Destruction and Sorrow beneath the Heavens: Reportage

As if They Were Anxious

It took no longer than 10 to 15 minutes to settle upon the room, place their baggage on the first floor, decide what they would leave and what they would take, 10 to 15 minutes, and they stand completely astonished in front of the hotel, they hadn’t been inside any longer than that, and now they look around, and they can’t believe their eyes, because that pure piercing illumination, that dazzling green and green and the yellow monastery walls on the side of the mountain — has all disappeared, the fog came up from the valley, the interpreter remarks uncertainly, yes, that’s obvious, both of them nod, that’s what happened, but it happened so quickly, the whole thing occurred while they were reaching an agreement with the innkeeper, they settled everything as quickly as they could, so that rushing out onto the main street they could see Jiuhuashan again in the light, well, there is something completely unexpected in this incredible speed, indeed, but more precisely: something unbelievable, Stein is inclined to believe this is some decision immediately concerning them, it is not merely a case of someone thinking in an agitated state — as, however, he is in now — that a so-called otherworldly force is operating behind the scenes; no, Stein directly suspects an arrangement, an apparently playful illusion, but in reality unmistakeably intended personally, as if by design they were meant to see everything at first in the light and then to never see it again, to see something completely different: Jiuhuashan in the fog — and if the shock is great, and if undeniably there is disappointment as well — for, certainly, it is difficult to get away from the fact that a moment ago they saw everything but can now see nothing— this disappointment, from one moment to another, begins to yield its strength to something completely different, namely, to a slowly unfolding wonder and, as they stand there paralysed by the sight, they begin to grasp that if now the fog and the drizzling rain have become the lord of the mountain, then this fog conceals Jiuhuashan in the most wondrous conceivable form.

So what happens is that they stand on the street and see themselves very distinctly, see their immediate surroundings as well, the earth beneath their feet, and everything within a distance of 8 to 10 metres, but if they take one step forward, then with every such step, indeed with every movement, yet another piece of the earth, the buildings on the main street, the mountain, the paths, the monks, the trees, the monastery walls begin to loom obscurely before them — so that, from this point on, it is not really possible to speak of sight in Jiuhuashan — they do not see but sense things, in this place where everything that is the world and everything that is Jiuhuashan changes from one moment to another, because in the ever-thickening fog whatever is momentarily uncovered in its own uncertain form, after this or that step, immediately vanishes in the very next, different details emerge as they move around and try to find a starting point from which they may begin to discover Jiuhuashan, but that is the most difficult, to be able to know exactly where they are on the main street: the hotel vanished from sight a long time ago, and they have no idea if they have gone to the right, upward, to the left, or downward, it doesn’t matter, they stand motionless, staring into this enchantingly unexpected and unusually heavy, impenetrable fog, Stein crumples the map in his hand and puts it into his pocket, because it doesn’t help, because nothing helps, he flings the remark out to his companion, why the hell would anyone walk around here with a map in their hands! — because, obviously, this is about something else, about something, something entirely else, and as they get to the head of the first path, and head upward without a thought — because it doesn’t matter what direction they go in, it won’t be them who will find Jiuhuashan, Stein calls back over his shoulder, but. . but? — his companion climbs up behind him with a certain serene forbearance — the interpreter doesn’t wish to destroy his companion’s wonder at the sight of this transformation and with his own usual cast of mind soothes himself by noting that, well, nightmarish, yes, this sudden change was really pretty nightmarish, but it also means, he says, that in addition to an indisputably justifiable rapture, they must, from this point on, face an unpleasantly drizzling cold rain and a fog that is totally closing in upon them, and these are circumstances, he adds soberly, which certainly call for some kind of raincoat and warm clothing. . But he notes this in vain, for Stein is thoroughly captivated by what he sees, which immediately disappears with the next step, so that as he looks at the first row of the tall pine trees nearest to him, the trees behind them fade into the most enigmatic space until, finally, the last row of trees dissolves into nothingness — as if they had strayed into the mirage of a painting by Huang Shen[2] or Ying Yujian[3]: at times they find themselves facing a protruding cliff peak, at other times a chasm, unsuspected a moment ago, suddenly opens up beneath their feet, in a word, they proceed upward metre by metre on the steps of the path, and even the interpreter would be affected by this particular bewitchment of divine nature plunged into obscurity if he wasn’t stopping from time to time to remark that the aforementioned raincoat and warm clothes would certainly be more than necessary if things continued like this. But it is obvious that nothing will change for a while, the fog doesn’t move, the rain drizzles, and Jiuhuashan continuously fades away and dissolves right before their eyes; they, however, keep on walking carefully upward, on the slippery steps, holding on to the slippery railing, and they persevere up into the heights; they have no idea where they are going, although there is no doubt that this path leads somewhere, certainly in a good direction — they are convinced of that — because they don’t believe that all this, this unforeseen change in the weather up here can be explained by some accident, just as it cannot be an accident that they are here on exactly this path in Jiuhuashan, between the slippery steps and the wet railings.

