Wind and River Bridge
After all, the plan was to get the fuck out of London. Colin Ian White lit a Fang ta and took a sip of his Youcha. Like every one else in Sanjiang, the strange tea, sprinkled with rice, peanuts and a touch of vinegar had become a morning habit, and so had the sky blue pack of cigarettes as he was never a smoker back home. Yet the ritual seemed to fit the destitution of the place. Of course, London was miserable but this town was destitute.
Colin looked out the squat single window of his studio where, beyond a tight iron balcony just big enough for two adults to stand together in a hug, faint morning light was beginning to accentuate the gray, pink and dirty tallow shades of the city’s concrete and feather frame. When he signed on to teaching English abroad, he envisioned his self being sent somewhere exotic like Thailand or Sri Lanka, if not to a more romantic setting such as Sicily, or perhaps an obscure Greek island where he might perchance be singled out in a mystery like the protagonist in The Magus by John Fowles. Alas, here he was in Sanjiang.
She would come at fifteen hundred hours. She would walk down the dewy slate paths through her town in the hills of the Guangxi Provence where large wooden houses propped up on stilts seemed to lean forward against a background of fir trees. Lazy red fish decorated a round pond in the town square, quiet except for a few awkward tourists. She would follow the canal then cross the millet field to reach the next small village of Yanzhai. Here she would bring a bowl of pickled vegetables to her great grandmother and continue en route along streets paved with flat stones, descending before rows of more large wooden houses where several families lived together as one amongst circles of tea trees. Finally she would pass before the Drum tower and take the walkway to the stairs of the Chengyang Bridge over the Linxi River, also known as the Wind and Rain Bridge, the most beautiful bridge in the world.
At the other end of the bridge she would wait twenty or forty minutes for the bus into Sanjiang, always sure to arrive early as the bus was never on time and she couldn’t afford, financially, emotionally or physically after all that effort, to miss it and as of yet she had not but once. The ride from Chengyang to the Hexi station took an hour and from there she would walk the six filthy blocks to his ‘shoddy’ (his own term for the joint) studio on Sanyuan Road. He would open the door. They would eat tofu noodles and then make love, more often than not in the reverse order, and then continue on with her English lessons. This, that is, the English lesson had been going on now for seven months; the noodles and the penetrating, obsessively sexual, crushing love-- only since the night of the moon festival on September 12th. It was now the 8th of November. Her name was Xiulan. She was nineteen years old. Colin was 27. He was of average height at five foot eleven but felt much taller here in Southwest China. He was handsome with boyish features that lost their innocence when he didn’t shave. He was comparably thin as well, yet in this region, he often felt heavier even than the fattest old woman, the one who sold live ducks in basket cages at the Long Bien market and appeared to take up half the avenue when she sat down on the litter of pink fish wrapping paper and rotten Bok Choy leaves, wind blown into the corners of the square.
Xiulan, whose name meant ‘beautiful orchid’, fulfilled the prophecy indubitably. There was a violet luminosity in her smooth, glass like face and with her black eyes shooting right through you like two pistols, one into the heart and the other into your soul; it made a man give up his will to live for his self and wish for nothing more than to die for her. Colin had no intention of becoming her lover when he accepted her request to give her private lessons back in the springtime. As a matter of fact, sex, love, even friendship and especially any kind of erotic infatuation were the farthest things from his mind. It was hard enough to assimilate into the culture, to become accustomed to the smells, mostly acrid, or the sights, often disturbing-- like that emaciated old geezer who perched next to the duck lady at the market and removed the vocal chords from roosters with a scary hook shaped instrument for only nine and a half yen.
Of course he noticed her the first time she walked into his classroom at the institute, an austere, dilapidated blue concrete building with many tiny, random windows above a typical junk shop in the Jing ‘An district. Despite the fact that the barely visible sign with three missing letters that read “Sa jiang Lang age Cente ” was directly beneath an enormous modern billboard with a picture of a heavily made up middle aged woman in a black gown advertising the liquor Kweichow Moutai, the place looked eerily like an insane asylum from the outside and felt like a prison within. Colin spent four days a week there from 9:00 to 14:00. His first class, that he suddenly realized, as he took the last drag of his Fang ta, he would be late for if he didn’t get moving, had fifteen students in it and his next two classes were crowded with twenty five in each. He was proud that after just two weeks he was able to remember all their foreign names. He did not speak Mandarin or Uyhur, a Turkish dialect of the region. But that’s how it worked; anywhere in the world-- you just go and teach what you know. Alas, he still harbored those hopes of ending up, someday, in Greece.
