Buying a Fishing Rod for my Grandfather

BUYING A FISHING ROD FOR MY GRANDFATHER

I walk past a new shop that sells fishing equipment. The different fishing rods on display make me think of my grandfather, and I want to buy him one. There's a ten-piece fiberglass rod labeled "imported," though it's not clear if it's the whole rod that's imported or just the fiberglass, nor is it clear how being imported makes any of it better. All ten pieces overlap and probably retract into the last black tube, at the end of which is a handle like a pistol's and a reel. It looks like an elongated revolver, like one of those Mausers that used to be in fashion. My grandfather certainly never saw a Mauser, and he never saw a fishing rod like this even in his dreams. His rods were bamboo, and he definitely wouldn't have bought one. He'd find a length of bamboo and straighten it over a fire, cooking the sweat on his hands as he turned the bamboo brown with the smoke. It ended up looking like an old rod that had caught fish over many generations.

My grandfather also made nets. A small net had about ten thousand knots, and day and night he would tie them nonstop. He'd move his lips while he knotted, as if counting or praying. This was hard, much harder work for him than the knitting my mother did. I don't recall his ever having caught a decent-sized fish in a net; at most, they were an inch long and only worth feeding to the cat.

I remember being a child, things that happened when I was a child. I remember that if my grandfather heard someone was going to the provincial capital, he would be sure to ask the person to bring back fishing hooks for him, as if fish could only be caught with hooks bought in the big city. I also remember his mumbling that the rods sold in the city had reels. After casting the line, you could relax and have a smoke as you waited for the bell on the rod to tinkle. He wanted one of those so he'd have his hands free to roll his cigarettes. My grandfather didn't smoke ready-rolled cigarettes. He ridiculed them as paper smokes and said they were more grass than tobacco, that they hardly tasted of tobacco. I would watch his gnarled fingers rub a dried tobacco leaf into shreds. Then all he had to do was tear off a piece of newspaper, roll the tobacco in it, and give it a lick. He called it rolling a cannon. That tobacco was really powerful, so powerful it made my grandfather cough, but that didn't keep him from rolling it. The cigarettes people gave him as presents he would give to my grandmother.

I remember that I broke my grandfather's favorite fishing rod when I fell. He was going fishing, and I had volunteered to carry the rod. I had it on my shoulder as I ran on ahead. I wasn't careful, and when I fell, the rod caught in the window of a house. My grandfather almost wept as he stroked the broken fishing rod. It was just like when my grandmother stroked her cracked bamboo mat. That mat of finely woven bamboo had been slept on for many years in our home and was a dark red color, like the fishing rod. Although she slept on it, she wouldn't let me sleep on it, and said if I did, I'd get diarrhea. She said the mat could be folded, so in secret I folded it, but as soon as I did, it cracked. I didn't dare tell her, of course, I only said I didn't believe it could be folded. But she insisted that it was made of black bamboo and that black bamboo mats could be folded. I didn't want to argue because she was getting old and I felt sorry for her. If she said it could be folded, then it could, but where I folded it, it cracked. Every summer the crack grew longer, and she kept waiting for a mat mender to come; she waited many years, but no mender came. I told her people didn't do this sort of work anymore and that she'd had the mat so long, she might as well buy a new one, but my grandmother didn't see it that way and always said the older, the better. It was like her: the older she got, the kinder she became and the more she had to say, by repeating herself. My grandfather wasn't like that: the older he got, the less he had to say and the thinner he became, until he was like a shadow, coming and going without a sound. But at night he coughed, and once he started, he couldn't stop, and I was afraid that one day he wouldn't be able to catch his breath. Still, he kept on smoking until his face and fingernails were the color of his tobacco, and he himself was like a dried tobacco leaf, thin and brittle, and it worried me that if he wasn't careful and bumped into something, he might break into little pieces.

