Honored Guest

AFTER LEAVING that morning, we pitched tents to welcome our guests ten li distant from the estate.

The men were to display their riding skills and marksmanship.

It was also time for the lamas from the estate and those from the monastery to perform drum music and spirit dances. These were keenly contested competitions. To be honest, we enjoyed the rivalry, since it kept the lamas from considering themselves too lofty. Without these contests, they could have joined forces to tell us that the Buddha had said this or the Buddha had said that, and the chieftains would have had no choice but to let them do anything they wanted. But when there was friction between them, they came to us offering to pray for the prosperity of the chieftain’s family. They also gave us guarantees that their prayers were more effective than those of others.

We had just dumped an entire goat into the pot, and a fragrant aroma had begun to waft from the tea. Ear-shaped pastries were barely out of the frying pan when we saw one, two, then three columns of dark green smoke rise from the mountain ridges. That signaled the arrival of our honored guest. Carpets were quickly laid inside and outside the tents, and low tables in front of the carpets were piled high with all kinds of food, including the pastries straight from the frying pan. Listen, can you hear them sizzle?

At the sound of the horn, our contingent of horses galloped off amid clouds of yellow dust.

They were followed by a procession of serfs holding khatag, the Tibetan silk offering. This group included singers with loud, booming voices.

After them came a group of monks carrying giant conch shells and the woodwind suonas.

Along the way, my father and the honored guest would be greeted by these separate groups.

We heard a volley of musket fire from the horse team as a salute. Then came the serfs songs. By the time the distant conch shells and the suonas sounded happily, the entourage and honored guest were there in our midst.

Chieftain Maichi reined in his horse. We could see how happy and pleased with himself he was. On the other hand, the provincial official beside him wasn’t nearly as impressive as we’d expected. He was a scrawny fellow, but when he took off his hat to wave at the crowd, the barbarians knelt in unison on the yellowed grass. Family slaves rolled a carpet up to the horses, and two young men got down on their hands and knees to serve as dismounting stools. One of them was my favorite companion, Sonam Tserang.

The scrawny Han Chinese replaced his hat and adjusted his black-rimmed glasses before dismounting on Sonam Tserang’s back. He waved again to summon dozens of uniformed soldiers. When the chieftain walked over to his wife, the soldiers snapped off a neat salute. Then special emissary Huang Chumin presented silks and brocades, precious stones and gold, to the chieftain’s wife, who in turn offered him a bowl of wine and a piece of yellow khatag. Young girls presented the same gifts to the Han soldiers. Meanwhile, the lamas started up again with their drums and suonas.

After Special Emissary Huang took a seat inside the tent, Father asked a man in his entourage if he should send for the dancers.

“Not yet. The special emissary hasn’t composed his poem yet.”

So our honored guest from the Han government was a poet! In our land, poets would not be entrusted with such an important task. When I first saw his half-closed eyes, I’d thought he was intoxicated by the aroma of food and the beauty of the girls.

After sitting there awhile with his eyes shut, he opened them wide and said he’d finished composing his poem. Then he watched the girls singing and dancing in high spirits. But he started yawning when the lamas came out to perform their long, tedious spirit dance. So he was helped outside by his soldiers for a smoke. That’s what they said: the special emissary needs to go outside for a smoke to clear the cobwebs. Their enthusiasm dampened, the lamas slowed their dance steps. The Living Buddha from the Mondron Ling Monastery, who had so few opportunities to show off, waved his hand, and an embroidered painting of Sakyamuni was carried in. The people prostrated themselves, which revived the spirits of the dancing lamas.

The chieftain said to his wife, “The Living Buddha’s letting out all the stops.”

“Yes,” Mother said. “He’d have saved himself a lot of trouble if he hadn’t said your younger brother should be the chieftain back then.”

Father laughed merrily. “Too bad so few people understand things like this.”

“Maybe. And by the time they do, it’s usually too late.”

The Living Buddha, wearing crystal spectacles, came up to pay his respects. He wore an awkward look. Father took his slack, pudgy hands in his own, and said, “We’re going to settle accounts with Chieftain Wangpo soon. You’ll have to recite the proper sutras to ask for a sweeping victory.” The face of the Living Buddha, who had been given the cold shoulder for years, perked up.

Father added, “I ll send over some alms tomorrow.”

The Living Buddha retreated with his hands clasped in front of him.

Inside the tent, Special Emissary Huang’s soldiers had been replaced by our young girls, and his eyes glistened like a night prowler.

The final activity of the day was the taking of photographs.

I didn’t discover that my older brother was missing until our family was seated around Special Emissary Huang. It turned out that he was traveling with the weapons—rifles, machine guns, and plenty of ammunition.

