Song of the Silk Road Page 3

The meal was consumed almost in total silence, except for an occasional smacking of lips, slurping of soup, clicking of chopsticks, and sighs from Chris’s mouth.

  After we finished and Chris cleaned and put away the dishes, I put my arms around his neck, pressed my body hard against his, and put up my most seductive smile, like a mistress’s. “Honey, let’s go to bed now.”

  He followed me like an obedient dog—just as I’d expected.

  3

  Ghost Warriors and the Imperial Bath

  The following Wednesday, the day before I left for China, Chris and I had another quarrel. However, canceling the trip just to indulge a man whose marital bed was occupied by another was out of the question—unless I was a complete fool.

  And so on a Thursday morning in May, despite a dull headache and a pounding heart, I found myself lugging my heavy bags down my four flights of stairs, then hailing a taxi to JFK Airport. It was hard for me to believe I was finally going to China, to the Silk Road, the desert, all by myself. However, as the airport finally came into sight, fear seized my body. Would I return from the ancient route for trading silk—or vanish into its silky thin air?

  During the long plane ride, I occupied myself studying my guidebooks on the different remote cities along the Silk Road: Xian, Jiuquan, Xinjiang, Dunhuang. I closed my eyes, imagining their names’ associations:

  Xian—Peace in the West. This was the city’s present name, but during the Tang dynasty one thousand years ago this same city had the grander name of Changan—Eternal Peace. Would I find peace in this ancient city? I hoped it would not be eternal peace—my death.

  Jiuquan—Wine River. What kind of wine? White, red, blush, Californian, French, Australian, Chinese… Would I get drunk there?

  Xinjiang—New Frontier. Two years ago when I’d arrived from Hong Kong, New York had been my new frontier. I wondered what awaited me on this one.

  Dunhuang—Blazing Beacon. Could I trust it to guide me?

  The first city I had to visit was Xian, the gateway to the Silk Road. I reviewed in my mind what I had read about this first capital of the Chinese empire. Founded by the first emperor of China, by the second century BC, the western gate of this old capital had become the terminus for caravans from India, Persia, and Central Asia. The “Barbarians” brought glass, gold, silver, spices, gems, fabrics, and exotic animals such as ostriches to the Middle Kingdom, then returned with silk, tea leaves, jade, bronze, ceramics, lacquer, chrysanthemums, apricots, peaches, even peacocks.

  Among all this merchandise, silk was most treasured. This lustrous, delicate, and water-soft material was so coveted by the rich and powerful that it was used as currency, its value equivalent to gold. Before paper was invented, it was on silk that early Chinese scribes brushed some of their most precious classics.

  Xian was at its peak of prosperity during the Tang dynasty more than a thousand years ago. With two million inhabitants, the city was like a tasty soup cooked with myriad spices and herbs, a cultural cauldron of races and nationalities—Arabs, Persians, Central Asians, Indians, Tibetans, even Byzantines.

  It was to Xian that one of the most famous travelers in all of Chinese history, the Buddhist monk Xuanzhuang, returned from his legendary “Journey to the West,” that is, India, bringing with him hundreds of Buddhist manuscripts. As he entered the city gate, the monk was welcomed with incense, prayers, drums, and chanting by cheering and crying devotees….

  Before lunch was served, an air hostess handed out Chinese newspapers, and I took one. As I was flipping through pages of coverage of banal events and steamy gossip, a headline caught my attention.

  CRIMINALS EXECUTED FOR SMUGGLING ART OUTSIDE CHINA

  Five men—art thieves and traitors—were executed in Beijing yesterday.

  All five belonged to a criminal organization, believed to be run by a black society, which steals national treasures from museums and smuggles them to sell to rich capitalist collectors in the U.S. and Europe.

  The government promised to intensify its efforts to catch art thieves and will continue to deal with them harshly. Police will soon arrest several accomplices, “fishes who slipped through holes in the net….”

  The government also plans to send officials to the U.S. and Europe to demand the immediate return of the stolen objects….

