Leaving Mother Lake (20 page)
I
n Xichang we won first prize again. But this time we did not get any money, although Xichang was a much bigger city than Yanyuan, so big we were sure we would earn at least a hundred yuan each. But all we got was a red diploma — and we had our photo taken.
The day after the contest, we were driven to the local airport and a journalist took a photo of us standing in front of a plane. That was the first photo ever taken of us, and it was also the first plane we had ever seen. After the photo session, we watched the planes take off and land. How could a thing like this, made of metal, fly like a bird? And what was it like inside a plane? Was it like riding in a car? Did it make you throw up? No, the journalist said. It didn’t. You could eat in an airplane and walk around. I had always wanted to fly beyond our mountains, like the birds that came and went with the seasons. And now that I was seeing with my own eyes that not only birds but people could fly, I wanted to fly and see the world. Zhatsonamu and Latsoma only wanted to fly home.
In the evening there was a lot of talk between Mr. Li and the Xichang organizers, and it was about us. I could not understand any of it, but I stayed with them, hanging on their every gesture, every now and then pestering Yisso for some information. When at last they were done with talking, Yisso said that fifteen people had been chosen to represent Sichuan province in a national competition in Beijing and that I was one of them. When I went up to our room and told Zhatsonamu and Latsoma that I was going to Beijing, the place where the Panchen Lama lived and Mao Zedong slept, and they were going home, they jumped for joy. They could not wait to go home to their mothers and their boyfriends.
Yisso was also going home, and so was Mr. Li. From tomorrow, Mr. Luo of the Xichang Cultural Bureau would be the leader. Yisso would inform my mother, and since I knew enough Yi to get by and I was already making some progress in Chinese, neither Yisso nor Mr. Li could foresee any problems.
“NAMU,SINGING IN BEIJING
is not going to be as easy as singing in Xichang,” Mr. Luo warned me. For a start, I was to perform with the famous Tibetan opera singer Nankadroma — one Moso song and a Tibetan and a Yi song, and with a full-size traditional Chinese orchestra. Now, for Nankadroma and the others, who were all professional singers, learning new songs and singing with an orchestra were routine work, but not so for me. As Mr. Luo saw it, I sang as one walked or danced, I had only ever sung to the accompaniment of the bamboo flute and I knew only a few tunes. For Moso songs, like almost all the music of the ethnic people of western China and unlike Chinese or Western music, consisted of improvised poetry sung to a few set and standard tunes. And how many tunes did Moso people have? Mr. Luo asked. Six or seven? Ten? One tune to sing of our love for our mothers, another to farewell the horsemen leaving with the caravan, another for funerals, another to sing for our lovers, and finally, the working songs, whose simple rhythms express the movements of people laboring in the fields.
From Xichang we went to Chengdu, where we stayed at the guest house of the Provincial Cultural Bureau and began daily rehearsals the following morning, and Mr. Luo’s assessment of my musical capacities proved correct. I found it very difficult to learn new melodies and almost impossible to sing with the orchestra. No matter how much I tried, I could not count beats. I just could not come in on time — until the
erhu
player suggested tapping his foot when it was my turn to come in. To everyone’s relief, it worked. But then, as though the orchestra were not enough, Mr. Luo had also arranged for a professional voice teacher to coach us. I did my best not to appear reticent, but I just could not bring myself to contort my face as I needed to in order to make my voice come out louder and clearer. Moso women sing very high and very loudly and because they sing in falsetto, they can always sing and smile at the same time. To pull an ugly face in order to sing better seemed to defeat the purpose. But perhaps more frustrating than anything, especially for those around me, was that although I learned quickly, by imitation, I forgot everything almost as fast — most likely because I had never learned anything in any formal setting. Nevertheless, after two weeks the rehearsals were over, and the next day we were on the train to Beijing, traveling in second-class sleepers.
For three days and two nights, the giant centipede chugged through the mountains and alongside great rivers, crossing through small villages and big cities, stopping at the railway stations filled with noisy people and noisier vendors. Some of the singers complained that the journey was too long but I kept my face glued to the window, and for three days I watched China go by. When I grew tired of looking outside, I practiced speaking Chinese. At night we slept on the narrow sleeper bunks and I dreamed of stage lights and pink ice cream. I dreamed with my eyes closed but I was not sleeping.
