dark mud-walled passages that are just wide enough for an ox to pass. My torchlight catches the straw and dung strewn along the paths. Behind the walls dogs begin to bark.

The soldier pushes through a gate and shouts towards a house with a lighted window. We step inside.

The men huddled by the fire turn and gape. The oldest one stands up and talks to the soldier, while the others continue to stare at me. I pass my cigarettes round, then light each one in turn. In the dark all I can see is the white of their teeth. I flick the lighter again and turn up the flame, and their jaws slacken. I hand the lighter to the man standing up. He takes it and sits down. Everyone’s eyes focus on the lighter. They pass it round and smile at me. At last I feel I can sit down. The man on my right cuts me a chunk of dried mutton. I pull out my knife and take a slice. It tastes better than the meat I ate a few days ago in the pilgrims’ tent. They pass us a bowl of barley wine. It is still green, there are husks floating on the surface. Perhaps Myima made it before she died.