In the morning, when Wu Aizhen appeared before Brother Nima’s restaurant in a white sun hat, white athletic clothes, and white sneakers, everyone else had already arrived. The “Demon King” still wore a black casual outfit, but it was a shade lighter than the day before and was subtly striped; though the style was nearly identical, the fabric was clearly different. Today, however, the “Demon King” wore sunglasses. As Wu Aizhen approached, she felt his severe scrutiny from behind the lenses. The moment Nima saw Wu Aizhen’s attire, he laughed and said, “You two — one all in black, one all in white — make a fine pair.”
Wu Aizhen joked along: “Exactly! That’s how fate brought us together for this trip.”
The “Demon King” did not smile. He merely opened the car door for Wu Aizhen politely.
Nima was driving a Grand Cherokee off-road vehicle, and the interior was spacious. The “Demon King” sat in the front passenger seat; Wu Aizhen and the “Demon King’s” daughter sat in the back. In the car they exchanged names, and Wu Aizhen learned the names of the “Demon King” and his daughter: Yamaguchi Mingchuan and Yamaguchi Keiko.
The road was easy at first, and the car soon left the city behind. Once the buildings fell away, the countryside opened into a vast expanse of open fields. Brother Nima was in high spirits and mentioned that when he was young he had won a prize singing in the Gongbo region’s cultural troupe, and was known as the “Little Lark of Ü-Tsang.”
When Keiko heard this, she begged Brother Nima again and again to sing a song.
Brother Nima did not stand on ceremony. He opened his throat and sang as he drove. To be honest, Wu Aizhen had never heard a Tibetan song so beautiful. It was unaccompanied, but the melody was so sweet and lingering that to say it coiled around the rafters for three days would hardly be an exaggeration.
Keiko listened with rapture, tears streaming down her face. No one knew what the beautiful singing had brought to her mind.
“Brother Nima, you should enter CCTV’s talent competition. With a voice like that, you’d win for sure.”
“The flowers and applause are all behind me now. I did win the Linzhi youth division championship once. Back then, lots of girls chased after me — that was how I met my wife.”
“How old were you then?” Keiko asked.
“Seventeen.”
“And when did you marry?”
“Nineteen.”
“So young!” Keiko said.
“My wife danced in the song-and-dance troupe. She could play quite a few instruments — her erhu was especially fine.”
“Was your wife Han Chinese?” Keiko asked.
“No, Tibetan. Doctor Wu, she looked a little like you.”
Keiko’s eyes went wide. She immediately turned her head to study Wu Aizhen’s face with great seriousness. Caught off guard, Wu Aizhen grew flustered under the scrutiny.
“I think Big Sister Aizhen doesn’t look Tibetan,” Keiko concluded after her inspection.
“Heh heh.” Nima chuckled. “Then that must mean my wife looked a little Han.”
“How old was your wife when she died?”
“Twenty-three. After we married, she couldn’t conceive. She prayed to the Bodhisattvas and took Tibetan medicine, and eventually she became pregnant with my son — the one I have now. But she hemorrhaged during childbirth and couldn’t be saved.”
“What a shame. The medical care here still isn’t good. You never remarried?” Keiko was determined to get to the bottom of it.
“No one suitable.” At this, Nima pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, but the “Demon King” stopped him — meaning the ladies in the back shouldn’t have to smell smoke. Quite unexpectedly, Nima obeyed, sniffing the cigarette under his nose before setting it beside his car seat.
“That’s true! Brother Nima is so talented, so charming — finding a woman who matches you is no easy thing.”
Wu Aizhen glanced at Keiko, admiring how fluent and idiomatic Keiko’s Chinese was.
“Not really. I don’t ask for much. If I take a liking to her in my heart, and she feels the same about me, that’s enough.”
“And in more than ten years, you haven’t taken a liking to a single girl?”
“I’ve dated a few. None of them worked out. There’s one girl now — works in the district government office, quite good-looking — but she’s nine years younger than me. We can’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. Our ideas and views are all different. I feel I’ve gotten old.”
“You’re not old at all. You don’t look it in the slightest. You’re the same age as my father, aren’t you?” Keiko said quickly.
