In the afternoon I sit by the Pool of Nine Dragons reading the legend of the stone tablets, then catch a bus to the Terracotta Army. I buy a ticket for the museum, and enter the hall only to find a crowd of peasants selling fake Neolithic tiles and arrowheads. When I return to the ticket booth and ask for a refund, two fat men walk over and shout, ‘You bought your ticket, so go in or shove off!’ I walk away, fuming with rage, and discover the real Terracotta Army Museum is on the other side of the road. A group of southern tourists mill around me, grumbling about the scam. Another tour bus pulls up outside the ticket booth. I walk over to warn them but a tall man in an army coat blocks my way and says, ‘Breathe a word and you’re dead.’ So I stand back and watch thirty people buy tickets, file into the hall and come out seconds later looking disgruntled and confused. I tell myself all sins have their punishment, then turn round and cross the road.
The Terracotta Army vault is just a corner of the vast necropolis of the first emperor of unified China, Qin Shihuang. Like all Chinese emperors, he divided his time between constructing his lavish mausoleum and collecting beautiful women for his harem. Historical records claim that in 246 BC, Qin Shihuang conscripted seven hundred thousand workmen to build his funerary compound which was only completed thirty-seven years later, a year after his death. His son was afraid the workmen might divulge the location of the buried treasures, so he ordered the men to be buried alive, together with the emperor and his concubines. This fifty square-kilometres of land is packed with corpses.
In the cavity of the museum’s main hall, five thousand life-size clay soldiers stand poised for battle, their faces identical to the tourists peering down at them. The vault next door is still under excavation and the soldiers are not yet restored. Some are still half-buried, others have crumbled onto mud walls or lie shattered on the floor. I am reminded of the photographs of the mass graves unearthed just west of Qin Shihuang’s main tomb.
I study the ancient warriors. A layer of skin has been peeled from the earth, and China’s cruel, ugly soul is exposed to the light of day. The emperors who followed in Qin Shihuang’s wake restrained themselves slightly by stipulating that only a third of the national income should be spent on their mausoleums. But they continued to take their most precious possessions with them into the nether world, including jewels, gold and live concubines.
According to local legend the workmen who were buried with Qin Shihuang lived on beneath the soil. They engraved the story of their plight onto a large stone tablet which grew through the earth like a root. But when the tablet reached the surface no one could decipher the script. The tablet grew taller and taller, until one day it blotted out the sun.
‘No photographs!’ A policeman with a thick Shaanxi accent pounces on a foreign tourist, snatches the camera from her hand, flicks the back open and pulls out the film. The shiny grey strip coils down like a loose gut. The lady starts screaming at him, but no one understands what she is saying. A crowd of Chinese tourists gather to stare. ‘We let you in to see our glorious past, but that’s not enough for you! You want to take photos on the sly and sell them to magazines when you get home!’ The policeman’s self-righteous voice booms through the hangar.
The winds that blow through Xian carry a fine yellow dust. I take a sip of eight-treasure gruel, and a bite of stuffed persimmon roll, but there is sand in both of them. I pay the snack vendor and leave. Most of the pedestrians are dressed in blue overalls, peasants are only distinguishable by the mud on their sleeves. As I walk through the streets, the garish shop signs and Marlboro advertisements fade into the background and all I see are pagodas, bell towers and ancient walls. This city was the capital of eleven different dynasties, and at its peak a thousand years ago, it was the largest city in the world.
I sit down by a window in a self-service restaurant and stare at my cup of black coffee. It is made with real Nescafé, but there are not enough granules, so it tastes like weak tea. The two peasants at the next table are sipping their coffee with a teaspoon. They look miserable.
‘One yuan fifty for this tiny cup. We could have bought three pots of tea for that.’
‘Stop whining. It was your idea to come here. Take some more sugar, it’s included in the price.’ I look at the small sausage rolls in their hands and know they could finish twenty and still leave hungry.
A few days ago I read up on the drug situation in China and discovered that drug abuse is more commonplace than I thought. The addicts come from ordinary backgrounds, and buy their supplies on the black market. Opium is still the most popular drug. Yang Qing is taking me to the detoxification centre this afternoon. I am visiting in the guise of a Shaanxi Press reporter.
When he steps out of the police car and taps on the restaurant window, I do not recognise him at first. He looks completely different in uniform. We make our way to the centre. I have never walked through the streets with a policeman before. At first I feel like a lowly criminal. Then I notice how people look at me and my confidence returns. As we advance, paths open in the crowd, children fall silent and snack vendors stop shouting their wares. I soon grow a taste for this vicarious power, and when we reach the gates I cannot help saying, ‘The world looks very different from your vantage point.’
Yang Qing ignores my comment and says, ‘The centre was converted from a guesthouse. It only takes female criminals.’ He sounds very different from the man who spoke so passionately about Tagore last week. ‘I must leave you after the introductions. I have a lot of work to do.’ He combs his hair back and opens the centre’s door.
About twenty young women are squatting in the corridor, none of them look up as we pass. The director leads us to an office on the first floor. She says she is happy for journalists to visit the centre. I ask if I can interview a patient and she takes me to a room at the end of the corridor. ‘This is where we keep the new arrivals,’ she says. Her face looks pale and tired.
‘Why are they lying down?’
‘We give them pills to make them sleep.’
There are about thirty women on the floor. Some of them stare at the ceiling. None of them see us walk in. They remind me of the buried warriors. The room smells of urine and the quilts are tattered and smeared with wet and dry vomit. ‘This place is squalid,’ I blurt out.
‘Yes. The quilts were left over from the guesthouse. We couldn’t afford new ones. You can mention that in your article.’
A girl at my feet sits up. She looks like any skinny girl you see walking down the street. I don’t know where to start.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ I say, looking into her eyes. ‘What made you turn to drugs?’ The director goes to pour me a cup of tea.
‘My name is Fang Li. I’m twenty-four years old. I have been here two months. I went to a labour reform camp last year. The police accused me of selling drugs. I told them I had bought drugs, but I never admitted to selling any.’
Her words sound forced. ‘I can check the records later. Just tell me what turned you to drugs. I’m not a policeman, you can talk freely. Isn’t that right, director?’
‘Yes. Fang Li, tell the gentleman about the harm drugs did to you. Young people can learn from your mistakes. This is Comrade Ma, he is a guest reporter for Shaanxi Press.’
Fang Li tugs at the hem of her red jumper. I twirl my pen and say, ‘Speak freely, Fang Li.’