The first monastery which they reach could be any of the renowned temples they identified on the map earlier, but it isn’t, it seems to be one of the buildings of lesser importance, even if in terms of its beauty it is certainly the equal of the others, hence they would like to know its name, as soon as they walk in they address a dozing young monk but they don’t understand his reply, he is speaking in a regional dialect which the interpreter cannot translate, so they just smile at one another and have a look around the temple which is clearly under reconstruction, everywhere there is scaffolding and tools and carpenters’ benches, and ladders and beams and shavings, but no work is going on, and they cannot see any workers, so perhaps no work takes place in the fog? — Stein tries to joke with the monk but he doesn’t understand what the interpreter says, just as the foreigners don’t understand him when he replies, so that there remains only the wordless looking around in this extremely rare interior space among Buddhist shrines; the interior of the shrine is extraordinarily elevated and, what is even more surprising, the structural supports of the ceiling are not the usual densely placed thick cedar columns and complex system of brackets but a system of vaults below the roof, in a distinctly European style which causes the space to be open, nearly monumental, and what is most important and most unusual is that in this way the ceiling can be seen, and the gaze drawn as much upward as towards the altar — where there is now an empty lotus throne, visibly under restoration, the Buddha is nowhere, so that, as they courteously extend their business cards to the young monk, they make an attempt, despite the difficulties, at a new question, and to their great surprise the young monk seems to understand what they want: all his previous confusion suddenly turns into the most sincere cordiality and helpfulness, he motions for them to follow, and holding the cards delicately between his fingers as he walks, he slips them into a concealed pocket in his yellow robes, leading them with agile steps to one of the far corners of the shrine, indiscernible before in the nearly complete darkness looming within, he points to a colossal thing covered by cheap canvas, he points to it, he explains something and, as if they had rebuked him, suddenly conducts himself with inexplicable respect, he bows to Stein, then he lifts up one of the corners of the canvas — the guests help so as to be able to see what lies beneath — and beneath the canvas, the boy shows them, almost glowing with pride, is a completely new statue of the Buddha, they gesture to him, could he remove the canvas entirely, and from this point on it’s as if he understands everything, already he is fulfilling their request, the canvas comes off, and there sits a huge, brand-new Buddha, a Buddha next to which every other Buddha they have seen until now seems merely new-made, exasperatingly soulless, primitive, shoddy — it is beautiful, sublime, exactly the kind of Buddha in which a believer can truly find the Buddha, and this beauty strikes them so unexpectedly, they are really seeing Shakyamuni Buddha,[4] that they can’t speak, the boy is radiant, and the interpreter tries to encourage Stein and looks at him and waits for him to indicate what should be translated.