  I had been feeling excited about my trip, but this reminder of harsh Chinese justice made me uneasy. I put away the newspaper and dozed fitfully until finally awakened by the welcome announcement, “Flight attendants, please prepare for landing….” Weary from the long, cramped flight, I rubbed my eyes, hoping I would be tough enough for the adventure ahead.

  In Beijing, I settled into a small hotel near the Temple of Heaven. After taking a not-so-hot bath, I devoured a truly hot and spicy beef noodle soup at the hotel’s restaurant, then went back to my room, forcing myself to stay awake to reread the instructions for the first part of my trip. My first stop would be Xian, the starting point of the Silk Road as well as the burial place of the famous terracotta warriors who had been uncomplainingly guarding China’s first emperor’s grave for more than two thousand years. The thought of finally seeing this famous sight excited me, but before I could leave Beijing I had to visit Lo and Wong Associates for final instructions.

  I called the law firm to make an appointment, then took a taxi directly to the firm, situated in the Wangfu Jing commercial district. After entering the relatively big and clean office, I gave my name to the young receptionist and was quickly led to the office of the lawyer handling my case. Mr. Lo, a small man, struck me as a person soaked in the sea of sadness. Suffering was written all over his fiftyish, elongated, bespectacled face. Lines on his forehead and around his eyes looked like calligraphic strokes of poems expressing unrequited love, separation, even death. The sole decorations in his office were a few diplomas and a couplet in Chinese calligraphy on the wall:

  One cannot possibly please everybody

  But one should never betray his own conscience.

  Did that mean he was a good lawyer? Or a bad one displaying this popular saying to cover up?

  After having shaken hands and exchanged pleasantries like, “How was your trip?” “Fine, thank you.” “Have you eaten?” “Yes, I’ve just had lunch, thanks.” “Hope you enjoy Beijing.” “I definitely will,” and the like, we plunged into serious business.

  Lo, after reviewing what I’d already been told at Mills and Mann back in New York, handed me my aunt’s complete itinerary documenting all the routes and what I needed to do at each stop.

  I signed some documents, then asked the sad mask across from me, “Mr. Lo, when will I meet my aunt?”

  His answer, delivered in a dry tone, came as a surprise. “Miss Lin, you will not meet her until you finish your trip and come back here to collect the money.”

  “But why can’t I meet my aunt before I go? I didn’t even know I had an aunt.”

  My suspicions arose afresh. Had I gone this far simply to be scammed? But why would someone pay so much money in advance just to cheat later? After all, I had nothing to be cheated out of.

  Lo’s low-wattage voice again expanded into the legal air. “This is your aunt’s decision. You can find out when you see her after your trip.” He pushed up his black-rimmed glasses, then studied me through the thick lenses. “Now, pay attention. There are documents in different envelopes to prepare you for every assignment. You must read them very carefully and follow the instructions completely. They are all numbered, so open and read them accordingly. Do not open any envelopes ahead of time.

  “You can explore and do other things on the trip, as long as you complete the journey in no more than eight months.” Now his small eyes began to drill into mine. “Remember, don’t try any tricks. If you do, you’ll be the one who’ll suffer the consequences. You understand?”

  I nodded. This all sounded even more alarming than I’d expected. I wasn’t quite sure what the “tricks” might be or the apparently dire consequences.

&nb
sp; “Any more questions?”

  I shook my head.

  I left the office with my document-laden backpack crushing my back. My enthusiasm for sightseeing had evaporated as a result of Lo’s ominous words. I decided not to explore the city but went straight back to my hotel to eat, take a shower, then go to bed.

  The next day in the afternoon, after a two-hour plane ride from Beijing, I arrived at the airport for Xian, the city of Western Peace. Walking out of the terminal building dragging my heavy suitcase, I was surrounded by a crowd of shouting, pushing, smoking, spitting, luggage-hauling, yelling-at-children Chinese. After struggling through the melee, I finally boarded a taxi. During the ride to the small hotel that I’d booked, my weary eyes tried to absorb the bustle of the exotic city until I finally saw the majestic Ming dynasty bell tower in the midst of noisy traffic circling around it. I imagined the bell ringing to welcome me as it would have the emperor six hundred years ago.