“I’m forty-five this year.”
“Oh, a few years older than my dad. I think you’re both very young.” Keiko said it sweetly.
“And your son? Did you raise him all by yourself?” Wu Aizhen sensed that when Keiko asked this question, she shot her father a cautious glance.
“My mother helped me look after him. She lived to a hundred and six before she passed — a very long life. Brother, do you accept your fate?” Nima said, turning to Yamaguchi Mingchuan beside him. He probably could not remember the man’s tongue-twisting name, so he simply called him brother.
“I believe fate rests in one’s own hands,” Yamaguchi Mingchuan answered without a moment’s thought.
“I accept my fate,” Nima said. “Take, for example, the important people and events you encounter in life — none of them are things you can control. They can shape your whole life. My son’s eight characters clashed with his mother’s: my wife died after giving birth to him. My father died when I was very young. My mother was a truly remarkable woman, and so was my wife. And my son — he was born under a very hard fate. His destiny will be extraordinary. These three people have all had an immense impact on my life, and I could control none of it.”
“It’s true that we can’t control whom we meet or what happens to us in life. But different people face those people and events with different attitudes and choices, and the outcome of your life will be different. I believe the wise choose the best way forward; only the foolish are manipulated by them. Oh — I’m not calling you a fool,” Yamaguchi Mingchuan said.
“It’s fine. Speak your mind. What you say makes sense. But because people have emotion and love, they can’t help being swayed by them, and that is deeply painful.”
“That is probably the common sentiment of ordinary people. Whatever choice you make in the face of events, none is wrong. What matters most is having your own firm, unshakable conviction and way of life. If that does not change, then whatever you do, you will be at ease in your heart, free from worry and fear.”
“People who can keep their own life conviction and way of life, and follow them with utter resolve, never altering them along with worldly sentiment—they are so rare!” Wu Aizhen interjected.
“Are you familiar with the Japanese spirit of Bushido?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan asked.
“A little,” said Wu Aizhen.
“A Japanese samurai spends his entire life governed by a firm conviction and a code of existence, and will never be swayed by his family, his wife, or his children. If any of those conflict with the spirit of Bushido and he cannot renounce them, that is the greatest disgrace to the samurai himself.”
“Does a samurai really have no tender feelings for his family? Even a fierce beast has affection for its young.”
“That is human weakness. The samurai regards Bushido as his very life. If he cannot live by the principles and conviction of Bushido, then it is death. Human weakness cannot shake the fundamental law of life.”
“Then what, in your view, is the fundamental law of Bushido?”
“Reverence!”
“Reverence for what? For a god, or for a single person, or for some unseen force?”
“Once, Japanese samurai revered His Majesty the Emperor; in war they revered their commanding officer. Within the rules of the game of life, they revered their superior or the interests of the group, and even revered their own lifelong code of existence and way of life and death.”
“If a samurai’s reverence is merely blind—if the person he reveres is a demon or a fool, or if the rules of the game of life are themselves flawed—then is such reverence meaningful? Is it worthwhile?”
“Reverence is the soul of the samurai. What the object of reverence is, in truth, does not matter. There is no absolute right and wrong in this world. Having studied philosophy and the Buddhist doctrine of cause and effect, you should understand these principles. Absolute reverence itself can become a kind of wisdom. It is loyalty and freedom from doubt; it can make the mind free of impediments and allow one to face death with equanimity.
A Japanese samurai’s reverence is soaked into his life from childhood; he grows up together with a ‘god.’ The sword he carries from boyhood has a sword-soul—sacred, inviolable, a part of the samurai’s own soul. When he performs seppuku to uphold the honor of Bushido, that sword, which embodies his soul, enters the abdomen, the most sacred core of life—you know, the navel chakra in the belly is where the embryo of life first begins to develop. At the moment the blade cuts in, the samurai’s soul meets the sacred god, and the two become one. And that god has grown out of the samurai’s many qualities—forbearance, reverence, and so on. It has been growing together with him from the very first breath he drew at birth. Therefore, the true samurai is a ‘god of war.'”