Stein doesn’t really know what to say, indeed, because of the strength radiating from the Buddha, as yet unpainted, unvarnished, ungilded and, judging by the fragrance, prepared from sandalwood, even later it is hard for him to speak, so the interpreter tries to initiate some kind of conversation, from which — as is explained a few minutes later — it turns out that the statue was made here, in Jiuhuashan, because there is a workshop here, and in this workshop is an expert woodcarver who makes Buddhas, well, he made their statue, the boy, his face radiant from joy that the statue is so pleasing to the two foreigners, points to somewhere outside, clearly to where the workshop is, with its Buddha-carving master, but they are already returning to the table near the entrance where the boy had been dozing before, and they spread out a piece of paper so that he can sketch for them where this workshop is, of course they can’t understand the drawing, they don’t know where they are, or what is where, generally speaking; they look at the clumsy but basic sketch, upon which the name of the place is also written, so that if necessary they can show the drawing to someone, they nod as the boy, his finger following the lines he has drawn, explains again and again where they need to go, how they can find the workshop, then, bowing, they thank him warmly for his help and make their way outside, but then he indicates that they should wait, and he runs off somewhere, returning a minute later with a tiny little bundle of gifts, two books from the Chinese translation of the Lotus Sutra,[5] a small tourist publication about Jiuhuashan, two tiny statues of the Buddha carved out of soapstone and tapes of Buddhist prayers in decorated boxes, one for the interpreter and one for Stein — presumably this is everything that the boy has, and now by all means he wants to give this everything to them, as they stand there in the doorway they are at a loss, because they see the kind monk finds even this to be too little, he would like to give them something. . or tell them something, he tries to find the right words, he tries, in his dialect, to speak the language of Beijing so that the interpreter can understand, but it doesn’t work, it could be some important advice, or reassurance, or warning, but it is impossible to make out the essence, the interpreter just shakes his head, and now Stein tries with all his strength to help the interpreter by how he is listening and looking, because the whole thing is as if the monk were trying to warn them about something — but of course this is just guesswork, they don’t understand anything, they bow to one another with ritually folded hands, they bid farewell to one another, and finally they step out through the gate of the temple into the eddying nothingness, the touching gifts in their bags, and that colossal, unvarnished, unfinished Buddha beneath the canvas with his own unforgettable sublimity in their memories — the boy is at the gate, he bows and waves until he finally disappears in the fog, but until the end it was as if somehow, just somehow, he wanted to tell them something very important.

They are to the south of the Yangtze, and, really, they dressed for the weather in this region as it should be in May, that is, sandals, one in a light linen shirt and the other in a T-shirt, so that they froze on their journey, and now, when they step out again into the cold rain, only a few hundred metres along the water-slick steps is enough for Stein to see that the interpreter, the student from Shanghai who selflessly, out of sheer benevolence and enthusiasm for this topic, joined Stein on this trip, is shivering from head to toe. We really need that raincoat, says Stein reassuringly, and the warm things too, he consoles him, so let’s go back: they decide to somehow find the path leading down to the main street, so that they can buy something. Logically, they decide upon the row of steps at the first crossing leading downwards, but it soon emerges that there is no sense in making decisions like this, as the stairs really do head downward for a while, but then, as if having thought things over, after a bend head upward once more. And that’s how it goes from this point on, the path heads down, the path heads up, then down again and up again, they wander here and there, they come to newer and newer crossings where they have to make a decision, and they continually make bad decisions, or now for them there is no such thing as a good decision, because even the advice which they ask for and they get from the people on the path doesn’t help, these people who — tourists like them, or pilgrims — smile and gesture: just keep going, they wave and nod that it’s good, perfect, they could not possibly be going in a better direction, just keep going, they chirrup gaily, but Stein and the interpreter don’t even know if they understand where they are trying to go, because they tried to explain through gesticulations that — even now! — they are not looking for this or that monastery but the village, where they would like to return, at which the warmest reassurance is always given, that, yes, this is exactly the right path, they should just keep going, just keep going, just keep pressing on ahead, and they will be there in no time at all, no cause for any concern — and after a few steps the passers-by cheerfully disappear once again into the fog.

So of course they do not find any path leading downward, on the contrary, they become ever-more entangled in the labyrinth of Jiuhuashan; however, on another elevation, next to a lookout pavilion, understandably deserted, they suddenly come upon vendors’ tents, which jump out of the fog so unexpectedly that they nearly recoil. There are rain ponchos and plastic tea flasks but also pilgrimage tote bags, the Amida Sutra[6] printed on artificial silk, Guanyin[7] emblems, rosaries, incense, red wax-paper parasols, books, soya slices, pirated cds and dvds, and what is most important: hot tea, so they are saved, they breathe a sigh of relief, they buy two raincoats, two portable, lidded, plastic tea flasks which they immediately have filled with tea, then they stand beneath the tents so that the rain hardly touches them, and they both take a cup of hot steaming tea; they sip the tea, burning their mouths and their throats, and it is an unspeakably good feeling as it warms them up within a few minutes, as they stand there shivering, the cold finally leaving their bodies, such a good feeling that they don’t even notice each other for a while, and they’re not even bothered that they had to pay twice the going price, they’re in China after all, they brush it off, and they just look at the vendors standing around reluctantly, and clearly sullen because of the bad business, they just look at them, are they earthly beings, or did they suddenly come here from somewhere else. .