Our photographer was the thongsi, or what people now call an interpreter. Back then, anyone who could turn one language into another was called a thongsi. The special emissary sat between Father, who held me in his lap, and Mother. That was the first photograph in the history of the Maichi family. Thinking back now, I realize how timely the introduction of photography was, for it preserved a picture of what turned out to be our waning days. But at the time, we treated everything as the beginning of an even more prosperous era for our family. My father and mother were energetic in real life, but the photograph turned us all into dull figures, as if we were doomed to disappear soon. See there, Father looks half-dead in the picture. Looking at it now, who’d have thought that he was filled with ambition and ready to deal a deathblow to a neighbor who had insulted us? To a certain degree, he was a man whose fists landed wherever his mind settled.

A few days later, my brother returned with the newly purchased munitions.

A stretch of land close to the estate house, so vast that a galloping horse couldn’t reach the end before tiring out, was now our drill ground, and it was constantly shrouded in rolling dust. The soldiers who accompanied Special Emissary Huang were our drill instructors. Whenever one of them barked a command, our men would shout cadence and goose-step in tight formation. Of course, they had no clear goal yet, so they just shouted and sent yellow dust flying. When they reached the far end, they executed an about-face and shouted their way back, followed by more rising dust. This was a far cry from what we knew about combat training.

Father wanted to ask what this drill accomplished, and whether the training could actually help him defeat Chieftain Wangpo. But before he could open his mouth, the special emissary said, “Congratulations, Chieftain Maichi. You are now the only chieftain who commands a modern army. You will be invincible.”

Puzzled by this comment, Father asked Mother, “Have you ever seen an army train like this?”

“I haven’t seen any other way to do it,” she replied.

Special Emissary Huang laughed, and Father had no choice but to take the man’s word for it. What else could we do, since we had no other means of dealing with a traitorous headman? For the longest time, none of the soldiers Father had brought to help us out ever taught our men how to fire a rifle.

Even as the weather warmed up, all that our men did was march and shout to high heaven. No one could figure out why they had to learn how to march before they learned to fight. Dust flew all over the place, even in the third month, when the air should have been turning moist. My half brother marched with the other men, a rifle over his shoulder, his sweaty face streaked with dust. Eventually, even he could take it no longer, and came to ask Father, “Shouldn’t they be giving us bullets by now?”

So Father brought up the matter with Special Emissary Huang, who dispensed bullets, three per man, to the soldiers, but they weren’t allowed to fire them. The only difference was that now bayonet training was added to the marching drills. A few days later my brother went again to Father, who said to the special emissary, “The planting season will soon be here and the fortress is still under Chieftain Wangpo’s control.”

But the special emissary said, “What’s the hurry?”

Chieftain Maichi now knew that he’d invited in a deity that was hard to send away. Bothered by a disturbing premonition, he had a lama cast divining blocks. The lost fortress would be retaken, the lama told him, and perhaps a new one or two as well. But there would be a price.

Father asked if any lives would be lost. The answer was no.

He asked if any money had to be spent. Again, the answer was no.

Finally he asked what exactly would be involved. The lama said he couldn’t see clearly.

The resident lama being found useless, the Living Buddha was sent for. But his divination turned out the same. He saw flaming flowers, but was unable to foretell what sort of price the flowers portended.

Chieftain Maichi ordered that two new girls and a casket of silver dollars be sent to the special emissary. Putting Mother in charge of the matter, the chieftain said to her, “I think you should go, since I don’t understand the Han people.” Mother was happy that the chieftain felt that way; from now on, she would enjoy the authority of the chieftain’s wife in dealing with such matters. Before becoming the chieftain’s wife, it was unthinkable that one day she might ever be the equal of anyone as important as the special emissary.

The next day the special emissary said, “The girls are fine, but I must return the silver. Our government has come to help you barbarians, not because we desire your silver, but because we want all five ethnic groups to live harmoniously for the stability of the Republic of China. I will accept the girls so as not to make you lose face. I understand that this practice is not considered immoral in places outside the influence of Chinese civilization.” Then he added, ”Mistress, I hear you are a Han Chinese. In the future, we will rely on you for many things. Though I cannot say for sure, one day this place will no longer be alien territory, but your fiefdom.”

“Please, no talk of fiefdoms. I wouldn’t have fallen so low if your army hadn’t looted my father’s shop.”

“For that we can easily compensate you.”

“Can you compensate for the loss of human life? Both my parents. That’s two lives.”

Not having expected to fail in his attempt to find a collaborator, the special emissary said, “The mistress is the equal of a great man. I truly admire you.”