“Brother, you have a point.” Brother Nima broke in. “Although I don’t understand Japanese Bushido, I rather agree that absolute reverence itself can become a kind of wisdom. In the Esoteric School of Buddhism, absolute reverence for the guru’s instructions can also bring blessing and attainment. The Tantric records tell of a very famous guru who ordered his disciple to jump off a cliff, and the disciple, without a shred of hesitation, jumped and was smashed to pieces; the guru immediately used his supranormal powers to bring the disciple back to life, and the disciple, through his ‘freedom from doubt’ toward the guru, gained great attainment. There was also a guru who made his disciple perform inhuman austerities and deliberately created countless hardships for him, and the disciple completed them all without resentment or regret, thereby receiving immense blessings and attainment.”
“How can one possibly compare the reverence for a ‘guru’ in Buddhism with the reverence of Bushido? Take those two examples you just mentioned—if I am not mistaken, they are the stories of the guru Tilopa and his great disciple Naropa, and of the guru Marpa and his disciple Milarepa. First of all, those masters were already accomplished gurus; they thoroughly understood their disciples’ path to enlightenment, and those two disciples were themselves people of extraordinary faculties and capacity. Everything the gurus did was for the purpose of breaking the disciples’ attachments or cleansing their karmic obstacles; otherwise, the disciples could never have attained accomplishment through that kind of ‘reverence.’ But every object of the samurai’s ‘reverence’ is inherently incapable of representing ‘perfect wisdom’—so the samurai’s absolute reverence can never achieve wisdom, even though, from what I understand, a true Japanese samurai is required to possess such qualities as forbearance, benevolence, righteousness, propriety, faith, and loyalty. I believe that if a samurai, having cultivated all these qualities, directs his absolute reverence toward the directives of ‘truth, goodness, and beauty,’ then a god akin to a Buddhist ‘Bodhisattva’ will grow up alongside him, and only then will there emerge a ‘god of war’ with qualities like those of a Bodhisattva. However, if a man endowed with the flawless qualities of a samurai instead reveres the life codes or directives of the ‘dark side’—such as a war of aggression—then when the samurai reveres his commander’s order to slaughter defenseless people, you can imagine: if he truly possesses the perfect, excellent qualities of a samurai, he must first kill himself, first kill the truth, goodness, and beauty within his own heart, before he can raise a sword dripping with blood. He must become numb and twisted, he must go mad; otherwise, how could he truly bear to harm beings of his own kind with whom he has not a shred of grievance or bond, to harm those who might in past lives have been his mother, his father, his wife, or his children? A superior whose selfish desires have swollen beyond all bounds can turn a samurai of noble qualities into a demon stripped of human nature, all through ‘reverence.’ That is the greatest tragedy of the samurai. He may die a heroic, tragically beautiful death, but in the human realm his death is worthless; it cannot achieve the wisdom of a mind with no impediments, still less can it make him a ‘god of war.’ He would be nothing but a blind killing machine.” As Wu Aizhen spoke these words, her emotions rose a little, and her tone was not entirely calm. Yamaguchi Mingchuan and Brother Nima both pondered in silence.
“Wow! That’s it — you’ve analyzed it so brilliantly.” Keiko suddenly spoke up, her voice bright. “I only know Japanese Bushido was founded by a Chan master from Buddhism. Since it comes from Buddhism, universal love and compassion should be Buddhism’s consistent spirit. So how does that square with the samurai’s killing? Yes! The samurai must have followed certain qualities, just like the Buddhist precepts. Such a samurai would certainly be a person of deep emotion and loyalty — and within that, possess the unwavering spirit of self-sacrifice of a Bodhisattva. He has feeling and he has righteousness, but he doesn’t live for himself; he lives for the samurai’s honor and conviction. And his honor and conviction must represent the noble and sublime side of human nature — only then is he worthy to be called a god of war. Sister Aizhen, have you ever seen Japan’s cherry blossoms?” Keiko’s intelligent eyes glimmered with delight.
“No,” Wu Aizhen said.