  The hotel room was small but not too dirty. I was elated to see a bathroom, meaning I didn’t have to use a communal one, which was usually rank, not to mention risk my much-coveted naked body being visually and mentally molested by Chinese Peeping Toms.

  I took a quick shower, ate a pork and pickled vegetable noodle soup at the hotel restaurant, then hurried back to my room. Sitting on the narrow bed, I set out my guidebooks, my new notebook, and my aunt’s documents, and plunged into work.

  In Xian I was to visit the terracotta warriors and scrape a tiny piece of clay from one of them—and it had to be soldier number ten. After that, I’d go to the Beilin Museum, locate the Classic of Filial Piety stele, and study its inscription. The first requirement seemed pretty weird, and the second, pointless. However, to study the inscription should be relatively easy in comparison to scraping a piece of clay from the famous warriors. That was downright scary. Would I be arrested and put in jail—or worse?

  As I was perusing my instructions, a small row of characters caught my eyes:

  This is not vandalism but protecting China from corruption. Soldier number ten is a fake. Further instruction will tell you what to do with the piece of clay.

  The next morning, a long taxi ride brought me to my rendezvous with the warriors who had aged not at all while waiting for me for two thousand years. I arrived fifteen minutes before the museum’s opening time, hoping I’d be among the first few to be let in and that the place would be relatively empty and supervision relaxed. By the entrance only five people were waiting: an elderly Chinese couple, two Chinese girls talking about something, and a young man with a thick, curly mop of chestnut hair. I studied them as subtly as I could. All seemed harmless, except maybe the foreigner, who kept looking at me and making me uneasy. I opened my guidebook and feigned reading.

  After a brief wait under the morning sun, two uniformed guards, one young and the other middle-aged with a cigarette dangling between his lips, opened the gate and let us in. The huge mausoleum welcomed me with the chill of its two-thousand-year-old air. I tightened my sweater around my chest.

  Even though I’d seen many pictures of the terracotta warriors, the sight of the more than one thousand life-sized figures standing in their shallow pits was stunning. There they stood, row after row, each with his own facial expression, armor, headgear, and weapon, striking the same heroic poses for over two thousand years. Intense qi, energy, emanated from these handsome young men looking so alive yet so still, forcing a gasp from my lips.

  A male voice rose next to me, asking in English, “You want my jacket?”

  I turned. The very young foreigner was about to take off his coat.

  “Oh, no, thanks. I’m fine,” I said, then turned right back to study the formidable military formation.

  A few moments passed and the same voice rose again in the chilly air. “You’re a tourist?”

  I turned to study the stranger. What struck me was, again, his thicket of chestnut hair—which made me think of wood shavings curling under a plane—and his smooth, delicately featured face. “Yes, how do you know?”

  He laughed a little. “Because you read your guidebook in English.”

  “Oh.” I silently cursed. No matter how careful you think you are, there are still things that can unexpectedly give you away.

  He asked, “Where you from?”

  I hesitated.

  An awkward silence, then he said, “I’m from New York City.”

  “Me too, what a coincidence!” I exclaimed, then hated the enthusiasm in my voice.

  Even though I knew nothing about this stranger, meeting a fellow New Yorker made it all seem less unreal. The Chinese say there are four great happinesses in the world:

  Pouring rain after a long drought

  Running into a friend in a foreign country

  Embracing your bride on your wedding night

  Succeeding in the Imperial Examination

  I studied his grayish green eyes, which seemed to twinkle mischievously, reminding me of the phrase “stars in the eyes.” “So you’re American?”

  He nodded.

  “You travel alone?” we asked simultaneously.

  Then we both uttered a “yes,” and laughed.

  Damn! I was here for a purpose, not to chitchat with strangers, so I said, “Nice to meet you. Bye.”

  Disappointment flooded the young man’s face; the stars dimmed. “Sorry if I am bothering you.”