My grandfather didn't just fish; he also loved to hunt. He once owned a well-greased shotgun made out of steel tubing. To make the shotgun was a lot to ask of anyone, and it took him half a year to find someone who would do it. I don't recall his bringing home anything except for a rabbit. He came in and threw a huge brown rabbit onto the kitchen floor. Then he took off his shoes, asked my grandmother to fetch hot water so he could soak his feet, and immediately started rubbing some tobacco he'd taken from his pouch. Wild with excitement, I hovered around the dead rabbit with our watchdog, Blackie. Unexpectedly my mother came in and started yelling. Why didn't you get rid of that rabbit like I told you to? Why did you have to buy yourself that shotgun? My grandfather muttered something, and my mother started yelling again. If you must eat rabbit, ask the butcher to skin it before you bring it into the house! My grandfather seemed very old then. After my mother left, he said German steel was good, as if with a shotgun made of German steel he could shoot something more than rabbits.

In the hills not far from the city, he told me, there used to be wolves, especially when the grass started to grow in the spring. Crazed with hunger after starving all winter, the wolves came into the villages and stole piglets, attacked cows, and even ate young cowherd girls. Once they ate a girl and left only her pigtails. If only he'd had a German shotgun then. But he wasn't able to keep even the shotgun he'd had made locally from steel tubing. In the book-burning era of the Cultural Revolution they called it a lethal weapon and confiscated it. He sat on a little wooden stool just staring ahead without saying a word. Whenever I thought about this, I felt sorry for the old man and dearly wanted to buy him a genuine German-made shotgun. I didn't, but I once saw a double-barreled shotgun in a sporting goods store. They told me I would need a letter of introduction from the highest-level sports committee in the province as well as a certificate from the public security office before they could sell it. So it was clear that I would be able to buy my grandfather only a fishing rod. Of course I also know that even with this imported ten-piece fiberglass fishing rod he won't catch anything, because our old home turned into a sandy hollow many years ago.

There used to be a lake not far from our home on Nanhu Road. When I attended primary school, I often passed the lake, but by the time I started junior secondary school, it had turned into a foul pond that produced only mosquitoes. Later, there was a health campaign and the pond was filled in. Our village also had a river. As I recall, it was in an area far from town, and when I was a child, I went there only a couple of times. Once when my grandfather came to visit, he told me that the river had dried up when a dam was built upriver. Even so, I want to buy him a fishing rod. It's hard to explain, and I'm not going to try. It's simply something that I want to do. For me the fishing rod is my grandfather and my grandfather is the fishing rod.

I step into the street shouldering a fishing rod with all its black fiberglass pieces fully extended. I can feel everyone looking at me and I don't like it. I'd like to get on a bus, where I won't be noticed as much, but I can't get the rod to retract. I hate it when people stare at me. Shy since childhood, I am uncomfortable in new clothes, and being dressed up is like standing in a display window; but it's worse carrying this long, swaying, shiny fishing rod. If I walk fast the rod sways more, so I go slow, parading down the street with the rod on my shoulder, feeling as if I've split my trousers or I can't zip up my fly.

Of course I know that people in the city who go fishing are not after fish. The men who buy tickets to fish in the parks are out for leisure and freedom. It's an excuse to escape from home, to get away from the wife and children, and to get a little peace. Fishing is now regarded as a sport, and there are competitions with divisions according to the type of rod used; the evening newspapers rate the sport highly and carry the results. Fishing spots and party venues are designated, but there are no signs of any fish. No wonder skeptics say that the night before the competitions, people from the fishing committee come to put fish into nets, and that's what the sportsmen catch. As I am carrying a brand-new rod on my shoulder, people must think I'm one of those fishing enthusiasts. But I know what it will mean to my old grandfather. I can already see him. So hunched over that he can't straighten his back, he is carrying his little bucket of worms. It is riddled with rust and bits of dirt are falling out of it. I should visit my old home to get over my homesickness.

But first I must find a safe place to put the rod. If that young son of mine sees it, he'll wreck it. I hear my wife shouting at me, Why did you have to buy that? It's cramped enough in here already. Where will you put the thing? I put it above the toilet tank in the bathroom, the only place my son can't reach, unless he climbs onto a stool. No matter what, I must go back to the village to get rid of this homesickness, which, once triggered, is impossible to shake. I hear a loud crash and think it's my wife using the meat cleaver in the kitchen. You hear her yelling, Go and have a look! You then hear that son of mine crying in the bathroom and know that calamity has befallen the fishing rod. You've made up your mind. You're taking the fishing rod back to your old home.

