On Saturday, Yao Lu takes me back to his home in Lintong. On the way he talks to me about a book he is reading on Daoist philosophy. I meet his wife who is six months pregnant. She and Yao Lu have just completed a translation of Ginsberg’s poetry. They have not found a publisher yet, so I am their first reader. They live in the compound of the town revolution committee and must register with a soldier each time they enter the main gate. Their small room holds a pail of water, a bucket of coal, a shovel and a poker. A traditional Shaanxi embroidered waistcoat hangs from a nail on the wall. In the evening, the wife leaves to spend the night with her mother. She tells us to clean our feet in the red plastic washbowl under the bed. Yao Lu and I take turns to wash, then sit on the bed and talk.
He tells me his wife has a violent temper, and that she attacked him once with a fire poker and knocked his teeth out. We discuss the Xian literary scene, then I pick up the Ginsberg and read through it again.
‘Listen to this,’ I say. ‘They "sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of/ the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-/ saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,/ danced on broken wineglasses barefoot. ." It reminds me of a night in Beijing when our group of poets and painters took some empty beer bottles outside and smashed them into a metal rubbish bin. We hurled with all our strength. It was the loudest noise I had ever made. But Ginsberg can sing out of his window in despair, he can cry all over the street. That sounds like heaven to me. He implies his country is not fit for humans to live in. Well, he should live in China for a month, then see what he thinks. Everyone here dreams of the day we can sing out of our windows in despair.’
‘No society is perfect. Freedom is only possible when the heart is in line with the Way. If the heart is tempered and the mind is clear then you will see there is no right or wrong.’
‘I am more concerned with the outside world. I want to live in a country where people can cry all over the street.’ I pause then say, ‘Xian feels as though it is being crushed under the weight of tombstones. The air is as heavy as death.’
‘The Chinese alive today are reincarnations of torturers. The wronged souls of the past will haunt us for ever. We must pay for the sins of our ancestors. Daoist scriptures say if you dig more than a metre into the ground you pierce the heart of Mother Earth. But beneath the foundations of Xian, the earth is riddled with cavernous tombs.’
Yao Lu hands me a book of Xian legends. ‘It might give you some ideas for a story. I admire you, you know, giving up your job, roaming the country alone. You will be a sage before long.’
‘I am not looking for ideas. I just felt confused about life, and thought travel might clear my mind. I still know so little about this country. If you want to write about society, you need to see the whole picture.’
‘It is hard to empty your mind. Desire is the root of all suffering. I write very little these days, I’m thinking of giving it up and going into academia.’ He gives a bitter smile and rubs his glasses.
I read the four characters on the scroll hung above his desk: Sky, Man, Become, One. ‘What martial arts are you practising these days?’
‘An esoteric branch of qigong. I took it up three months ago. It is a form of deep meditation which helps redress the flow of one’s inner energy. It has improved my concentration. You should try it. After years of practice one can heal the sick and change stone into gold.’
‘I don’t have the discipline. I long to enter a state of calm, but I am plagued by constant distractions. I planned to make a pilgrimage to Tibet a few months ago, but my mind was too clouded, I turned back halfway.’ I am about to mention the fight I had with the thugs who stole my camera, but decide to keep it to myself.
‘Shall we give it a go?’ he asks.
We sit facing each other at opposite ends of the bed. The only sound in the room is the pan of water simmering on the stove. Yao Lu starts giving me instructions. ‘Close your eyes, empty your mind, perceive the Celestial Eye.’
I lower my eyelids and picture the wife’s bra dangling from the peg on the door and Yao Lu’s face bashed to a pulp. I look up, and see Yao Lu, eyes shut, stroking an imaginary ball of air. I close my eyes again and see an open sky.
‘Focus your mind on the pit of your abdomen and discover your vital energy. Breathe in through your mouth and let the energy rise to your hands. Are your palms starting to sweat? Breathe out and feel the heat rise to your forehead. The Celestial Eye sees the fire. .’ Half an hour later my limbs are swollen and my face is dripping with sweat.
‘Good. You have the root of wisdom. Nourish it carefully and you will prolong your life.’ I look up and see a halo of steam hovering above Yao Lu’s head.
‘Have you joined the Daoist Society?’ I ask.
‘No. I refuse to enter any organization. But they have asked me to give a series of lectures on religious divination and the five elements.’
‘I regret taking my Buddhism vows so soon,’ I say, leaning back against the white wall.
‘Daoists believe that Buddhism, Daoism and Confucianism are three paths to the same goal. No matter which path you choose through the clouds, they all lead to the same blue sky. Daoism is for me the most interesting, though. There are no gods to worship or rules to obey. It teaches us that man is part of nature, and is condemned to a life of constant change because the Yin and the Yang are inseparable, and follow each other as night follows day. It teaches us not to waste time fighting and grasping but to resign ourselves to fate and live at peace with the world. Every evil has its punishment.’
‘Yes. People waste time fighting one other, when the real enemy is time itself.’
‘There are no enemies in this life, Ma Jian. You have too much aggression inside you. You must learn to be as meek as a newborn child. Daoism tells us the belligerent are always the first to fall.’
‘I don’t approve of aggression, but everyone should know how to defend themselves. I agree that weakness can be strength, but by advocating submission, I feel that Daoism sometimes encourages slothfulness and a sense of complacency.’
‘The police have sunk their claws into me, Ma Jian,’ Yao Lu says, suddenly changing the subject. ‘They have not allowed me to leave Xian since I was arrested for writing that poem on the Beijing Democracy Wall. I feel trapped.’
‘Run away to Shenzhen, then. It’s a haven of free enterprise. You can buy yourself a fake identity card there and get a job with a foreign company. You could even buy a forged passport and make a new life for yourself in America.’ My eyelids are drooping, I am struggling to keep awake.
‘But I have a wife and a child on the way. I can’t leave. Besides, there is no culture in the south.’ His voice is quieter now that he is lying down.
‘Your wife attacked you with a fire poker, for God’s sake. What kind of woman would do that? Leave now before it’s too late.’
‘You cannot change the course of fate,’ he whispers to himself.
With that stone in his heart I know that Yao Lu will never be free, no matter which path he chooses.
The next day I visit the Huaqing Hot Springs at the foot of Mount Lishan. Tourists peer at the empty pools trying to imagine emperors and their beautiful concubines taking their baths here a thousand years ago.
I go to the public bathhouse at the back of the complex and share a small pool with five strangers. The sides are green and slimy, and the water is very hot. My pores slowly open in the disinfectant steam. It feels good. This is my third bath this year. I don’t like showers, but wallowing in warm water is very relaxing. No wonder all the expensive hotels are equipped with baths. The attendant knocks on the door again and shouts, ‘Get washing, you lot. You’re out in five minutes!’