Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

A graveyard.

There were just five graves, all marked with a thin wooden board inscribed with faded red paint. As I was trying to decipher the characters on the first grave marker, I suddenly heard footsteps in the distance. Swiftly I moved behind a boulder to watch.

It was a fortyish, muscular, tan-faced man.

He walked straight to one of the graves, dropped to his knees, and fervently prayed. Then he did the same at all the other graves, his face sad beyond words. My heart would often melt when I saw a sad face; for me it was a window to tragedy, mystery, and poetry—qualities that fascinated me. But this one looked so sad that there was no room left for any of these.

Finally when the man finished his prayer, he stood up, pressed his lips against each grave marker, and started to leave. I lowered myself so he wouldn’t see me. With his eyes unfocused and his expression hollow, I doubted if he was alert to anything around him, except perhaps those six feet under.

After making sure that the stranger was gone, I went up to take a good look at the two graves to which he’d paid the most respect. I took out my pen and paper, trying to copy the inscriptions, but one of them was so damaged that I ended up copying only one.

Back home, I asked Keku to translate the inscription for me.

1981–1986 Tangri, beloved son of the Limbit family. His five years of life on this planet gave joy and peace to many people, especially his loving parents and doting grandparent. May his beautiful body and soul rest in heaven.

I couldn’t even imagine the overwhelming sorrow to have lost a child at this tender age. What had happened?

Later, I asked Keku more about the burial sites, but she only widened her eyes. “Nobody knows. Nobody goes.”

Then I told her about the sad-faced stranger. “Do you think it was his son buried there?”

“Don’t know. Never ask. Bad luck. Better not go there yourself.”

“You’re not curious about this man and his dead relatives, friends?”

She didn’t answer my question, but sighed. “Miss Lin, now understand why rent cheap?” She paused, then, “Why no people, no thieves come here steal?”

I felt a shudder inside. Who were this village’s real residents, the Muslims or the phantoms?

But I thought it might actually turn out to be something good. Maybe I could know this area better by communicating with spirits—ancestors who might tell me tales about the mountains and the desert that the living didn’t know or wouldn’t tell. Of course, I would not tell anyone about this ability of mine, for I had no intention of being stigmatized by my new acquaintances as crazy or, worse, a witch.

Since my teens, I’d been attracted to graveyards—perfect places for me to read without the slightest disturbance, since the dead stay out of your way and don’t try to engage you in boring conversations. I’d never had more than one or two friends for I never had much in common with my classmates.

Besides the ordinary dead people, there were other kinds of spirits I connected with, especially deceased authors. So from time to time, I’d skip class and take the bus to the graveyard in Happy Valley where I would read Sense and Sensibility, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Alice in Wonderland, The Sun Also Rises…

When I tired of reading my books, I’d walk around to read inscriptions on gravestones. I found it fascinating when a person died either very young or very old, since I was alive but stuck in between. I also tried to talk to the deceased, easing my teenage angst and filling my mind with otherworldly romances. The graveyard was an escape from the boredom of school and life into a world of fantasy and magical possibilities.

After I found the graveyard, my nocturnal feeling of suffocation stopped but the cold, empty feeling lingered.

A few days later, I was eating my simple breakfast of bread and milk and listening to cheerful, exotic Xinjiang tunes when I heard stirring outside the door. I went to lift the curtain, peered outside the window, and was astonished to see Alex Luce fidgeting in front of the entrance.

Like a hungry ghost, this kid just wouldn’t leave me alone!

I flung open the door and screamed in his face, “Alex, what are you doing here? You following me again?”

But his young face, agonized and exhausted, instantly melted my heart.

“Don’t be mad, Lily. I just wanted to be sure you’re OK.”

“I’m fine.” Seeing that he was sweating heavily under the hot sun, my heart melted again. “You want to come in?”

He nodded.

Inside, I signaled for him to sit on one of the floral “sofas.” After that, I poured water for him in a tin cup, then sat opposite him.

“I just moved here.”

“What do you mean by moved here?”

He pointed to the far distance outside the window. “I’ll camp over there.”

“At the graveyard?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Why, are you out of your mind?”

“So I can look out for you, Lily, in case anything happens.”

“So you followed me here?”

“I paid the guy at the hotel to tell me where you are. I hope you aren’t offended.” He lowered his head. His voice came out tender like water, just what I needed in the desert.

Then he gulped down his water, put down the cup with a gentle clink, and looked me in the eyes. “Lily, I’m in love with you.”

I tried to sound calm despite my desert-hot emotions. “But, Alex, we hardly know each other.”

“Does it really matter? Either you love or you don’t, there’s no but in a relationship.”

“Then what do you want?” I asked, feeling hot, uneasy, impatient.

“Let me love you by taking care of you.”

“You never asked if I’m also in love with you.”

“Are you?”

His eyes were so tender that I felt my bones dissolving. Was I in love with him? It was a question I did not want to ask myself. But I was moved by this young man’s stubborn efforts to take care of me, to… love me. And I had to admit I did like to look at his delicate face and his lean body. Any girl would be ecstatic to have his company just for the sake of vanity. Then why would he choose me, years older? Was he starving for sisterly—or motherly—affection?

I didn’t answer his question, but said, “I already have a boyfriend.”

