Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

After that, my father rarely came home. When he did, he would first eat my mother’s cooking, then fuck her hard—as if she’d not already been fucked hard enough. Even though my parents tried very hard—my mother suppressing her scream and my father pressing down the thin bed’s violent shakings—it sounded as if they were right underneath me, as in fact they were, because the tiny, rented apartment had room for only the one bunk bed where I slept on the upper level and my mother the lower one.

But each time after my father’s departure, there was a small pile of money left on our multifunctional table (eating meals, doing my homework, doing chores, ironing clothes)—his only redeeming act.

Gradually my father stopped his visits completely. While he was busy enjoying his other woman’s wifely favors, feeding both his mouth and his lust, my mother wore herself down cleaning and running errands to support us. She never missed a day of work, never took a vacation, never asked for a raise, and never complained. This may be considered stupid, but it also generated good karma. Because of her sacrifice I was able to fulfill my dream of studying creative writing in New York. The church, to reward Mother’s hard work, gave her a small pension after she completed her thirty years’ service keeping the church as immaculate as the virgin birth.

No matter how hard I tried to persuade her, Mother refused to spend any of her savings but insisted that I should use it for my study in the United States.

When I told her that she should at least splurge on something she really wanted, her answer was always, “I don’t need anything.”

This reminded me of a saying I read somewhere: “Most people don’t get what they want because they forget what they want.”

How very sad. That was my dear mother, whose dreams had, day by day, leaked through the windows she cleaned, between the planks she mopped, the sinks she washed, and the toilets she flushed after other people’s business. Now she’d completely forgotten that she, a maid, had once had dreams. However, she never forgot mine, and that really touched my heart.

That was why I loved my mother but never felt I was my father’s daughter. I was sure that the feeling was mutual. I wondered sometimes, was my infatuation with men compensation for my “fatherless” childhood?

I had no answer for that.

Right then, I only wanted to continue my journey and collect my three-million-dollar fortune.

After that, que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.

A stranger who suddenly claimed to be my only relative on earth wanted me to have strange sex with a man I had never met who, worse, was a monk.

Of course, I thought, I might not mind it if the monk was young and handsome, but what if he was ugly to death, or if he wanted to tie me up before sex and beat me up after? But if he was indeed young and handsome, then why would he have chosen to be a monk who has to take the vow of celibacy?

If I did have sex with the monk, would this be considered betraying Alex, or even Chris? But hadn’t they already become my exes? Nonetheless, I was willing to face the challenge, of course for the pending fortune, but also to satisfy my dying-to-be-relieved itching curiosity. And on top of that, to prove that I was not a wimp and that I was different.

Anyway, maybe I could think of a way to get out of the situation while still managing to achieve my mission.

So one day, I took a donkey cart to the next village and asked the coolie to drop me first at Lop Nor’s store—in case my healer friend had returned. But his store was still tightly closed. Disappointed, I shouldered my heavy backpack and boarded a bus that took me to Urumqi, and from there a minibus, then a car to another part of the Mountains of Heaven, this one more remote than the Heavenly Lake.

It was already late afternoon when I arrived. However, to reach my destination I still had to ride a special “sedan chair”—a hammock attached to two poles—up a narrow, zigzag path. After a half hour the two coolies who had been carrying me, one middle-aged and the other in his twenties, put me down.

Wiping big beads of perspiration from his face with a rag, the older one said, “Here you are, miss.”

I got off the hammock and paid him. Then I saw a cliff of sandstone soaring up about three hundred feet. “How am I supposed to go up there?” My question came out high-pitched and angry sounding.

The older coolie’s twiglike finger pointed to a weathered path. “Miss, from here you have to climb all the way up to the top.”

“Isn’t there an easier way to get there? Like…”

He laughed, revealing a few yellowish, broken teeth. “You mean an elevator? Miss, where are you from?”

Beside him, his young partner laughed out loud.

“Oh, never mind. I’ll try.”

The older coolie smiled. “Climbing is good exercise. That’s why all the mountain monks are invincible martial artists.”