Mother handled this delicate situation in an open, forthright manner; but she told Father only that the special emissary had returned the silver. The chieftain could do nothing but gnash his teeth, and say, “One day I’ll kill that man.”

Then the special emissary came to see him. “I think I should meet with Chieftain Wangpo.”

Father looked at the special emissary, whose yellow face showed that he was serious, so he said to the steward, “Send a courier.”

The courier soon returned. Who could have guessed that heaven would send such good fortune Chieftain Maichi’s way? For what Chieftain Wangpo sent to “the son of a bitch Han official” was not a response, but a pair of handsome boots, which clearly meant for him to get the hell back to where he came from. Since the significance of the gift was lost on the special emissary, Mother gave him a vivid and thorough explanation.

Our honored guest was outraged.

Volleys of gunfire now sounded on the drill ground, and everyone knew we were preparing for war.

Three days later, armed government troops and several hundred of our soldiers arrived at the border. From the outset, the weapons we received from the military government overwhelmed the enemy. They could only yelp as their local weapons jammed. In the time it takes to eat a meal, we reclaimed the defector’s fortress. The headman acknowledged his guilt by fleeing, leaving his kinfolk to die in his stead. All the members of his family, strung together, knelt beneath a walnut tree in front of their gate as the rising sun dried the dew on the grass under their feet. When they realized that the swords and guns held by the guards were not being used on them, they assumed that Chieftain Maichi had spared them, and the color returned to their ashen faces. What they could not have known was that Chieftain Maichi, unlike other chieftains, had never allowed soldiers to kill his prisoners. Ever since the Maichi family came into existence, hundreds of years ago, we have always had a designated executioner.

On the land governed by the Maichi family, there were three hereditary lines: the chieftain; Aryi, the executioner’s family; and the historian. Unfortunately, the historian’s line had been eliminated by the fourth chieftain after the third historian had advocated “factual recording.” By now we had no idea how many generations had passed in the chieftain’s family, let alone that of the executioner.

The executioner arrived. With his long arms, long legs, and a long neck, he looked exactly like someone whose specialty was taking people’s lives. Prior to the execution, Father said to those who were about to die, “One of your own left you behind to be punished, so I will show no mercy. If that traitor hadn’t fled, you would not have to lose your insignificant lives.”

Up till then, they had been hoping that the chieftain would spare them; now the resolute looks on their faces disintegrated, as if they had suddenly realized that they were traitors to their master, not enemy prisoners. Their knees buckled and they knelt on the ground to beg for their lives, which was precisely the effect Father sought. Once they were on their knees, the chieftain waved his hand, and the executioner’s sword flashed. Heads rolled. Each of the faces was still expressive, whereas the headless bodies remained erect for a brief moment before twirling and crumpling to the ground, as if caught by surprise.

I looked into the sky but failed to see any souls rising up to heaven. They say we have souls, so why wasn’t I seeing any?

I asked Mother, but she just gave me a mean look and walked over to join her husband.

That was the first day of battle.

On the second day, the flames of war spread to Chieftain Wangpo’s territory.

The special emissary, the chieftain, and his wife, along with some servants, observed the battle from a safe distance. I was among them. The officers in charge were my brother and the platoon leader of the special emissary’s army. Our men quickly bored their way into the scrub brush after crossing a stream in the valley separating the two chieftains territories. We were now watching an invisible battle, the only sign of which was crisp gunfire echoing in the radiant sky. Chieftain Wangpo’s men put up a better fight this time, because they were now fighting for their homeland. But our men, with their overpowering weapons, continued to advance. It did not take long for them to reach a fortress, where a raging fire erupted from one of the buildings. A man flew out of the flames like a bird, was shot in the air, and thudded to the ground facedown.

A moment later, another fortress was reduced to a giant pyre.

The special emissary was watching through a pair of binoculars. When a third building caught fire, he opened his mouth wide, showing his yellowed teeth, and yawned. He was then helped by a fair, young soldier over to a shade tree, where he began to smoke. Father held the binoculars up to his eyes but couldn’t see a thing, since he didn’t know how to adjust the lenses. I took them from him and played with them for a while before I located some sort of dial. After I twisted it back and forth, suddenly the scenery on the opposite hills jumped up under my nose. I saw our men, crouching as they darted between hills, rocks, and the scrub brush. Green smoke issued from the muzzles of their guns.

Someone crumpled in a clearing.

That was one, then another. When they fell, they flailed their arms before opening their mouths to chew the ground. The two men turned to crawl down the hill. Then another man fell, his gun flying off into the distance. I couldn’t help but yell, “Go get your gun, you idiot! Go get it!”