But the village has changed so much you can't recognize it. The dirt roads are now asphalt, and there are prefab buildings, all new and exactly the same. On the streets women of all ages are wearing bras, and they wear flimsy shirts to show them off, just as each rooftop must have an aerial to show there's a television in the house. A house without an aerial stands out and is regarded as defective. And of course everyone watches the same programs. From 7:00 to 7:30 it's the national news, from 7:30 to 8:00 the international, then short TV films, commercials, weather forecasts, sports, more commercials, then variety shows, and from 10:00 to 11:00 old movies. The movies aren't aired every day: on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, it's TV series instead. On the weekends, programs on cultural life are shown through the night. Anyway, the aerials are magnificent. It's as if the rooftops had grown small forests but a cold wind came and blew off all the leaves so that only bare branches remain. You are lost in these barren forests and can't find your old home.

I remember that every day on my way to school I had to pass a stone bridge, and the lake was right next to it. Even when there was no wind, there were waves lapping all the time, and I used to think they were the backs of swimming fish. I never imagined that the fish would all die, that the sparkling lake would turn into a foul pond, that the foul pond would then be filled in, and that I would not be able to find the way to my old home.

I ask where Nanhu Road is. But people look at you with surprise, as if they can't understand what you are saying. I still speak the village dialect, and anyone who does will always have a village accent. In our village, the word for grandfather is laoye. However, the word for "I," "me," aerial to show there's a television in the house. A house without an aerial stands out and is regarded as defective. And of course everyone watches the same programs. From 7:00 to 7:30 it's the national news, from 7:30 to 8:00 the international, then short TV films, commercials, weather forecasts, sports, more commercials, then variety shows, and from 10:00 to 11:00 old movies. The movies aren't aired every day: on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, it's TV series instead. On the weekends, programs on cultural life are shown through the night. Anyway, the aerials are magnificent. It's as if the rooftops had grown small forests but a cold wind came and blew off all the leaves so that only bare branches remain. You are lost in these barren forests and can't find your old home.

I remember that every day on my way to school I had to pass a stone bridge, and the lake was right next to it. Even when there was no wind, there were waves lapping all the time, and I used to think they were the backs of swimming fish. I never imagined that the fish would all die, that the sparkling lake would turn into a foul pond, that the foul pond would then be filled in, and that I would not be able to find the way to my old home.

I ask where Nanhu Road is. But people look at you with surprise, as if they can't understand what you are saying. I still speak the village dialect, and anyone who does will always have a village accent. In our village, the word for grandfather is laoye. However, the word for "I," "me," or "my" is wo, produced between the back palate and the throat, and sounds like e, which means "goose." So wo laoye to a non-local sounds like "goose grandfather." And "goose" asking for directions using the back palate and throat fails to kindle any of that village friendliness in people. When I stop two young women and ask them, they just laugh. "Goose" doesn't understand why they're laughing. They laugh so hard, they can't answer, and their faces look like two pieces of red cloth. Their faces aren't red because they, too, are wearing bras, but because when I say " Nanhu Road," I also say nan between the back palate and throat, and it sounds funny to them. Later, I find an older man and ask him where the lake used to be. If I know where the lake was, it will be easy to find the stone bridge, and when I find the stone bridge, it will be easy to find Nanhu Road, and when I find Nanhu Road, I'll be able to feel the way to my old home.

The lake? Which lake? The lake that was filled in. Oh, that lake, the lake that was filled in is right here. He points with his foot. This used to be the lake. So we're standing on the bottom. Was there once a stone bridge nearby? Can't you see that there are asphalt roads everywhere? The stone bridges were all demolished and the new ones use reinforced concrete. You understand. You understand that what used to be no longer exists. It is futile to ask about a street and street number that used to exist, you will have to rely on your memory.

My childhood home had an elegant, old-style courtyard. The gate screen had a relief mural inlaid with carved stone images depicting Good Fortune, Prosperity, Longevity, and Happiness. Old Man Longevity, who had half of his head missing, held a dragon-head staff. The dragon's head had worn away, but we children were absolutely sure that Old Man Longevity's staff was in the shape of a dragon's head. The gate screen also had a spotted deer carved in it. The spots, of course, were those faint indentations on the deer's back. Whenever we went in or out we always touched the antlers, so they became very shiny. The courtyard had two entrances, one in front and one in the back. The bankrupt owner of the house lived in the back courtyard. There was a little girl in that family called Zaowa. She used to stare at me wide-eyed; it was funny but somehow sweet.