They come upon the workshop exactly at that moment when, wandering through the fog at a certain point, they decide to entrust themselves to fate: they will not search for the monasteries they had decided upon, that is hopeless, they will, rather, be content with whatever turns up in their path, and exactly when they are resting underneath the roof of another empty pavilion it’s as if Stein hears something, some kind of hammering, in the distance, he holds up his finger, indicating to his companion to be quiet for a moment, and so they listen to the silence, and then it can be clearly heard, just not continuously, that certain hammering, and they start off immediately, because they can find it! The workshop! Stein enthusiastically shakes the frozen interpreter, it would be so fantastic, just imagine, he tries to breathe some life into the interpreter, the workshop of a Buddha-carver! And here, in Jiuhuashan! Where a workshop like that is exactly the same as it was hundreds and hundreds of years ago, because this is not a place where anything can change, he says, thank God, everything here is so far away from the world, it has remained intact and unspoilt; in a word, he tries to distract the interpreter’s attention from the cold for, really, he is filled with enthusiasm at the thought that this hammering means that they can find the place where that wondrous Shakyamuni was made, so they go on, along the steps, like two drenched chimeras in their rain ponchos, they take a few steps in the direction of the sounds, then they come to a halt because the sound stops, then it starts again, then they hear it again, Stein says it’s from this direction, the interpreter says it’s from the other direction, so that they keep orienting each other among the sounds until, after about half an hour of this ghostly searching, the interpreter, frozen to the bone, runs out of patience, and says, this is exactly the point from where we started off before, and he hears the hammering sound from the same distance as before, and so there is no point to this, he can’t go on, although he is not able to say exactly what his plan would be if he wouldn’t go on, in any event, they sit down beneath the first pavilion they come across a few metres away, they drink some hot tea from the portable tea flasks, they gaze into that great, wondrous, dazzling nothingness all around them, and as they stare into the fog fixedly, well, they see — at a distance still visible from the pavilion, namely, no more than 10 metres to the left, on the side — the entrance of a gate looming in the fog: a gate, says Stein; and that’s it, the entrance to the workshop, the place they had been searching for so much until now in vain, the hammering sound was coming from here, the hammering sound breaking off with those little pauses — the workshop in which someone created that wondrous Buddha underneath the canvas.

To their greatest surprise, the master is a very young and diminutive person, he cannot be more than 30 or 32, and when the interpreter relates who they are and why they have come, and they exchange business cards, he immediately and warmly invites them into his office which is, in reality, more like a little hut attached to the workshop, and he sits each of them down in an ornate armchair clearly kept there only for significant visitors, more precisely, he invites Stein to sit in one while he sits in the other one and the interpreter finds a place on a low kitchen stool next to the mouldy wall, and he offers them tea, and they have to relate in great detail where they have come from, what they want, how much it costs to live in Hungary, the name of which the master is decisively familiar with, indeed, he is already saying that the lifework of Sándor Petőfi[8] is known to every older Chinese, because the great figure of modern Chinese culture, Lu Xun,[9] translated the poem ‘Freedom, Love’, after which others, and with more frequency, tried their luck, so that the result was an apparently complete edition of Petőfi’s works from which every Chinese above the age of 30 can, even today, recite Lu Xun’s translation of ‘Freedom, Love’; as he himself, the master, can too; after which they go on, and they have to say what the population is in Hungary, and they have to disregard the fact that neither he, nor any other Chinese, can believe that altogether it has a population of 10 million, as 10 million is nothing, let alone a people, and no kind of tiny 10 million could have ever produced such a great figure as Sándor Petőfi — or Stein, our host adds appreciatively, Stein, who honours Jiuhuashan with his visit from such a distance, of which, however, the master does have a very vague idea, he says and then he interrogates the interpreter, what is his profession, and after a while he suddenly starts to hem and haw when he hears that László Stein is a poet, and he eyes this László Stein with ever-more respect but also with a kind of searching gaze, he squints, he scratches his beard, then suddenly he is possessed by a kind of cloudless gaiety, like someone overcome by impishness, that all the same — what do centuries and geographical distance mean to him — not only is it the colleague of Petőfi but also Petőfi himself, or as he pronounces it, ‘Peiduofei’, who has popped out of the fog — so that, like a kind of Taoist God, it is Petőfi himself that he greets in the modest person of Stein, who no longer tries to attempt to explain that not only is he not Petőfi but he is also not even a poet — for it is clear from the master’s beautiful, intelligent gaze that he wouldn’t believe him, he would merely attribute it to obligatory modesty and obligatory courtesy, as well as to the high level of secret protection of the visit, mandated from above, so that no more is said about this topic but, rather, to the greatest joy of the guests, the conversation turns to what takes place in this workshop, how long has it been here, whom did the master learn from, and whether he was the creator of that colossal Buddha which the guests now enthusiastically describe. In the meantime, they are thoroughly warmed up by the tea and the lightly heated office, so that it is not too difficult for the interpreter to leave it and go into the workshop, where however it is exactly as cold as it is outside, because there is no heating there, and they don’t even close the door, because the workers are constantly coming and going, so obviously there is no point, yet they have to go into the workshop right away and stay there for a while, because when the master hears their words of praise for his magnificent Buddha, he immediately wants to show his guests, so they can be persuaded with their own eyes that what has pleased them so much was definitely created in this workshop and by his own hands, at which point Stein says to him that it’s not just only the statue pleases them but also that there is a kind of extraordinary strength within it, a kind of radiant power which can only come from the Buddha; the master’s beautiful eyes become veiled, he embraces Stein around the shoulders, he leads him to his own table among the workers and has Stein sit down next to him on a three-legged chair.