He looked stunned for a few seconds, then, “So… are you going to marry him, this boyfriend of yours?”

I didn’t respond.

A long silence fell between us before he spoke again, this time with urgency. “He’s married with kids, isn’t he?”

Did this young man possess a third eye, or was “screwed by a married man” written like bright graffiti on my forehead?

“He said he would,” I muttered, feeling completely drained.

“Married men always say that to their mistresses so they’ll stay—in bed.”

Stung by this unwelcome yet veritable remark, my voice shot out high like a jumping frog. “Alex, why don’t you find someone your age and leave me alone?”

“I’m not interested in girls my age. They’re like dolls, and I’m not a girl.”

“Do you want me because you miss your mother?”

“Lily, I don’t care how old you are, only who you are.”

“You hardly know me.”

“Then why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

I blurted out, “All right. I’m an adventurer and an aspiring novelist writing a coming-of-age family saga based on my own life. My parents are both dead, so I’m all by myself on this planet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You satisfied? Now tell me, what do you love in me.” My answer came out cold deliberately to cover the heat spreading inside me.

“You’re brave, beautiful, talented, and unusual.”

“How am I unusual?”

“I’ve never encountered a woman who travels by herself in a third-world country, let alone on the Silk Road, in a deserted village, and insists that she be left alone. I admire your bravery. But it’s also unbelievably stupid.”

I winced from his bluntness. “Did you just say stupid?”

“Yes! Haven’t you ever thought that a pretty young woman traveling by herself, in a third-world country, is an invitation for trouble? That’s why I’m here, to look out for you.”

Before I had a chance to respond, he threw me another question. “Why do you travel alone?”

I was not going to answer this, so I asked instead, “Alex, what makes you think you can take care of me?”

“Just trust me, would you?”

My voice, instead of keeping its cultivated cool, now came out vulnerable like a wounded kitten. “Alex, please, I don’t know….”

He stood up and moved toward me in quick strides. Then our bodies, arms, and lips entangled. But we didn’t make love. After long, convoluted kisses and caresses, I hardened my heart and asked him to leave.

“Please, Alex, now leave and leave it at that. And don’t come back to see me. I really don’t need more complications in my life.”

He stared deeply at me and let out a long sigh before he walked to the door, then closed it behind him, leaving me alone in the cottage.

My heart sank.

How did this trip turn out to be so complicated at every step? And I had just barely started to retrace my aunt’s route!

I was touched and intrigued by Alex’s gentleness and concern. Yet, why did he choose me? Should I be suspicious? But he looked too young and innocent to be contaminated by the dust and poison of this world. Besides, he couldn’t possibly know about my upcoming fortune. Anyway, I needed to focus, not to be distracted by an attractive face or tongue-entangling, soul-losing kisses.

That night I dreamed that Alex and I were husband and wife, living in the desert where we were left alone by the civilized world. We hunted wild animals, climbed mountains to gather herbs, watched the constellations circle above us, and made passionate love on the warm sand. While my moans were echoed by the nearby dunes, my tanned, naked body rose and fell to the rhythm of the shifting sands and his thrusting torso. Peering over my lover’s shoulder, I saw the dazzling sun, trying to melt our two writhing bodies into one.

One day, when we were very old, we died making love under the moonlight. Ten years later our bodies—preserved by the dry climate and still in the “banquet-from-the-backyard” beneficial position—were discovered by an explorer monk….

The next day, to distract myself from Alex, I decided to call Chris Adams. Keku’s husband gave me a ride to the next village, where international phone calls could be made at a post office.

The connection went through after the fifth ring. A happy surprise!

“Chris?”

“Lily? Why didn’t you call earlier? I’ve been worried about you!” My former professor’s irritated voice rolled toward me from eight thousand miles away. “Where are you now?”

I apologized for not calling earlier, then told him I was now living at a cottage in a small oasis village at the desert’s entrance.

“I decided to live here for a while to have a sense of the place.”

“So you’re really going to settle down on the Silk Road? Then what about me?”

“Chris, don’t be childish; you have your family and I my desert. Anyway, I’ll be back before you know it.”

He again asked the purpose of my trip, but as before, I was evasive. So the conversation went round and round like a cat chasing its tail. Finally I changed the subject to ask about Jenny and Preston, then told him there was no way he could contact me since I didn’t have a phone.

“Then what if you’re in trouble, or sick?”

“Don’t worry, Chris, I’ll take good care of myself. Besides, I’m sure the very nice Uyghur people here will provide help when needed.”

“All right, then take very good care of yourself and call me more often. I love you.”

“Me too,” I said, my declaration sounding unconvincing even to my own ears.

Outside the post office, I walked around to clear my mind and calm my nerves, then went inside a store to do some shopping, and after that hired a donkey cart home.

Back inside my cottage, I vigorously plunged myself into cleaning so I didn’t have to think about Chris and the disturbing phone call. Not long after, feeling exhausted, I put on a Xinjiang music tape and turned up the boom box’s volume. Gradually, the cheerful, rhythmic folk tunes began to soothe my nerves and energize me. I picked up a book and tried to read, but the music was so therapeutic that I closed my eyes instead and let the tunes be both host and guest in my cottage and my mind.