“Japan’s cherry blossoms are exquisitely beautiful, and they’re used as a symbol of the samurai. After blooming, the petals drift down from the trees, swirling and scattering — it’s a spectacular sight. Seeing the cherry blossoms, I think of the samurai’s devotion and his heroic sacrifice. It’s as though those pink petals strewn across the ground are the souls of the samurai.” Wu Aizhen seemed to see, in the clear, water-like purity of Keiko’s eyes, those drifting cherry blossoms — they bloomed only to return, to throw themselves upon the earth to repay the earth’s kindness. And in that instant Wu Aizhen thought of the Bodhisattva.
“Cherry blossoms stand for conquest and blood. Sometimes cruelty is also a kind of beauty,” Yamaguchi Mingchuan said abruptly.
“Only the demonic path would say such a thing. In the human path, beauty forever refuses coldness and cruelty.” Wu Aizhen’s words came out crisp and absolute.
“Wow! You all talk like you’re composing poetry!” Keiko said innocently, smoothing things over.
“That’s right — being human means punishing evil and promoting good!” Brother Nima put in sagely.
Nima first took them to visit a monastery of the Bon faith. On a stone step at the entrance gate, a carved wooden phallus stood conspicuously, large and imposing. Wu Aizhen knew little about Bon. Keiko was even more astonished, curious, and excited, circling around to take photographs.
“Does this kind of worship trace back to ancient totem worship?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan asked.
“I once read a legend about phallus worship from Hinduism. A group of ascetics were practicing in the forest, and they practiced well — they believed they had attained liberation. They made offerings to and worshipped Brahma. Shiva of the Brahma Heaven perceived that their anger and hatred were still very heavy. To deliver them, he transformed into a handsome yogi and went to seduce the ascetics’ wives. As a result, the ascetics flew into a rage, joined together to beat the beautiful and amorous yogi severely, and cut off his phallus. At that moment, the yogi whose phallus had been cut off suddenly vanished, and the entire universe seemed to tremble. Only then did the ascetics awaken to the fact that it was Shiva who had manifested to deliver them. From then on, they worshipped the male phallus. I have no idea whether this story has any connection to Bon phallus worship,” Wu Aizhen said casually.
“Bon has always been this way. Worshipping the male organ is probably related to power or fertility,” Nima said.
“The story you tell is quite interesting,” Yamaguchi Mingchuan said. He paid no attention to Nima’s reply; he still seemed to be pondering Wu Aizhen’s tale.
Inside the main hall, various Bon deities were enshrined. Keiko and Nima both made their prostrations. Wu Aizhen circled the great hall, carefully examining each deity statue one by one.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan, however, simply stood at the entrance of the hall, arms folded across his chest, coldly scanning everything inside.
After touring the Bon monastery, Nima urged everyone back into the vehicle, saying they still had a scenic area to visit and the road was rather long.
By the time they reached the scenic area, it was already noon. The group had a simple meal together in a small restaurant and then began climbing the mountain. There were stone steps, well constructed, and the path was not difficult. Brother Nima had also specially arranged for a guide to give explanations to Keiko. Keiko bustled back and forth — taking photographs, asking questions, and jotting down notes. Many of the scenic area’s unusual peaks and strange rock formations came with their own stories and legends, and the guide narrated them in great detail as they walked.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan walked unhurriedly at the very back, feeling somewhat heavy-hearted. He himself didn’t quite know why, but he had no heart for the landscape. On the surface, this trip to Tibet was to accompany his daughter and deepen their father–daughter bond. On another level, he had wanted to get away and quietly think through some matters.
Japan’s Cherry Blossom Society was a very old organization; he was its thirteenth-generation leader. It was said that the founder was a samurai who rigorously adhered to the spirit of Bushido, but by this generation, it had become a world-renowned underworld organization. From childhood, he and his two elder half-brothers — they shared a father but had different mothers — had undergone strict training in the organization’s rules according to their father’s will. He was his father’s illegitimate son. He revered his father; he disliked his mother. He felt his own mother was sinister, ruthless, and promiscuous. His father had shown no symptoms of illness whatsoever when he suddenly died of a heart condition in his own bedchamber, and Mingchuan had always believed his mother was connected to it. He was convinced she had played a deep and elaborate scheme in his father’s death. But he had never been able to find any solid evidence. He suspected his father had been assassinated — only the method was too well concealed, leaving no cracks to expose. The will his father had drawn up early on had chosen him as the successor. His two brothers had each gone to the United States and France. Now the Cherry Blossom Society’s network spanned the globe. In Japan, from the imperial household to members of parliament to ordinary citizens, his organization had infiltrated everywhere; his every word and action carried weight. But precisely because of this, he was subject to surveillance and constraints from all sides. Some key figures in the government both used his organization to carry out their business and guarded against him at every turn. Yet he also knew that with his current power, no one yet dared to lay a single finger on him.