Xiulan was in his last class for the first four-month term. She learned quickly and he had no problem accepting the extra cash she promised to pay for continuing on with private lessons. Hers was an extraordinary story for a person of the Dong Minority that lived across the Chengyang Bridge in the Guangxi villages in the hills. Her uncle, Honghui, had decided as a young man, some twenty years ago, to venture away from the ancient rural way of life of his ancestors to “find himself” in Shanghai. He got a job in a factory and diligently worked his way up the ladder to where he was now a supervisor of exports. Honghui sent Xiulan the money to learn English and promised her that once she became proficient, he would bring her to the great city and hire her as his secretary. This, which Colin understood but did not agree with, was something she almost painfully looked forward to. He had been to the hills many times now, had witnessed the serenity of the charming, taciturn villages and marveled at the lush scenery and exquisite architecture of the Wind and Rain Bridge. Alas, she was young and wanted to see the world, which although this was something they shared, he was more inclined toward landscapes. Perhaps London ruined his lust for hustle and bustle years ago, or more likely, it was just his nature. He was an only child and knew how to be intimate with solitude.
He parked his bicycle in front of the institute on time and breezed through the day suppressing his anxiety for her arrival. A few students implored him for extra instruction after his last class and she was waiting in the doorway, playing with a stray cat (who would probably become someone’s dinner if it didn’t be careful) when he finally returned to his studio. They brought the bike and the cat upstairs.
“I’m going to keep it.” He told her.
She looked at him as if she didn’t understand although he knew very well that she did.
“What’s his name?” She asked.
“It’s a he?”
She looked, “Yes.”
“You name it.”
“Homer.” She smiled. He had been reading her The Odyssey in English.
“Okay! I like it.” Colin picked up the cat and scratched its chin then turned to Xiulan, “Are you hungry?”
He guessed she thought he might be asking the cat for she didn’t answer. He didn’t repeat the question. Homer began to sniff the baseboards and Colin watched Xiulan undress and lay down on his bed. Then he fucked her.
The late afternoon weather was mild for November at 18 Celsius and a subtle drizzle began to send trickles along the pane of his one window. Xiulan stayed in the bed, keeping warm beneath his quilt as Colin rose and moved into the kitchenette. He rinsed and boiled the tofu noodles and opened up a jar of Pixian Doubanjiang, a popular brand of chili and peppercorn sauce, feeling much like he used to as a poor student at Rutgers, living on spaghetti and Dolmio Bolognese.
“As the sun spring-”
“Sprang.”
“As the sun sprang up, leaving the briant-”
“Brilliant.”
“Brilliant waters in its wake…” She continued reading the Odyssey aloud. They would never finish it in time. They were only starting Book Three. A week ago, Honghui telephoned his niece and said he would send for her in the New Year. Colin had also put in a request for a transfer (to anywhere out of China!) and was waiting for a reply.
“Did you bring an umbrella?” He interrupted her mispronunciation of ‘Poseidon’.
She shook her head and continued reading with prodigious devotion.
The drizzle had turned into a downpour. He could hear the fat drops slapping on the balcony and the studio suddenly smelled heavily of rain. After the basic meal he would walk her to the bus station to catch the last bus at 6 p.m.
“I like walk in rain.” She put down the book and got out of bed. “I love walk in rain.”
He nodded. This was her world, not his. Sometimes he imagined that he loved her and wanted to protect her but she was too much of a stranger to him. From the stove, he watched her dress silently. Her body was fairy-like, mystical, like an ancient musical instrument and somewhere inside he felt that one day later in his life he would recall how special these afternoons had been for him, maybe even for both of them.