That courtyard definitely existed, as did the date trees growing there that my grandfather had planted. And the cages hanging in the eaves held my grandfather's birds in them. He kept a thrush there and even a mynah. My mother complained about the mynah being noisy, so my grandfather sold it and brought home a red-faced tit. But the tit died soon afterward; these birds are temperamental and shouldn't be caged. When my grandfather said that it was the tit's red face that made him fall in love with it, my grandmother scolded him for being shameless. I remember all this. The courtyard was No. 10 Nanhu Road. Even if they'd changed the name of the road and the number, they wouldn't have filled in this perfectly good courtyard, as they had that pond of foul water. But I ask everywhere and search street after street and lane after lane. I feel as if I'm rummaging through my pockets; I've taken out everything, but still can't find what I want. In despair I drag along my weary legs, uncertain whether they still belong to me.

Suddenly I have a brainstorm and remember Guandi Temple. It was in the opposite direction from the way I went to school, in the direction of the movie theater. When my mother took me to see a film we had to pass a lane called Guandi Temple. If I can find Guandi Temple, it won't be hard to work out the location of my home. So I start asking people how to find Guandi Temple.

Oh, so you're looking for Guandi Temple? What number? This confirms that Guandi Temple still exists. The person I encounter is so earnest and keen to help that he asks for the house number. Unable to think of a number right away, I mumble that I was wondering if the address still existed. If there's an address, of course it exists. Who are you looking for? What family do you want? He wants more details. Probably he thinks I'm back from overseas searching for my roots, or that I'm some drifter who abandoned his village. I explain that my family used to rent the house, and that it didn't belong to my grandfather. What was the name of the landlord? All I know is that the landlord had a daughter called Zaowa, but I can't tell him that. As I continue mumbling, a scowl appears on the man's face and his eyes turn cold. He looks me up and down as if he's considering whether to report me to the police.

If you're looking for No. 1, go straight, then take the first lane on the right, it's on the south side of the road. If you're looking for No. 37, go that way, after about a hundred paces take the second lane, go to the very end, and it's on the north side, on the left. I thank him repeatedly, but when I go, I can feel his eyes boring into my back.