Two things had been troubling him lately. The first involved Yamaguchi Keisuke, the subordinate who had followed him for fifteen years and was also his one true friend. Keisuke had made a fatal mistake in an arms-dealing operation, an error grave enough to warrant seppuku. But he could not bear to let Keisuke die like that. He was wavering between the rules of the gang and the bonds of personal loyalty — and that hesitation itself already violated the principles he had always lived by. The second was Keiko’s insistence on going to Macau to see her mother. Keiko had never met her mother. He had married Keiko’s mother, Yamashima Mako, at twenty-two, but after the wedding he discovered a love letter Mako had kept from another man. Though the letter predated their marriage, the fact that she had secretly preserved it wounded his pride beyond measure. He suspected, moreover, that the two had been carrying on all along — the thought once consumed his mind so fiercely that, with Mako already pregnant, he waited only until Keiko was not yet a hundred days old before filing for divorce. He later heard that after she left him, she had indeed gone straight back to that man. The confirmation of his suspicions ignited a fury of hatred so violent that he was ready to kill. He could not tolerate the thought that when he had given his heart and taken a woman as his wife, what he had truly married was a heart that had deceived and betrayed him. And he, like a fool, had had a child with her — only for her to reunite with her old lover within days of their separation. By then he had already taken over the Cherry Blossom Society from his father. Sending men to kill two people would have been as easy as crushing a pair of ants. It was Yamaguchi Keisuke who talked him down. Keisuke had said that if he intended to raise his daughter, he must not kill her mother — no matter the reason. Otherwise, Keiko might one day grow to hate him for it. Mako, tipped off, had fled with that man to settle in Macau, China, and so he had given up the pursuit.
When Keiko was small, she had asked him about her mother more than once, but he told her she was dead. Everyone under him who knew the truth understood his deep taboo and would never have spoken of it to Keiko. But as Keiko grew older, she stopped asking her father. Somehow, she had learned that her mother was still alive. On this trip to China, however, Keiko had suddenly brought up going to Macau to meet her. Mingchuan suspected it was his own mother who had told Keiko — she was the only person who would dare. The thought stirred a thread of hatred in his heart.
Keiko had begged him, saying she only wanted to see what her mother looked like, for she had never even seen a photograph of her. She knew her father was capable of anything, and she loved him deeply; she hoped he would grant her this wish, now that she was about to turn nineteen. Mingchuan did not know how to refuse his daughter. Perhaps it was age, but he found that he liked spending time with her more and more. Granting her this wish would not be difficult, yet it too went against the way he had always done things.
There was perhaps another reason. Keisuke’s mistake had caused him to offend an organized-crime syndicate in America and had also drawn in an underworld boss in Hong Kong, a man he had known for many years. He had been forced to throw his full energy into defusing the situation. At last, the storm had passed, but the whole affair had left him with a faint weariness of the underworld life. The cold-blooded contests of human nature had exhausted him. He suddenly wanted to let go — not by finding a woman, but by traveling with his daughter. The bond of blood and Keiko’s innocence and simplicity loosened the string that had been pulled so tight inside him. He even felt an unexpected impulse to do something for his daughter.