They sat at his small table and focused on their chopsticks and noodles.
“I’ll come on Saturday.”
“Yayee!” She exclaimed giddily. “My parents honor you, they prepare a grand meal. You meet my sister and my brothers and my goat.”
“You have a goat?”
“And a pig. We eat the pig, when you come.”
“Oh.”
“But the goat?”
“No eat goat!” She laughed. “For milk and cheese.”
“I see.”
“I’ll bring presents… for your family.”
“Yes. Bring rice rum, much rum.”
Now he laughed and said, “It’s a deal,” remembering the occasional afternoons in his bed when they truly enjoyed their twists and turns drinking straight from a bottle of Jiugui.
It rained again on Saturday, a sort of weightless, tinsel like rain. He got off the bus and climbed the stairs onto the covered bridge, sheltered by five ornate, elegant pavilions whose horns and eves were fluted to represent the flapping wings of birds. The bridge was built without one nail. Unbelievable, yet the entire structure had been assembled by connecting the separate pieces with dove tailed wooden joints. It was a work of art. Colin sauntered along leisurely, wanting to distance himself from a group of tourists who had stopped to paw at the rich, colorful textiles that the Dong women hung over the railings to sell. He passed by tables where old men sat chain smoking, quietly playing cards or Pai Gow, a game of Chinese dominoes. The enclosed bridge was built in 1912 to replace a simpler one. The legend said that a young married couple was crossing the previous bridge when a strong gust of wind blew the girl into the Linxi River where she was instantly kidnapped by the river crab who lived below. The husband was so horrified that he began to weep and was ready to throw himself over to his own death when the Flower Dragon, hearing his tears, took pity on the boy and so killed the crab, rescued his wife and returned her safely back into her lover’s arms. The Wind and Rain Bridge was then re-constructed to keep away evil.
Colin saw Xiulan enter the bridge from the opposite end, coming to meet him as they had planned and would have embraced her but she was not alone. A train of four little boys, damp from the rain, whirled around her like ribbons.
“My brother follows,” she explained, “and he saw his friend on the way and then this friend at the fish pond and then…”
Colin searched his pockets and offered the children each a stick of Fortune gum, “Hello, I’m Colin.”
“They no speak English.” Xiulan laughed.
“Of course.” Colin also chuckled, for the first time realizing that he was here to meet her family and yet would not be able to communicate with any of them.
The group turned, crossed the bridge and walked along the slate path into the town of Yanzhai. The little boys ran ahead of Xiulan and the ‘foreigner’, chasing the most colorful wild pheasant Colin had ever seen. Its tail was indigo blue, its head parrot green and its red breast quaked as it scrambled away from the laughing boys. The velvety rain, now but a mellifluous shower, dulled the buttery sky and glazed the raw wooden houses with deep earthen hues. The wet, resolute scent of pine trees and tea leaves mixed with the mossy smell of hearth fires and steam, escaping over the broad porches from simmering pots of sweet and sour stews.
They walked along a canal and Xiulan suddenly took his hand and climbed a short stair, made of stones pressed into the dirt. She stopped and pointed to a simple wooden building, a bit larger but not much different from any of the other houses in Yan.
“You stay.”
He read the sign, it said, “Hostel.”
“Ah. Yes.” Colin wondered why he even thought her family might put him up. To them, he was no more than her teacher taking a weekend in the country. “I’ll go book a room now.” And he started for the entrance but turned, “Are you coming?”
Xiulan cowered back and shook her pretty head. He laughed to himself, wondering further why he had actually expected to bone her amongst such beautiful scenery.
When he came out of the hostel waving to her with a key in his hand, the boys had returned, two of them clutching the pheasant and one about to break his neck. Xiulan was screaming at them furiously in her language but they mocked her and laughed. Colin coolly approached the spectacle and with one angry gesture snatched up the beautiful bird and set it free in the forest behind the Hostel. The boys became afraid and ran into the village shrieking.
“You did good.” Xiulan told him. “It’s a spatial…”
“Special?”
“Special bird.”