This part of the atelier is like a kind of diamond-polisher’s workshop, where young boys sit in a row behind small tables, each bent over a piece of wood in the pale light pouring in through the tiny windows, and with the small chisel and small light hammers in their hands they try to complete — from the piece that has been given to them — a certain phase of the work until, relates the master, they can do it perfectly; but the workshop does not only consist of this room, he says, there are also huge hangars, but there’s no hurry for that, now they should watch him, he motions for Stein to come closer, and from the table he pulls onto his lap, from a huge disorderly pile, a Guanyin statue, roughly half a metre in height, seemingly nearly ready, and with a colour, more than anything else, reminiscent of the light of the full moon — he pulls it onto his lap, and with a hammer and a fine-pointed chisel in his hand, he bends over it, and from this point on does not talk, does not utter a single word, does not explain, but begins, with the chisel and hammer to form the countenance of the statue, for the most part otherwise largely finished, and for a while the guest has the feeling that he wants to show him that he’s doing it for him, that he wants to initiate him into the secrets of the creation of a Guanyin head, but as time passes this feeling fades away, and finally vanishes, because after about half an hour, during which the master is completely bent above the face of the Guanyin, Stein edges up to him from one side, so that he can watch even the smallest movements, he observes as one eye comes to life, then the other, as these two eyes now see, as the living forehead of the Guanyin slowly emerges from the bare wood, its nose, lips, chin, gaze, by that time it is completely obvious that the master has ceased doing this for him, to be completely accurate: Stein has stopped existing as far as the master is concerned, he has forgotten him, he looks up at Stein, surprised, and Stein is certain that this is the case, because when, after about an hour’s worth of work, he leans back for the first time, holding the statue away from himself and looking at it, examining it, turning it a little to the right and a little to the left, in order to determine, to measure in the incidentally falling light what the countenance of the statue now shows, he sees that the master needs time to apprehend that Stein is there beside him, for his consciousness to awaken to the fact that someone — Petőfi himself! — has been watching him the whole time, he needs just as much time as he needed an hour ago for all this to leave his head, to become immersed in his work of meticulous, breath-fine chiselling, the results of which he now displays proudly, a beautiful, otherworldly, godly gaze; it is not possible to know how he did it even though Stein was standing next him the whole time, he did not stop observing the point of the chisel, the edge of the hammer or the surface of the fragrant wood sanded down in advance, even for a moment, but he does not know how that sacrosanct, mournful beauty was conjured out of that wood, and he almost starts to cry because he does not know—until he observes, in the meantime, another reality, that of the interpreter who is suffering greatly, who in no way has spent this short hour in feverish immersion but paced up and down among the young workers of the workshop, because he has really begun to freeze again in the penetrating cold, as he now reveals, he must get out of this murderous, this bone-penetrating cold — endured until now so as not to be a disturbance — but right now, immediately, he is shivering desperately, he must get out, he cannot stand it any more, he looks at Stein in torment, so that, with the master at their side — who seems to be teasing them — they go back into the office, he seems to find it amusing that the interpreter is so cold, certainly, he nods roguishly, it is fairly cold considering that it’s May, as if the whole thing were just a good little joke, then everything is solved, because from somewhere in one of the little rooms behind the office a real huo tong — a local variation of the renowned bath heated with embers — turns up, and you can sit in it, then you can wrap yourself up while you sit in it, it’s as if the interpreter has ended up in the redeeming vaults of heaven, with indescribable happiness on his face, he allows himself to be sat down in the warm cauldron, to be wrapped in blankets up to the waist, and then a woman and two tiny waifs bring fresh tea, and everyone is filled with great cheerfulness: the interpreter is sitting in the huo tong, and nearly fainting from the beneficial effects of the heat, he closes his eyes, so the matter of the interpreter has had a happy end; as for Stein, however, who perhaps due to the spirit of the place is this time better able to withstand the difficulties, the master once again motions for him to follow, and then leads him across into two gigantic workrooms adjacent to the workshop, partially dug into the earth and connected to each other: because standing here are enormous blocks of wood, arranged next to one another according to the various phases of work: here looking like wood sawed down for sale, piled up, there already joined into one piece; or freed from the most important surpluses, so that from the rough contours showing the enormous form of a Buddha or bodhisattva[10] the workers, who seem to be older and more experienced than the ones in the workshop, peel away, with astoundingly skilful and confident blows of their hatchets, any unnecessary remaining material; the wood shavings fly in the wake of their movements, the master is very pleased that his guest is able to delight in their work with such passion, he stands behind him proudly, at times patting him on the shoulder and motioning for him to observe how things operate in his workshop, to study as much as he wishes what is going on with these amazing materials — then he tries to ask him, does he understand that the workers here are joining and pressing together and planing these huge blocks of wood, then they’ll saw them down, and finally they’ll carve off whatever is not necessary, all right, fine, Stein tries to convey his words with vigorous gesticulations, but how does a Buddha emerge from this? — at which point the master, as if he has deduced this time what Stein wants to know, stands in front of the framework of a gigantic statue, he doesn’t even reach up to its knee, and with his tiny hands this tiny person points at the roughly carved head up there in the heights and, as if it were a question of some impish trick, winks at the guest and, with an indescribably expressive movement, signifies that, well, it’s like this, if everything is ready, then he comes along, he climbs up there and he just carves nicely with his chisel until, well. . there is a Buddha.