“Daddy, could you take a picture of me and Auntie Wu?” Keiko suddenly held the camera up to his face. He took it. Wu Aizhen and Keiko stood beside a pavilion, a rustic structure lashed together with wooden poles. Through the pavilion stretched the scenery unique to the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau — picturesque distant mountains, white clouds, and sweeping grasslands. It had been many years since he had last held a camera for someone else. As he framed the shot, he saw Wu Aizhen reach over and tenderly smooth a few strands of Keiko’s windblown hair, straighten her collar, and wrap an arm around Keiko’s shoulder. The gesture touched something in him. Wu Aizhen was smiling — a smile so serene and untroubled that a wisdom at peace with the world shone through. Under the gaze of this woman in white, Yamaguchi Mingchuan suddenly forgot fame and fortune, forgot all the scheming and intrigue, and forgot his own position. He slipped back into being an ordinary man, taking a photograph for two women, doing the simple thing that any ordinary man might do, and hoping to earn their approval. The feeling was entirely new to him. When he handed the camera back to his daughter, Yamaguchi Mingchuan felt a flicker of something — pleasant surprise and reluctance mingled together — and even Keiko glanced at her father in astonishment. Could it really be that something was going to happen?!
They had reached a mountaintop. The guide was explaining the scenery — one rock, viewed from a distance, resembled a veiled maiden; another looked like Guanyin Bodhisattva. Keiko and the others had rushed off to see them, full of enthusiasm. Nima was chatting with a couple of Tibetans. Yamaguchi Mingchuan sat alone in silence on a blue stone.
Around the time he decided to come to China, he had visited a famous feng shui master in Japan. The master was deeply versed in the I Ching, the Eight Trigrams, yin-yang arts, and numerology, and Mingchuan often went to chat with him. He did not entirely believe in fortune-telling; he simply sought a place where he could adjust his state of mind. Talking with this feng shui master always relaxed him. In that atmosphere, his heart grew still. On that occasion, the master had smiled and said, “Mingchuan-kun, your face bears the bloom of peach blossoms, and between your brows the sun and moon cast their combined reflection. On this trip to China, you may well find yourself walking into peach-blossom luck.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan had burst out laughing at this, thinking the master was talking sheer nonsense. “Since when,” he asked, “has a feng shui master switched to reading faces?” The master smiled mysteriously. “The secrets of Heaven cannot be revealed.”
Whenever Yamaguchi Mingchuan recalled the feng shui master’s words about his “romantic fortune,” he would laugh inwardly. Ever since his divorce from Mako, romantic fortune had never ceased for him. He had a vague recollection that the number of women who had shared his bed was not small, though not many had left any impression. Toward women, he harbored an inexplicable hatred and contempt. Those who surrendered to his masculine charm, he toyed with, despising their feeble minds and shallowness. Those who came for his money and power, he treated as whores, and at the first opportunity he would strip them of every shred of dignity and self-respect. In his eyes, they were soulless bodies, there for his amusement and the satisfaction of his desires. He did as he pleased with them, however he pleased, and no woman dared object—nor were they worthy of objecting. There had been a few women he initially considered intelligent and worthy of respect, but he discovered that the moment emotions entered the picture, they turned foolish, clingy, and unbearably weak. Women too deeply infatuated he could not stand. He would seduce them, then torment them, watching them waste away with longing without ever feeling a shred of pity. Women like that were too dependent on emotion—at best, a heap of narcissists. They imagined their feelings were so important, so worthy of tender care, or they were simply as naive and childish as unweaned infants. They were lucky to have met him. Perhaps his coldness and his games with emotion would help them develop a harder edge in matters of the heart and gain some experience, and spare them from being swindled in the future.
But for quite some time now, he had been celibate. On the one hand, he disdained making love to mediocre women. One day it struck him that he was, after all, a man of great nobility, and that those women—the fox‑like ones, the snake‑like ones, and the ones dressed up as sheep—were unworthy of touching his skin. As for pure and forthright women, none had enough weight to earn his respect. The saying went that even heroes could not pass the gate of a beautiful woman—but such heroes were, at best, still ordinary mortals. But had he himself transcended the ordinary? It seemed not. He simply had yet to find a beauty in his eyes.