He smiled and looked about then kissed her pink lips discreetly. She giggled, took his hand once more and they too ran back into the village. Colin headed for the Drum tower, an architecturally eye-catching wooden structure built to resemble a great fir tree and although Xiulan seemed reluctant, they entered somberly. Inside, beneath an old, large drum hanging from the ceiling, a group of elders were gathered around a fire pit, smoking and watching a cow fight on a thirteen-inch color TV. Colin felt responsible for her embarrassment and they exited immediately. Her spirits perked back up as they came to the edge of Yanzhai where she pointed to a low building on the canal and said, “My old school.”
The Dong language is very unique and ancient, a dialect spoken only by those born and raised in the Guangxi Provence. It was not even written until the 1950’s when government researchers created an official orthography. At the age of five all children are sent to school to learn Mandarin. Xiulan, at this point, was probably the only soul amongst her people who was studying a third language. He knew she was proud of this and that her family was too, hence, the invitation to cross the bridge.
Her town was just up the hill. It looked the same as Yan but the houses were raised upon stilts to protect them during the monsoon season that had in retrospect, been rather light that summer. Her house was simple yet pretty, arrayed with red paper lanterns and literally leaning against the lush forest of the hill. The minute they came through the front door, Colin sensed compassion. Many people were in the first room, enormous compared to his Sanjiang studio. Men sat in groups, some playing dominoes or talking or just sitting, staring at nothing other than their selves. In the next big room women were setting plates and bowls on several long tables and of course, even more women cooking and chattering away in the kitchen. Meanwhile, the boys had stormed in and were noisily greeted by maybe fifteen more children that suddenly seemed to jump out of corners or pop through the floor! Merriment abounded and Xiulan’s violet complexion became rosy and her black eyes twinkled with tenderness. Pulling Colin’s arm, like a child herself, she presented him to each member of her immediate family, relatives and friends. They uttered words he could not understand and all he could do was smile, except when he met her father, to whom he proudly gave two bottles of rice rum.
Ziba, a paste of glutinous rice and tea leaves, roasted chicken spiced with ginger and pepper powder, pickled carp, pickled herring, pickled catfish, spicy sausages, steamed broccoli, cabbage and carrots, fried flour gruel, peanuts and cashews, oranges and pears and rice rum for everyone, even a few drops each for the little boys. So he ate and ate and listened to the foreign tongue in a cheerful bewilderment, all the while observing his lover in her natural surroundings with endearment.
He walked back to the hostel alone. It was still early in the evening, around seven or eight o’clock. His room was small but clean and the yellow bedspread bothered him. He opened the shutters and let in the damp air. The thick branches of a fir tree crushed a slight view of the bridge. He didn’t want to sleep. A murmur of voices from around the corner of the building wavered in on a breeze. He left the room and entered a dining area then took a wicker chair on a veranda that looked out over the Linxi River. A man and a woman sat together, sporadically uttering monosyllabic phrases in Mandarin. At another table, a trio of young men, German backpackers, sat drinking Chinese beer and conversing excitedly about, he guessed, their adventures. The Innkeeper brought him a menu and he ordered a glass of rice rum, thinking, “I’m feeling pretty good-- why stop now?”
He moved his chair to face the river and noticed a woman, seated alone, in the wicker chair opposite his tiny table. She was white, in her late twenties. She had blond hair tied back in a ponytail and was of medium weight and height. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and her face was not exactly pretty but neither was it plain. She wore a navy blue fleece sweater, blue jeans and trainers that had obviously seen some weather. She was reading a book. He looked at the cover, “Moby Dick,” in English.
“Hello.” Colin said.
She looked up at him and smiled but returned to reading.
Colin’s rum appeared and he drank some. “That’s a great book.” He offered. Again she looked up but only smiled. After some minutes he pursued with, “It’s been a long while since I’ve spoken English with any one.”
She set down the book. “How’s that?”
“I’ve lived in Sanjiang for the past eight months. Not many English people live there. Of course I’ve occasionally had a chat with a tourist passing through but I don’t have any friends. I mean, I do have one friend but she’s Chinese. Dong.” He sipped more rum, “She lives here, well in the next village, I was there earlier, visiting her family…”
He suddenly realized that he was talking somewhat mindlessly and became self-conscious that he was rather tipsy.