In the office, when they return, the atmosphere is good, and while the interpreter enjoys the benefits of the huo tong, Stein and the master look at a photograph album, bound in coloured fake leather, of his earlier works, which the master brings out like a treasure from one of the rooms in the back, then Stein begins to examine the statues scattered around the office, and asks if he could buy one like that one day, when he is rich — he points at a smaller Guanyin, the master suddenly looks very serious, he sits down in the armchair and points, next to himself, for his guest to sit down as well and he speaks to the interpreter, asking him to please be so kind as to translate what he is about to say, and he begins to speak animatedly, the interpreter is clearly concentrating very strongly in the tub, noting everything, but in the end he summarizes the master’s address in a single short sentence which goes like this: he, the master, has become very attached to comrade Petőfi, and he would like them to be friends.

Stein, with the greatest joy, says yes, the master arises from his armchair and they embrace, then they bring out a camera and as everyone poses for a picture — the interpreter in the tub in the middle, of course, and Stein and the master and the woman with the two children around him — the master of the workshop, to his very best and his only foreign friend, solemnly promises to carve for him a Guanyin of extraordinary beauty, and let there be no worry about the cost, because he will calculate the most advantageous price for him, but still, how much, Stein asks, and the master begins to laugh confusedly, like someone who is counting within, and then he asks what size the guest was thinking of, the guest shows the size, well, he reflects, still smiling confusedly, he could prepare one, but this will be the most beautiful one that he has ever, ever prepared — he raises his index finger — well, then, he could prepare one for. . 800 yuan — that’s fine, answers Stein, let the price be 800 yuan, and it will be the most beautiful Guanyin he has ever made. They take the photographs, and in high spirits they disperse, the children and the woman behind the door, and the guests slowly prepare to leave: they write their home address on a piece of paper, where, according to the prediction of the master, a Guanyin, more beautiful than any other, will certainly arrive, they pay him the 800 yuan, and they add 2 yuan for the postage, and they are leaving, but the master, clearly overcome, stands in his office, and does not want them by any means to set off: first, he suggests they have lunch together, from this point on let them be his guests for the day, then when they tell him that so little time do they have in Jiuhuashan that if they want to see anything at all before it grows dark, even with an aching heart, they must refuse his invitation, and he becomes so sad that they can hardly console him, they must drink at least one more tea, and then another and another, and then they are finally outside in the courtyard, and they are walking towards the gate, and there he stands in the doorway of his office and he waves, and he calls after them that the Guanyin will really be the most beautiful and they can see him wracking his brain to find a reason to call them back, like someone who doesn’t want them to leave, like someone who doesn’t want them to be submerged — leaving the protection that he can offer to them — yet again in the unknown fog of Jiuhuashan.