Beijing is a very big city, much bigger than Chengdu, perhaps even bigger than all of Moso country. From the moment the train drew into the station, I felt its sheer size. And as we stepped off the train onto the platform, I felt terrified. I reached for Mr. Luo’s hand. “You don’t need to grab me so hard!” he said, pulling away. “Look at what you’ve done!” And I looked at the scratches I had left on his hand.
Nankadroma took my arm and we made our way through the surge and swell of a human sea to the gigantic hallway, where a woman’s voice boomed melodiously over the general uproar, “This is Beijing railway station, Beijing is our great capital city, Beijing is the capital of the People’s Republic of China.” Although I could not make out the words, it sounded like a soft song to me. I found it calming and I began to sing in imitation of the woman, a soft singsong in gibberish that made everybody laugh.
In the hall we were met by the organizers, who led us outside to the minibuses waiting to take us to our hotel. The hotel in Beijing was bigger than the hotel in Xichang. It not only had a red carpet but there were bedrooms with attached bathrooms with tiled walls and bathtubs and toilets that flushed every time you pushed on the handle. I shared such a bedroom with the famous Tibetan opera singer Nankadroma.
Nankadroma was beautiful, tall, and strong, with very dark skin. Her hair was thick and black, her eyebrows likewise, and her eyes, trained in the movements and expressions of Tibetan opera, had the power to silence or entrance. Nankadroma always seemed absorbed in her own thoughts; she talked slowly and sparingly, and whenever she spoke, everyone listened. I admired her very much, and I was so proud to share a hotel room with her. I watched every move she made, and then I copied her facial expressions, the waving of her hands, and the swaying of her hips. And I followed her everywhere. I even followed her into the bathroom when she was preparing to take a bath, which was how I discovered another thing besides airplanes and trains and ice cream.
“What is this?” I asked in Chinese.
“It’s a bra. Don’t worry, you don’t need one.” She laughed as she waved me out of the door.
Outside the hotel there were grand avenues, and on the avenues the people walked and talked as though they owned China. My wonderment was total. I had seen many marvelous things already in Yanyuan and Xichang and Chengdu, but nothing compared with Beijing. Beijing was enormous, stately, beautiful, overwhelming. Here I was not just enjoying myself, I was awestruck. “You’re so happy,” Nankadroma said, “you sleep with a smile on your face!”
The organizers had arranged daily outings for us to visit important sites — the Great Wall, the Forbidden Palace, Tiananmen Square, Mao Zedong’s apartments, and the mausoleum where the great helmsman lay embalmed in his glass sarcophagus. The state of my political and historical education was such that on seeing the giant portrait of Mao in Tiananmen Square, I was only struck by the mole on his chin — because my mother had a mole at exactly the same place. I could not believe it! Years later my mother would come and visit me in Beijing, and she would also notice Mao’s mole. It would become such a source of pride to her.
THE NIGHT OF THE CONTEST
, I stepped onto the stage trembling with fear and anticipation. Nankadroma smiled at the audience, huge and darkened before us, and I smiled too. Then she smiled at me and the orchestra played the first notes. That night, under the heat of the stage lights, I remembered everything, every Tibetan and Yi word and what I should do with my face and when I should come in. I sang with all my heart, and at the end of the evening, Nankadroma and I had won first prize along with the rest of the Sichuan group.
The next day we were given our red diplomas and pushed on and off a huge stage in the People’s Great Hall, where all manner of officials made speeches I could not understand and hundreds of people in the audience applauded the speeches. But this time we did get some money — wrapped, not in a simple red envelope, but like a precious gift, in the most beautiful rice paper. And it was a lot of money, Mr. Luo told me, two hundred yuan. A fortune.
My first thoughts were to count the money and buy truly expensive things for my family, but I could not bear the idea of tearing up the beautiful red paper. At home we never wrapped any gifts, and I so wanted my mother to see this paper. To everyone’s amusement, I spent all evening mulling this over. It was not until we had gone back to our hotel room and we were ready to go to bed that, in the end, I decided not to open the money. Nankadroma then looked a little concerned and said I needed to watch out for thieves. The next morning I woke up to find her sewing a special pocket in my undershirt to keep my money safe.