But he lay there, motionless, ignoring my command. It occurred to me that he’d probably obey only my brother’s commands. For it was my brother, not I, who was the future Chieftain Maichi. These soldiers weren’t mine; they belonged to him. That thought filled me with sadness. My brother, always brave, always at the head of his soldiers. Now he was walking crablike, his gun at the ready, his silver amulet shimmering in the sun. Each time he raised his gun, a man flew off a tree, flapping his arms like a bird before dropping into the bosom of the earth. I shouted excitedly, “You killed one, he’s dead!” but I felt in my heart that my brother had actually finished me off. Yet at that moment, Chieftain Maichi was more worried about his older son, and when he saw me grasping the binoculars and yelling, he waved impatiently. “Someone take him inside. How can an idiot see anything with those if I can’t?”

I wanted to tell him I could see everything, and not just of today, but everything of tomorrow as well. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t dare say them, since I wasn’t altogether sure what it was that I could see of tomorrow. By now, our men had taken their objective and were crossing the ridge to attack the next valley.

Nighttime brought a cease-fire. As a peace offering, Chieftain Wangpo sent a messenger over with the traitorous headman’s ear, a silver earring dangling from the lobe. When the covering cloth was removed, the ear twitched on the platter, sending the earring clanging loudly against the brass.

Father said, “The traitor isn’t dead yet.”

The messenger shouted, “Kill me, then.”

“Do you expect me to taint my reputation?” Father replied.

“You’ve already tainted your reputation by seeking help from the Han Chinese. You have violated the rules, so how can you expect to preserve your name? Compared to asking an outsider’s help in a family feud, killing a messenger means nothing.”

It’s true, here we check each other’s “bone” when marriage is contemplated, so all chieftains are related. With so much intermarriage, we have multiple kinship relations. Chieftains Maichi and Wangpo were both maternal and paternal cousins. After the battle, the two families might intermarry once again, making it nearly impossible to tell which relationship was more dependable.

“I don’t want your life,” Father said. “But since you tried to deceive me with an ear, I’m going to take one from you, so you’ll remember how to talk to a chieftain.”

In the firelight, with a cold, narrow glint from his dagger, an ear fell to the ground and was covered with dirt.

Special Emissary Huang walked out from the shadows, and said to the now one-eared messenger, “I am the recipient of your chieftain’s boots. Go back and tell him that boots from a chieftain will never befit me, a proud special emissary of the provincial government. Chieftain Maichi is a model supporter of the government. Go back and tell your chieftain to follow his example. Then send that traitor’s head over before midnight, or I’ll send him something faster than those boots and more lethal than that dagger.”

The man nonchalantly picked up his ear and blew off the dust before bowing and retreating.

Sure enough, the traitorous headman was decapitated. Chieftain Wangpo also sent word that, as the defeated party, he would hand over a piece of land double the size of the defecting fortress as reparation.

Victorious shouts erupted in the night sky; a bonfire was lit and liquor vats were opened. People danced around the fire and the vats. But, gazing up at the crescent moon, I thought only of the girl Dolma, who was back at the estate—her smell, her hands, her breasts.

My brother, the conquering hero, opened his arms and joined the circle dance, which headed toward its climactic moment as the pace quickened and the circle grew smaller. The girls whose hands he held yelled shrilly, exaggerating a bit so everyone would know how honored and happy they were to be dancing with the noble hero. As people cheered for my brother, his face, glowing from the fire, became more animated, more radiant than usual.

But in the house behind the dance ground, the relatives of two fallen soldiers wept beside the corpses.

Far greater numbers of enemy bodies lay exposed to the wild. Packs of wolves made their move, their long howls echoing in the valley.

And Father wasn’t happy on that victorious evening, for the birth of a new hero could mean only that the former hero was past his prime. Even though the new hero was his own son, he could not help but feel sad. Fortunately, the new hero wasn’t arrogant, as most heroes would be; he was simply wrapped up in merriment, and that made his father envious. My brother’s joy came from the fact that, like me, he never tried to separate himself from the serfs. See there, he’s drinking with a man and flirting with the man’s sister at the same time. In the end, he takes the girl into the woods and, when he reemerges, glumly joins the vigil for the fallen soldiers.

I, on the other hand, was getting sleepy.

Father didn’t awaken from his drunken stupor in time for the cremation rites for our fallen soldiers.

Sprawled across my horse, I watched the people rock back and forth and sing funeral dirges as the long procession moved down the dusty spring road.

My brother gave me a knife, his trophy, which he had snatched from an enemy’s hand. “May it make you brave,” he said. I touched the hands he’d used to kill people; they seemed too warm to have taken lives. So I asked him, “Did you really kill them?” He tightened his grip on my hand, the pain creasing my brow. At that moment, he didn’t have to speak for me to believe that he had.