The stairs are as much of an essential element of the sacred elevations in Jiuhuashan as the monasteries; they enmesh the mountain from one end to the other, they announce the presence of the resting spots, the pavilions, the connecting paths, the detours, the paths, the magnificent lookouts as well, they indicate a kind of safe passage in this particularly untraversable, precipitous slope, a decided connection between the numerous monasteries; the system, however, is so complicated, especially to figures such as the two of them in the middle of this thick fog, that even marching along continuously for hours is not enough for them to get their bearings; indeed, as far as that goes, now that they are climbing outside in this complicated and essential stairway-network, they are forced to admit that they are no closer to having any idea as to what kind of consideration brought this system into being, who built it, the knowledge of which all the same would be indispensable to traffic on the mountain — and not only are they compelled to admit this, they admit it with the greatest bitterness, for somehow, again, the long minutes—10 minutes, 20 minutes — are passing and they are not coming across even one of the monasteries they long so much to see, they just keep going, always just hoping that in the next, but in the next, moment something will certainly leap out at them, a gate leading into the Baisui Gong[11] or the Huatian Si; but no, in the fog they find neither the Baisui Gong nor the Huatian Si while the interpreter notes with resignation that, in his opinion, it is also starting to get dark — that’s not possible, Stein protests, obviously it’s just the thick fog blocking the light, but no, the interpreter shakes his head listlessly, according to him this is not a mistaken impression — and here is the most tangible of reasons, that is to say, the watch on his wrist is now pointing to four o’clock, quite simply, evening has begun to fall.

If it is really four o’clock — they once again withdraw beneath the roof of the pavilion, away from the seemingly never-ending eaves — if it is already getting onto four, says Stein, that means then that the monasteries will be closed very shortly. And so nothing would be more sensible, says his companion, than to put off everything else till tomorrow, go home to the hotel, have a good bath and rest, well wrapped up, from this day of not-inconsiderable ordeals. He looks at Stein hopefully, and it is clear that he is prepared for the most vehement of debates, anything to convince the other to give up — well, that’s a good idea, the other bows his head, he drinks the last sip of tea from the plastic tea flagon, and they head off towards home. It’s strange, but now they suddenly find the staircase which leads downward, the one which later on does not suddenly begin heading upward again, as has happened so many times on this extraordinary day, they trudge downward, holding on to the railing, because the staircase is very slippery, when suddenly, due to the fog, once again, fairly unexpectedly, a person appears before them. Judging from his bouncy gait, it is a young man and it seems that with his rubber boots, and a plastic bag in his hand, he too is steadily heading downward, so that so far everything would be fine, it’s just how he is going down the stairs in front of them that strikes the eye immediately, that is, on the one hand, there is an uncommon resolve in his movements, on the other, however. . he is not walking like them, holding on to the railing, moving in a straight line; instead, he is waddling, as one used to call it in childhood, waddling here and there but all the while systematically descending; he goes from one side, let’s say, from the railing on the right to the railing on the left, but, in the meantime, taking three or four steps down, so that he progresses — and this is truly the correct expression — systematically, and really, like someone who still has a few kilometres in front of him so that he does all this seriously, so it isn’t possible to think that this person in front of them here — who nonetheless is certain that no one sees him — is feigning anything, no, the two visitors look at each other incredulously, he is not pretending, there is something wrong with him; moreover, when they get closer to him, and he looks back, frightened, realizing that someone is behind him, it immediately becomes obvious that he is not crazy. So what then? What is going on here? Stein looks the interpreter questioningly, but he just shakes his head and watches how, from that point on, the man in front of them does not begin to walk with a regular gait, now that he knows that they are watching him, but progresses in the same way, waddling here and there between the left and right sides of the staircase.