“Little Namu, what did you decide to do with your money?” Mr. Luo asked as he counted our train tickets in the hotel foyer.
“I’m going to let my mother open it.”
And he patted me on the back, and all the singers agreed with him that this was the best decision. They were all so kind and they had been so patient. I was the youngest and the least experienced by far, but I was everybody’s favorite. In particular, I was Nankadroma’s favorite. As I sat next to her on the bottom bunk of our second-class train carriage, I looked at her beautiful face, my heart welling with love for her and pride for myself. I was thinking, “I traveled to the center of the world to sing with the famous Nankadroma, and we won.” But when the train shook and slowly began chugging out of Beijing railway station, I forgot about Nankadroma and the little red bundle of money pushing against my waist, and I just felt sad to be leaving.
T
he train ride to Chengdu took three days and two nights, during which I kept my face glued to the window and watched China go by in reverse. My eyes were still hungry for the world, and yet sometimes, instead of seeing the villages and the mountains, I saw Lake Lugu and our own Goddess Gamu. And when I closed my eyes at night, I did not dream of pink ice cream but of roasted potatoes and butter tea. I also dreamed of my mother’s face as she opened the little red bundle, and then I dreamed of all the places I had seen and of all the other places I had yet to see.
From the train window I watched China go by. Fields upon fields, and meandering rivers, and mountains lost in cloudy heavens, grimy cities and earthbound villages, peasants walking in groups with hoes and rakes on their shoulders, peasants working alone in fields planted right up to the edge of the railroad track and littered with the garbage thrown out the train windows. In my travels I had discovered that there were two types of people in the world: city people, who ate in restaurants and took showers and went to the cinema, and peasants, who worked in the fields. We Moso were of the second type.
On the third day, when we reached Sichuan, the train passed through flooded fields and stranded villages, small islands wrecked in a sea of yellow water. Peasants waded through the dirty water holding their children and their belongings above their heads. Waded to where? There was water as far as the eye could see. Then I saw a small woman carrying a little child on one shoulder and a suitcase on the other. The water was almost up to her chin. If she stepped in a hole, she would certainly go under. One of the singers put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, the People’s Liberation Army will rescue them.” The others nodded their heads and pulled away from the windows, and after some time, they went back to their games of cards, their books, their tea and cigarettes. But as the train chugged toward Chengdu, I could see no sign of the People’s Liberation Army.
In Chengdu we were driven to the Jinjiang Hotel, where the director of the Sichuan Cultural Bureau welcomed us to a banquet organized in our honor because we had won first prize in Beijing. People from the Sichuan Television Network had also been invited, as well as writers from various local and provincial newspapers. In the dining room, the huge round tables were covered with dishes.
The director made an interminable speech. I could not understand any of it. But even if I could have, I would not have listened. As I stared vacantly at the official’s mouth opening and smiling over tobacco-stained teeth, all I could see were people standing in dirty water up to their chests. All I could think was that not very far from this banquet room, a small woman was crying out under the black sky, a suitcase on one shoulder and on the other a little child who was clinging to her hair. I had never seen a flood. And surely if there ever was a flood in Zuosuo, surely we would help each other. How could the director put a smile on his face? How could any of us put food in our mouths? I could not eat and I could not speak for the rest of the evening. I could not understand these people. I missed my mother and Zhema and my brothers and I was glad they were safe in Zuosuo. For the first time since I had left, I missed my home and my people.
The next two days were spent giving interviews. Once again I saw myself on the television, and then in the local newspaper, the
Sichuan Daily.
There was a huge photograph of me on the front page. Nankadroma read the headline: A GOLDEN PHOENIX RISES FROM THE MOUNTAIN VALLEY. I took the page, folded it, and packed it carefully with the other things I was to give my mother. It would make her very happy, very proud, I thought with a sad sort of joy. Because I did feel sad. Because I could not forget the misery I had witnessed from the train window, and because the time had come to say good-bye.