  “It’s OK.”

  “Hope I’ll see you around then,” he said softly, then walked away.

  Good. I didn’t come to China to socialize. Time enough for that after I carried out my mission and collected my fortune.

  Starting to walk and look for soldier number ten, I was faced with the problem I’d been fretting over ever since last night. How could I possibly sneak close to “him” and scrape a tiny piece of clay? Finally I approached my intended victim, unobtrusively I hoped, and regarded him intensely. Then I looked around. The middle-aged guard was now standing by the entrance staring at nothing, while his younger and shorter colleague sat on a chair, looking bored. The elderly couple was studying some of the soldiers in a far-off corner, and the two girls were giggling. The older man’s fingers pointed at the warriors, his hand gestures cutting invisible sculptures in the cool air, while the woman’s lips moved rapidly uttering oohs and aahs and other remarks, audible and inaudible. The young foreigner was now intensely studying a soldier in another far-off corner.

  How could I get close to warrior number ten—he was a few feet below me in a pit and guarded by a thick rope—let alone scrape something from him? Then I remembered Chris’s favorite admonition toward the ends of his creative writing classes: “Explore your creativity and use your imagination,” he would say, tapping his head hard with his sexy fingers.

  I kept racking my brain while staring at the warrior as if he were my eternal and only love. I looked and looked for a long time, fidgeting with the small knife and some coins inside my pants pocket. Suddenly, as if pushed by some mysterious force, I slipped and fell against my “lover.” With a will of its own, my hand reached to scrape a tiny piece from the terracotta soldier, then swiftly put it inside my jeans pocket.

  The American youth was the first one who spotted the “accident.” He dashed toward me, trying to step down to the trough, but the young guard immediately screamed at him to stop.

  The uniformed man yelled in Chinese, “Stay right here!” then rushed over to me and grabbed my arm to pull me up. Instead of offering some comforting words, he screamed, “What do you think you’re doing!”

  “I’m sorry. I fell.”

  Now the middle-aged guard hurried toward us, followed by the elderly couple and the two girls.

  Both guards scrutinized me with narrowed eyes, ready to release long-held poison. The couple gave me a suspicious once-over. The two girls covered their mouths and giggled more.

  Finally the young guard said to his colleague, “What should we do with her? Call the police?”

  A smirk bloomed on the ol
der guard’s face. “Excellent idea!”

  As my heart was pounding, to my surprise, the young American moved up to the two guards, put his hands on their shoulders, and spoke in a low voice as he steered them away. The guards stood stiffly. Then, all three backs turned to us, I saw the American stuff something into the guards’ pants pockets.

  Having finished their business, the three walked back toward me. The older guard waved away the four reluctant onlookers. After they left, both guards cast me a pleasing smile.

  The older guard said, “Miss, sorry you fell. You feeling all right now?”

  I nodded.

  “Next time, be more careful.” He winked to his colleague. After that, as if nothing had happened, the duo sauntered away.

  Before I had a chance to thank the American youth, he looked at me with concern. “Are you OK? Did you get hurt?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you so much for helping me.” I noticed again his grayish green eyes, almost the same color as his pants.

  “You sure you’re OK?”

  “Yes,” I said, a little louder than I should while dusting my sweater and jeans, thinking, Please, leave me alone! Then feeling sorry for my rudeness, I smiled as sweetly as I could. “What did you say to the guards?”

  He kept staring at me without answering.

  “All right, thanks for getting me out of the situation anyway. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” He smiled shyly; his face flushed a lovely pink. Then he extended his hand. “I’m Alex, Alex Luce.”

  “I’m Lily Lin. Nice to meet you.”

  His hand was moist and cold. Was this kid worrying about something? But I was the one who fell, not him.

  “Can I call you Lily?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He blushed more. “Lily, can… can… I invite you for dinner?”

  I stared hard at him. It was a strange request. Did he want a free dinner from me as a reward for his help? As a kid he probably didn’t have much money, and maybe he had already spent most of what he had.