I see the first lane on the right, but before turning I see the brand-new blue road sign beside the red sign of the men's public lavatory. Written on it clearly and unmistakably is Guandi Temple, but this is not the impression I had of it as a child. I turn into the lane to show that I really did come to see my old home and am not up to any mischief. There is no need for me to look from No. 1 to No. 37. At a glance I can see to the end of the lane: it is not as long and winding as I remembered. I don't know whether or not a temple was there then. No tall buildings are on either side of the lane; rising above the old-style buildings is only one three-story redbrick building, an economy structure that seems less permanent than these old courtyards. Suddenly I remember that Guandi Temple burned down after being struck by lightning, but that was before I was capable of remembering anything. My grandfather told me about it. He said that the spot attracted lightning because the qi energies underground were in disharmony, so they built the temple to drive away the demons and evil spirits. Still it ended up being struck by lightning, proving that the site was not suited to human habitation. Anyway, my home was not in Guandi Temple, it was somewhere not too far from it. I must retrace the way my mother took me when I was a child. Having a child myself won't make it any easier, but I know that it's futile to keep asking people. I have gone in circles on the lake, beyond the lake, in the middle of the lake, around the lake, but if the sea can turn into mulberry trees, so too can this little lake. I suspect that my old home is hidden deep in the little forest of aerials in that stretch of old buildings, new buildings, and economy buildings that are neither old nor new, right in front of me. But no matter how much you keep going around them you can't see it. So you can only imagine it from your memories. It might be beyond that wall, converted to family dormitories by some urban environmental-protection authority. Or a plastic button factory might have turned it into a warehouse with iron doors and a guard, so unless you can state your business, don't even think about going in to nose around. Just tell yourself that people couldn't be so cruel as to demolish the gate screen with the carvings. But past and present sages and philosophers in China and the West believe that humans have a propensity for evil, and that evil is more deeply rooted than good in human nature. You like to believe in the goodness of people. People just wouldn't be so mean as to so they built the temple to drive away the demons and evil spirits. Still it ended up being struck by lightning, proving that the site was not suited to human habitation. Anyway, my home was not in Guandi Temple, it was somewhere not too far from it. I must retrace the way my mother took me when I was a child. Having a child myself won't make it any easier, but I know that it's futile to keep asking people. I have gone in circles on the lake, beyond the lake, in the middle of the lake, around the lake, but if the sea can turn into mulberry trees, so too can this little lake. I suspect that my old home is hidden deep in the little forest of aerials in that stretch of old buildings, new buildings, and economy buildings that are neither old nor new, right in front of me. But no matter how much you keep going around them you can't see it. So you can only imagine it from your memories. It might be beyond that wall, converted to family dormitories by some urban environmental-protection authority. Or a plastic button factory might have turned it into a warehouse with iron doors and a guard, so unless you can state your business, don't even think about going in to nose around. Just tell yourself that people couldn't be so cruel as to demolish the gate screen with the carvings. But past and present sages and philosophers in China and the West believe that humans have a propensity for evil, and that evil is more deeply rooted than good in human nature. You like to believe in the goodness of people. People just wouldn't be so mean as to deliberately trample the memories of your childhood, because they too have a childhood worth remembering. This is as clear as one plus one cannot equal three. One plus one may change in quantity and substance, change into something grotesque, but it will never become three. To abolish such thoughts you must get away from these asphalt roads that all look alike, and away from these new buildings and old buildings, these blocks upon blocks upon blocks of half-new, half-old economy apartment blocks, under their forests of television aerials, bare branches devoid of leaves, as far as the eye can see.

I must go to the country, to the river where my grandfather took me fishing. He took me to the river, and although I can't remember if we caught any fish, I know I did have a grandfather and a childhood. I remember feeling awful when my mother made me take off all my clothes in the courtyard for a bath. I have also searched for the other houses I lived in as a child. I remember getting up in the middle of the night to go hunting, but it was not with my grandfather. After a whole day we killed a feral cat we thought was a fox. And I remember my poem in which I've strapped rattling hunting knives all over myself. I am a tailless dragonfly flitting over a plain, but the critic has barbed thorns growing in his eyes and a wide chin. I want to write a novel so profound that it would suffocate a fly.

I see my grandfather sitting on a small wooden stool, his back hunched, sputtering on his pipe. Grandfather! I call out to him, but he doesn't hear. I go right up to him and call again, Grandfather! He turns around but is no longer holding his pipe. Tears stream from his ancient eyes, which seem bloodshot from smoke. In winter, to get warm, he always liked to squat by the stove and burn wood. Why are you crying, Grandfather? I ask. He wipes the snivel with his hand. Sighing, he wipes his hand on his shoe but it doesn't leave a stain. He is wearing old cloth shoes with thick padded soles that my grandmother made for him. Without saying a word, he looks at me with his bloodshot eyes. I've bought you a fishing rod with a hand reel, I tell him. He grunts deep in his throat but without any enthusiasm.

I come to the riverbank. The sand underfoot crunches and sounds like my grandmother sighing. She is fond of chattering endlessly, although no one understands her. If you ask, Grandmother, what did you say? she will look up absentmindedly and, after a while, Oh, you're back from school? Are you hungry? There are sweet potatoes in the bamboo steamer. When she chatters it's best not to interrupt, she is talking about when she was a young woman, but if you eavesdrop from behind her chair, she seems to be saying, It's hidden, it's hidden, everything is hidden, everything… All these memories are making noises in the sand under your feet.

This is a dried-up river, flowing with nothing but rocks. You are walking on rocks that have been rounded and smoothed by the river, and, jumping from rock to rock, you can almost see the clear current. But when the mountain floods came, an expanse of muddy water spread into the city. To get across the road, people had to roll their trousers up, and they kept falling in the brown slush where worn-out shoes and rotting paper floated. When the water receded, the bottom part of all the walls was covered with a sludge that, after a few days in the sun, dried into a shell and flaked off like fish scales. This is the river where my grandfather once took me, but now there is no water even in the gaps between the rocks. In the riverbed there are only unmoving big round rocks like a flock of dumb sheep huddled close to one another, afraid that people will drive them away.