Probably to get my attention, the young man executed a few kung fu chops in the air.

I ignored him, having completely lost my sense of humor. I turned back to Old Coolie. “You know those monks up there?”

“Miss, I don’t know any monks. I watch kung fu movies where the monks are masters of the floating martial arts. And that’s how they fly up and down mountains. Ha!”

To my extreme irritation, now the youngster made a high jump while exclaiming a loud “Ha!”

I cast him a dirty look, then turned back to his boss. “Why didn’t they just build some real stairs?”

The coolie looked at me curiously, then pointed up. “See? It looks like there were once stairs, but now not much left.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because monks don’t want visitors.”

Some silence, then he took off his stained gloves and held them out to me. “Take these.”

“What for?”

He pointed to the remains of the path. “Because you might lose your grip. These will help you hold onto the boulders better. They’ll also protect your hands from bleeding during your climb. Two renminbi .”

I fished out two bills and handed them to him.

“Four, miss.”

“But you just said two!”

“Yes, two for each hand. You have two hands, right?”

“All right, you win.” I slapped two more bills onto his outstretched hand.

“Good luck, miss.” He smiled. “May the Buddha protect you.” After that, the two lifted the poles and hurried away.

I put on the gloves and placed my first step on the path. The philosopher Laozi’s famous line popped into my mind:

A journey of a thousand miles begins under your feet.

Yes!

I started to count my steps. To keep my spirits up, I imagined each one was leading me closer to my three-million-dollar goal with a dream house by the sea, vacations in Europe, French and Italian gourmet food, antique furniture, lush oil paintings, silk and cashmere clothes, Tiffany jewelry, and of course my hugely successful great American novel….

Daydreaming, I slipped and almost fell but regained my balance just in time.

“Careful! Don’t throw your million-dollar life down the cliff!” I muttered heatedly into the air.

Like a racedog aware only of the rabbit, I focused fiercely, counting my breath with each step. From time to time I’d look down, the scenery looking unreal from my high altitude. I imagined myself suspended between heaven and earth, surrounded by immortals’ caves filled with elixirs, magic herbs, and esoteric manuscripts.

At last I reached level ground. Feeling quite dizzy and short of breath, I steadied myself against a rock for a few minutes, gulping the fresh, almost intoxicating mountain air. My eyes wandered until they landed on a small, dilapidated building with a weathered green roof. I straightened up and walked to the entrance. My arrival was welcomed by a large door with a rusty metal lion head knocker. The rust told me there were hardly any visitors to knock on the temple gate. Could it be I was the first in many years?

Gingerly my hand made a few tentative knocks on the gate. No answer. I waited for ten seconds and knocked again. And again. Still no answer. Had all the monks inside turned to mummies? Were they left over from the colonial days of a hundred years ago, or the Ming dynasty four hundred years before that? Still knocking, I felt a sudden panic, as well as pangs in my stomach. I put down my backpack and searched inside for the buns I had brought. Soon I felt as if both the sky above and the earth underneath were spinning ever faster….

I woke up inside a small room that smelled of incense. A teenage monk with a long face was pressing a damp cloth on my forehead while waving mint-scented medicinal oil under my nostrils.

“Good day, miss,” he whispered, then turned to shout excitedly, “Master, the miss wakes up!”

From nowhere, a fortyish, muscular monk appeared. Half kneeling next to my bed, he put a thick palm on my forehead and asked tersely, “Miss, are you all right? Do you feel better now?”

I nodded as I sat up. “I guess I’m just exhausted and hungry.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve already prepared herb soup and vegetarian dishes for you. You ready to eat?”

“Yes, please.”

The two monks led me to a bigger room with a wooden table covered with tea, steaming soup, and several dishes.

While I ravenously gulped down my tofu, mushrooms, lotus roots and bok choy, hot soup, and fragrant tea, the older monk watched me intensely like a doctor his patient or a mother her newborn. Finally, my hunger sated, I set down my chopsticks and the young monk took away the plates.