“Ah, you’re English-- British-- English.”
“That I am. American?”
She nodded. “I’m from Montana.”
“I don’t even know where that is. I mean I know American cities-- New York, Chicago, New Orleans and so forth but I’ve never heard of Montana.”
“It’s not a city, it’s a state in the middle. Lots of mountains, lakes and ranches.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“It’s boring.”
“So, you’re traveling?”
“I’m working actually.”
The innkeeper returned and Colin ordered two more glasses of rum, “Let me buy you a drink.”
She smiled again. “I’m a photographer for a travel magazine. I was in Mongolia then Beijing and tomorrow I’m going to Hong Kong then flying home from there.”
“Back to the mountains and lakes?”
“Oh, no. Now I live in L.A.”
“Never been, what’s that like?”
“Like Sanjiang but on a much grander scale.”
“How depressing!”
She laughed, “Yes, I’ve gone from boring to depressing.” The glasses were set down and she made a face when she drank. “Oh, it’s not so bad. There are some very nice areas.”
“I’m Colin.” He put out his hand.
“Jessie.” Her hand was warm and firm and strong. He liked her hand. He liked the touch. Xiulan was fragile, so much so that he still half believed she might not be real, but this girl was fleshy, mammal.
“Do you always travel alone?”
“Often. I prefer it that way. Last year they sent me to the Brazilian rainforests with a reporter and it was a nightmare!”
“Really? What happened?”
She drank and waved her sturdy hand in the air, “Not worth talking about. So tell me, how is it that you’ve come to live here?”
“Oh, it’s not worth talking about either!” He laughed then became, for a moment, sober. “But I won’t be here much longer, I know that.”
Soon the introductory small talk moved into a conversation about Moby Dick and Colin ordered a whole bottle of rum. They were attracted to each other and he sensed she was lonely and weary from her travels.
Her bedspread was cerulean blue and her room was larger than his so when the Innkeeper closed the dining area, they decided to move their little party there. It wasn’t long before Jessie kissed him and said she “really, really” wanted to have sex. He told her the feeling was mutual and they had a grand time. She was wild and strong like an animal. He came but got hard again in minutes and fucked her past midnight when the full gold moon swallowed the river and the Wind and Rain Bridge seemed to light up as if on fire. He took the first bus back to the Hexi station. She would stay the day in Yen and take the last one. They did not exchange any more information. He thought that was so typical of Americans.
His affair with Xiulan continued on through the New Year, the year of the Rooster. Her English was more than adequate and he felt proud to have taken her so far. Her uncle sent the ticket and she left for Shanghai mid February. Her tears were sweet when he kissed her good-bye. In May his transfer came through… and he was off to the city of Argos in Greece!
He taught there for one year, fell in love a few times and got a great tan but after breaking up with his last girlfriend he became homesick yet had no desire to return to England so he decided to try and find a real teaching job in Australia. His flight had a long layover in Shanghai. Of course he thought of Xiulan. She’d written him a few times so he had her address but refrained from tracking her. He wanted to see the boats, so spent his afternoon walking along the harbor. In the evening he wandered the streets of the city buying noodles and skewers from the various vendors. She was on a corner, a prostitute’s corner, white make-up covering her violet skin, purple lipstick slick and sticky over her soft pink lips and a cheap, glittery gold dress and red high heeled shoes. Her hair was short and messy. She was smoking and her eyes looked angry and terrified at once. Maybe she was on drugs. Maybe, but the sure thing was that her uncle’s business had nothing to do with exports at all. He’d turned her into a whore.
Colin tried to look away when she saw him, opening her mouth in awe but he just stood there, a few feet away from her. She closed her lips on her cigarette and lowered her eyes, then turned her back on him and leaned against a wall plastered with a torn up Chinese poster advertising Kentucky Fried Chicken.
He took his plane to Sydney where he did find a decent teaching position, married an Australian woman and had three children, two girls and one boy. Luckily, it didn’t rain that much in Sydney for every time it did, the memory of Xiulan arose, vividly tender and sorry within him.
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