You come to a sand dune with sinewy willow roots in it. The willows were cut, stolen, made into furniture, and then not a blade of grass would grow here. As you stand, you begin sinking, and suddenly the sand is up to your ankles. You must get away quickly or you will sink to the calves, knees, and thighs and be buried in this dune, which resembles a big grave. The sand murmurs that it wants to swallow everything. It has swallowed the riverbank and now wants to swallow the city, along with your childhood memories and mine. It clearly does not have good intentions, and I can't understand why my grandfather is just squatting there, not fleeing. I decide to make a hasty getaway, but a dune suddenly looms before me. Under the hot sun appears a naked child: it is myself as a child. My grandfather, in his baggy trousers, has risen to his feet. The lines on his face are no longer as deep, and he is holding the child's hand. The naked child, who is me, hops and skips at his side.

Are there any wild rabbits?

Mm.

Is Blackie coming with us?

Mm.

Does Blackie know how to catch rabbits?

Mm.

Blackie was our dog, but he disappeared. Some time later someone told my grandfather he saw Blackie's fur drying in a courtyard. My grandfather went there, and the people claimed that Blackie had killed their chicken. It was lies. Our Blackie was very obedient, and only once was he rough with our rooster and pulled out a few feathers. He was punished with a broomstick by my grandmother until he lay whining, front paws flat on the ground, begging for forgiveness. My grandfather was miserable, as if he had been beaten with the broomstick. The rooster was my grandmother's pet, and the dog went everywhere with my grandfather. From that time on, Blackie never bothered chickens, just as a good man never fights with a woman.

Are we going to run into wolves?

Mm.

Are we going to run into black bears?

Mm.

Grandfather, have you ever killed a black bear?

Grandfather grunts loudly but you can't tell whether it's a yes or no. I worshipped my grandfather because he had a shotgun, and it was really exciting when he filled his empty cartridges with gunpowder for it; I would pester him nonstop until he got cross. He seldom lost his temper, but once he did. He stamped his feet and yelled at me in a loud voice, Go away! Go away! I went inside, then suddenly heard an explosion. I was frightened and almost crawled under the bed, but finally I peeked out the door and saw that one of my grandfather's hands was covered with blood; his other hand was frantically wiping his face, which was all black. He was hurt, but he didn't cry.

Grandfather, are you also going to shoot a tiger?

Stop talking so much!

It was only after I grew up that I learned that real hunters don't talk much. My grandfather's hunting friends probably talked all the time, and that's why they didn't ever shoot anything; they also kept my grandfather, who didn't talk much, from shooting anything. When my grandfather was young, he came upon a tiger; it was in the mountains, not in a zoo. This happened in his old home, which was also my father's home, so it was my home, too. Back then, there were thick forests, but one time I passed my old home in a bus while on a work assignment. There were only bare brown slopes, and even the mountains had been turned into terraced fields. Those fields were once forests. The tiger looked at my grandfather and walked away. On television they say that in south China tigers have been extinct for more than ten years, except for those in zoos. Not only has no one ever shot a tiger in the wild, no one has even seen one. In the northeast there are still tigers: the experts estimate that there are at most a hundred of them. It's not known where they've hidden, and hunters would count themselves lucky if they saw one.

Grandfather, when you saw the tiger were you scared?

Bad people scare me, not tigers.

Grandfather, have you ever run into bad people?

There aren't many tigers but lots of bad people, only you can't shoot people.

But they're bad!

You can't tell right away whether they're good or bad.

What about when you can tell, can you shoot them then?

You would be breaking the law.

But aren't bad people breaking the law?

The law can't control bad people, because bad people are bad in their hearts.

But they do bad things!

You can't always be sure.

Grandfather, do we have far to go?

Mm.

Grandfather, I can't walk anymore.

Just grit your teeth and keep walking.

Grandfather, my teeth are falling out.

You bad boy, stand up!