Yet from yesterday until today, he felt he had encountered a woman of substance. The moment he entered the restaurant and sat down yesterday, he felt restless, as though something had disturbed him. With the composure honed through many years in the underworld, he betrayed nothing on the surface, casually helping his daughter order, while inwardly, with sharp vigilance, he kept scanning his surroundings. When he finally identified the source—that unremarkable-looking Chinese woman sitting there sipping tea—he was secretly stunned. That woman possessed a certain ease, a certain composure. Every gesture, every movement was like someone drinking tea beneath a clear breeze and bright moon in the mountains. Her air of being entirely at ease as though no one else were present was not arrogance, nor was she looking down on anyone. It was a gaze that never strayed, yet took in everything with perfect clarity—a mark of deep cultivation. He had often heard of attained masters living in the Tibetan Himalayas, but this woman was so ordinary. Then, abruptly, he heard her sigh. Though it was exceedingly faint, he was certain he had heard it, rising from the depths of her heart. His mind relaxed at once, no longer as guarded as before. She was, after all, only a woman who still sighed—what was there to fear? But by what means had this woman disturbed his composure!
“父さん、ここが好きじゃないか？こんなに美しいところなのに。” (“Dad, don’t you like it here? It’s so beautiful!”)
“好きですよ。” (“I do.”) Yamaguchi Mingchuan saw Keiko, camera in hand, bouncing toward him. Behind her came Wu Aizhen and Nima, talking as they walked.
“My friend, we should head back—looks like rain.” Nima studied the sky, still fairly clear, though some dark clouds had gathered in the west. They all started down the mountain. Sure enough, before they reached the parking lot, a light, pattering drizzle began drifting down. When they were all inside the car, something Wu Aizhen had feared came to pass: the car would not start. It had broken down. Nima grew restless and agitated. Outside, the rain was now pouring down in torrents, as though a hole had been torn in the sky, water rushing through like a breached dike. Beyond the car windows, a vast sheet of white, heaven and earth joined in a watery haze. Nima patted the steering wheel helplessly and smiled apologetically at Yamaguchi Mingchuan. “That’s how it is—nothing to be done. The rain always comes down hard when it comes. We can only wait for it to stop. I had the car fixed just yesterday.”
“It’s all right. Let’s wait awhile—we’ll see once this rain passes.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan comforted Nima.
Keiko pressed her face nearly against the car window. “Wow! Such heavy rain. When Brother Nima said just now it was going to rain, I didn’t quite believe him. Good thing we came down early, or we’d have been soaked to the bone.”
“No, there are several places to shelter from rain along the mountain path.” Wu Aizhen spoke to Keiko earnestly, her tone as if addressing a small child. Yamaguchi Mingchuan shifted slightly in his seat and leaned back gently against the seat back.
Some ten-odd minutes later, the rain suddenly lightened. The view outside the windows gradually cleared, though scattered fat raindrops still smacked against the glass with a sharp patter. Brother Nima could wait no longer—he rushed out of the car, opened the hood, and began inspecting the engine. But he soon returned, dejected, opened the car door, and said to the people inside, “A part is broken. It needs replacing. A friend at the repair shop called and said the mechanic can’t come until tomorrow morning, so I’ll be staying here tonight. If you want to get back, you’ll have to wait and see if someone we know drives by and can take you to Linzhi. There are no taxis out here.”
“There’s no repair shop here?” Keiko asked, disappointed. “What do you think this is—Osaka?” Nima was a little short with her. Keiko pouted and said no more. Yamaguchi Mingchuan remained silent.
Just then, the tour guide from earlier came trotting over under an umbrella. “Miss, sir—will you be staying here tonight? The guesthouse over there is very cheap, thirty yuan a night, and they have hot water for showers.” The guide, in his twenties, was a sharp and clever Tibetan boy named Jiexi.
Upon seeing Jiexi, Keiko brightened. Nima looked at Yamaguchi Mingchuan in the car and said, “Brother, why don’t we check into the guesthouse and rest a bit? If a vehicle comes, we’ll go. If not, we might have to spend the night here.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan agreed.
Once inside, they saw that the guesthouse was rather shabby, but the beds were reasonably clean. The only problem was the whole place reeked of sheep.
“Is there a better hotel nearby?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan asked, though he was already preparing to register; it seemed he knew the question was futile. “No, just this one. It’s perfectly fine,” Jiexi replied with conviction.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan got a single room each for himself and Nima. Keiko proposed sharing with Wu Aizhen, saying she could ask Sister Aizhen for advice in the evening, and besides, the place felt unsafe; staying alone would be scary. Wu Aizhen of course did not refuse. Yamaguchi Mingchuan smiled at Wu Aizhen and said, “I’m sorry to trouble you.”