Stein motions to his companion to follow and, quickening his steps, catches up to the man in front of them, but since he is obliged to take up his style, he too begins to walk in the same way, zigzagging downward, from one side to the other, mimicking him as much as he can, so that he can speak to him, for he has not changed anything about his peculiar gait even though there is someone right beside him.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know where the hotel is?’

‘Are you looking for the Huacheng Si?’[12]

‘No, the monastery is probably closed already. The hotel.’

‘The Huacheng Si is that way.’

He looks very frightened. Stein, to reassure him, gazes at him in as friendly a way as possible, as does the interpreter who translates from behind.

‘Are you from here?’

‘No. Just working here.’

‘Is it always like this during the month of May here? The rain doesn’t really want to stop.’

‘Sometimes it is.’

‘What’s it usually like here? Is it going to rain tomorrow too?’

‘Rain tomorrow. Then no more rain.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I watched the weather report yesterday on TV.’

They waddle on, following his zigzags, and for a while nothing comes to Stein’s mind. The man speaks first.

‘It’s good to walk like this.’

Stein doesn’t really know how to respond. Should he approve? Refute? He changes the subject.

‘You said before that you work here. What kind of work is there here?’

‘I make deliveries to the mountain.’

‘To the mountain? Where?’

‘Up. Sometimes building materials, sometimes vegetables. Whatever is needed. Everything has to be carried.’

‘But this is a really long trip.’

‘Twice a day. This was the second time. Going home. Don’t live here.’

Once again muteness settles upon them. It’s reassuring that he no longer seems so frightened, that he has regained his earlier impassiveness, but somehow Stein cannot find a way to address why they cannot speak of the most important thing: why he walks that way. They follow him as precisely as they can, but sometimes they miss a step and are obliged to cheat by taking two. He, however, never steps the wrong way, he moves in faultless tempo, quickly, briskly, in that unshakeable impassiveness now regained once and for all, he goes down the stairs from one edge to the other and back again, and then again. The stairs are winding, they see only each other: they descend in that quick pace in vain, the fog does not grow any thinner.

Once again he breaks the silence.

‘Twenty yuan.’

‘Twenty yuan for what? The ticket home?’

‘Sometimes a little more than 20. But less than 30.’

‘Oh, that’s what you get for your work?’

‘For one day.’

‘Have to go up twice. I carry it with chinga wood.’

That’s bamboo rod, the interpreter explains. The porters carry the goods with it. The bundles are hung from the two ends of the bamboo, the bamboo is flexible and, as it sways with every step, there is a tiny pause, smaller than an intake of breath, but of vital importance, when the weight is not pressed down upon the shoulders. That is when he takes a step.

So he’s a porter, Stein looks at the interpreter. Yes, the interpreter confirms, and he believes that they are called mountain coolies.

My God, on these steps, with heavy packages, twice a day! For 20 yuan!

‘Have you had dinner yet?’

‘I don’t live here.’

‘But it’s really time for dinner already.’

‘First I’ll go home. Then I’ll have dinner.’

It’s as if the stairs would never end. They have been going downward for at least 10 or 15 minutes. The visitors are ill at ease, because they are afraid that this person will be insulted at how they are walking exactly like him. They don’t want him to think that they are mocking him.

Stein looks back at the interpreter, like someone trying to indicate that he has something important to say, and he waves at him to not walk behind their backs but beside the man, on the other side.

‘It’s good to go like this.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Four steps here, four steps there.’

‘So that by the fourth step you have to reach one side of the stairs, and then by the fourth step reach the other side?’

‘It’s good to go like this.’

‘Why? Is it easier this way? You don’t get as tired?’

The porter does not answer for a long time. It seems like he isn’t going to when he looks at the interpreter again. Then he stops. Now he doesn’t seem impassive at all. He looks with unmistakable concern at the two foreigners. Then he points to Stein, and motions to the interpreter to translate what he is saying.

‘It’s good to go like this.’

And he motions for them to wait. Much more slowly, he goes with four steps to one railing, he looks at Stein, then he takes four steps to the other, and he looks at Stein again. He doesn’t move; the two of them slowly go down to where he is, and stand by his side. He no longer breathes a word, just looks at Stein, nodding, this is important. Stein nods too, he understands. Then he sets off again, the two following him. Suddenly a temple emerges from the fog. It stands in utter muteness, without a single trace of life, clearly long since closed. The carrier leads them up to the gate, points at it, and says: ‘Huacheng Si.’

And in the next moment he is lost in the fog.