Grandfather gets down on his haunches and the naked child climbs onto his back. With the boy on his back, he totters a step at a time in the sand, his feet turned outward. The boy whoops with joy and kicks his little feet, as if spurring on an old horse. You watch your grandfather's back gradually recede into the distance and sink behind a dune. Then there is only you and the wind.

Voller has three of his team protecting him. Their solid bodies form a barrier, and it won't be easy to take the ball from him. At the edge of the sand, a line of yellow smoke rises, and like an invisible hand it brushes the big dune into a roll of unfurling silk. You are in a desert. It is a dry sea to the horizon, burning red, still as death. You seem to be flying in a plane over the great Taklamakan Desert. The towering mountain range looks like the skeleton of a fish. The vast mountains will certainly be swallowed up in this burning, dry sea, yet in March the Taklamakan can be extremely cold. Those few blue circles are probably frozen lakes and the white edges are shallow beaches. The dark green spots that look like the eyes of dead fish are where the water is deep. In the second half of the match everyone can see that West Germany has stepped up its attack and is in the lead. Argentina will have to strengthen its defense; everything depends on how they counterattack and take advantage of gaps in the other side. Good kick! Valdano has the ball and he scores! There is no wind, just the gentle rocking of the motor. Outside the cabin window, there seems to be no horizon. The Taklamakan looms up diagonally in so straight a line that it could only be replicated on a blueprint; it divides the window into two. Following the line of vision and direction of flight, it moves clockwise from 0:50 to 1:20 or 1:30. At the end of the needle is a dead city. Is it the ancient city of Loulan? The ruins are right below and you can see the collapsed walls. The palaces have all lost their domes: here the ancient cultures of Persia and China once fused, then sank into the desert. Look everyone! Argentina is making a rapid counterattack and the other side can't keep up. Argentina scores a goal. In fifty-one matches in the series 127 goals were scored, and if you count the penalties in extra time, 148. In today's match, there were 2 more goals. Not counting the penalties in extra time, the 128th and 129th goals have been kicked. Now Maradona has the ball. Shifting sands and the ball. With is a loud howl, yellow shifting sand slowly forms a mound, then trickles down in waves – waves that rise, fall, and ripple outward, like breathing, like singing. Who is singing with a kind of sobbing under the shifting sands? You want desperately to dig it out, the sound right below your feet. You want to make a hole to let out this sound tinged with sadness, but as soon as you touch it, it twists and bores downward, refusing to come up. It's like an eel, and you catch only what seems to be a slimy tail that you can't hold on to. You dig furiously with both hands into the sand. On the riverbank you had to dig only a foot deep and water would percolate up – cool, pure, sparkling river water – but now there is just cold grit. You put your hand into it and feel a tingling sensation, then touch something sharp and cut your finger, although it doesn't bleed. You are determined to find out what it is. You dig and scrape and finally pull up a dead fish. The head was pointing down and it's the tail that cut you. Stiff and hard, the fish is as dry as the river: mouth clamped shut, eyeballs shriveled. You prod it, squeeze it, step on it, throw it, but it doesn't make a sound. It is the sand that makes a noise, not the fish, and it whispers to mock you. The dead fish, stiff in the blazing sun, sticks up its tail. You look away, but its round eye continues to stare at you. You walk off, hoping that the wind and sand will bury it. You won't dig it up again. Let it never see the daylight; let it stay buried in the sand. Burruchaga is offside, loses a great opportunity, and the defense kicks the ball out. In the second half Argentina gets a third corner but West Germany takes it, goes for a goal, and scores! At the twenty-seventh minute Rummenigge kicks it right at Maradona. The score is 1-2, and everyone sees Maradona taking his team toward the goal -

Grandfather, can you kick a soccer ball?

It's the soccer ball that's kicking your grandfather.

Who are you talking with?

You're talking with yourself, with the child you once were.

That boy without clothes?

A naked soul.

Do you have a soul?

I hope so. Otherwise this world would be too lonely.

Are you lonely?

In this world, yes.

What other world is there?

That inner world of yours that others can't see.

Do you have an inner world?

I hope so. It's only there that you can really be yourself.

Maradona is taking the ball past everyone. There's a goal! Whose is it? The score is 2- 2, a draw for the first time. Doves of peace soar in the stadium. Seventeen minutes to the end of the match: time enough to have a dream. They say it only takes an instant to have a dream; a dream can be compressed into hardtack. I've eaten hardtack, dried fish in a plastic bag – without scales, eyes, or pointy tails that can cut your fingers. In this lifetime you can't go exploring in Loulan, you can only sit in a plane and hover in the air above the ancient city, drinking the beer served by the stewardess. The sound in your ears is music, eight channels on the armrest. Screeching rock and roll or a husky mezzo-soprano purring like a cat. Looking down at the ruins of Loulan, you find yourself lying on a beach; the fine sand flowing through your fingers forms a dune. At the bottom of the dune lies the dead fish that cut your finger without drawing blood. Fish blood and human blood have an odor, but dried fish can't bleed. Ignoring the pain in your finger, you dig hard and uncover a collapsed wall. It's the wall of the courtyard of your childhood. Behind it was a date tree, and once you sneaked off with your grandfather's fishing rod to knock down dates that you shared with her.

She walks out of the ruins and you follow, wanting to be sure that it is the girl with whom you had shared the dates. You can only see her back. Excited, you pursue her. She walks like a light gust of wind, but you can never catch up. Maradona is looking for a path, a path where none exists, and the other team watches him closely. He takes a fall, charges on, and now they are trying for a goal. It's in! You give a loud yell, and she turns around. It's the face of a woman you don't want to recognize. There are wrinkles on her cheeks, eyes, and forehead: a flabby old face without any color. You find it painful to keep looking. Should you smile? A smile might mock her, so you grimace, and of course it's not a pleasant sight.

Alone in the middle of the ruins of Loulan, you look around. You make out the brick room in the courtyard with the gate screen depicting Good Fortune, Prosperity, Longevity, and Happiness. It is where Blackie used to sleep and where my grandfather kept his little iron bucket for the worms: it is my grandfather's room. Before the wall collapsed, my grandfather's shotgun hung on it. That should be the passageway leading to the back courtyard, to Zaowa's home. Staring at me without blinking is a wolf crouched in the window frame of the collapsed wall of the back courtyard. This does not come as a surprise. I know that in the wilderness there is often little sign of human settlement, only wolves. But these crumbling walls around me are crawling with wolves. They have taken over the ruins. Don't look back, my grandfather once told me. A person attacked from behind in the wilderness must never look around. If he does, Zhang the Third will tear out his jugular.

I am scared stiff: these crouching Zhang the Thirds, treacherous bastards that attack from behind, are going to pounce, but I mustn't show that I'm frightened. The cunning animal at the window frame stands up like a person, resting its head on its right forepaw and watching me out of the corner of its left eye. All around, the wolves loudly smack their long tongues; they are losing patience. I recall how it was when my grandfather, as a young man, came face-to-face with a tiger in the paddy fields of his old home. Had he started to run, the tiger would have pounced and made a meal of him. However, I can neither retreat nor go forward, and can only bend quietly to feel in the earth with my hand. I find my grandfather's shotgun. Without hesitation, I raise the shotgun and slowly level it at the wolf before me. I must be like an experienced marksman, must not give them reason to think otherwise, must shoot them dead one at a time, not allowing my feet to get confused. I will start by shooting the wolf at the window, then turn left in a circle. Between each shot, I must work everything out in my mind. I can't hesitate or be careless. There were 132 goals in the 13th World Cup competition. The match is over; Argentina has beaten West Germany 3-2 and is the winner of the World Cup. I pull the trigger, and just as with the cornstalk shotgun my grandfather made for me when I was a child, the trigger breaks. The wolves roar with laughter, hooting and guffawing. Joyful shouts crash like waves at the Azteca Stadium in Mexico City, each wave higher. I am embarrassed, but I know that the danger has passed. These Zhang the Thirds are only people dressed as wolves, playacting. Look, the players have been surrounded like heroes and are being lifted over everyone's heads. They're protecting Maradona, and he is saying, "Let me kiss all the children of the world." I hear my wife talking, and her aunt and uncle, who have come from far away. The soccer match, broadcast from early morning, is finished. I should get up to see if that ten-piece fiberglass fishing rod that I bought for my grandfather, who died long ago, is still on top of the toilet tank.

18 July1986, Beijing