Once in the room, Keiko dropped her backpack and left with Jiexi, saying she was going to the guesthouse’s tourist souvenir shop to see a Buddha statue Jiexi had mentioned. Wu Aizhen did not go along. She lay on the bed, but the sheep stench made her so uncomfortable that she got up and cracked the window open a little.
For over ten years, Wu Aizhen had been eating a mainly vegetarian diet. The Dharma teaches that abstaining from meat can nurture the practitioner’s compassion, and that those who eat meat have heavy turbid qi in their energy channels during Chan samadhi practice, which is hard to purify — but that refers to cultivating world-transcending Chan samadhi. Her master had also spoken about world-engaging Chan samadhi, whose primary aim is to cultivate the samadhi of “non-distinguishing mind” and the compassion of “No-Self,” at which point food has little effect on the mind and qi. After she began practicing the Esoteric School, she went with conditions, eating meat when there was meat and vegetarian when there was vegetarian, though her taste still leaned toward vegetarian fare. Since coming to Tibet this time, because she was practicing on her own the secret methods her master had once transmitted, she would instead sometimes intentionally eat some beef or chicken to replenish the energy that was rapidly depleted because her consciousness was not yet empty and subtle enough while she was opening the chakras. But she could not stand the reek of mutton; apparently, her distinguishing mind was still very strong.
Keiko returned in high spirits, carrying two Buddha statues and two fairly well-made silver Tibetan bracelets. The bracelets were set with imitation agates and turquoise.
“Aunt Aizhen, this is for you.” Keiko held one bracelet up before Wu Aizhen.
“Thank you, it’s quite pretty.” Wu Aizhen took the bracelet, unable to bring herself to tell Keiko the truth. In Lhasa market stalls, such a bracelet cost at most twenty-some yuan. Keiko had surely been fleeced at that shop.
“Keiko, how much was one bracelet? I hear tourist shops in places like this specialize in overcharging outsiders,” Wu Aizhen said tactfully.
“Hey, I’m a master haggler.” Keiko had picked up such jargon from somewhere. “You know, this bracelet was listed at eight hundred yuan, and I only paid two hundred.”
Wu Aizhen didn’t know what to say. “You really are a master haggler,” she said, putting the bracelet into her bag as she spoke.
“Aunt Aizhen, look.” Keiko placed the two Buddha statues on the table — two copper figurines, three inches tall. “This is the ‘Buddha-Father and Buddha-Mother in Union’ statue. It represents the most perfect love in the world, the most sacred and most perfect union of spirit and flesh.” She pointed at one of the statues. Wu Aizhen laughed and asked, “Who told you that?” “Jiexi. He only said it represents love. But I thought, if it’s the love of the Buddha-Father and Buddha-Mother, it must be the most sacred and most perfect union. Is that right?”
Wu Aizhen smiled without giving a definite answer. After a pause, she said, “In Tibetan Buddhist cultivation and realization, this statue represents the wisdom and attainment of ‘the non-duality of emptiness and bliss.'”
“Is this ‘the non-duality of emptiness and bliss’ accomplished through human sex?” Keiko pressed curiously.
“It can happen in any activity, including sex. But this ‘bliss-emptiness’ only occurs between a Vajra and a Dakini; it does not arise in the ordinary passions of ordinary beings.”
Keiko paused, gazing at the statue. She murmured the names “Vajra” and “Dakini” to herself. Then she said, “Jiexi called them Buddha-Father and Buddha-Mother.”
“You can call them that,” Wu Aizhen said.
“In any case, it’s still a sexual act, no matter who it’s between. I think the sexual act of the Buddha-Father and Buddha-Mother must be profoundly sacred. It’s not something we ordinary mortals can fathom with our minds of desire. If it is a sacred sexual act, then there must be sacred love.” Keiko stared at Wu Aizhen stubbornly. It was clear she was determined to drag this union statue, which represented the wisdom and attainment of the Bodhisattva, into connection with human romantic love. Because it touched on secret teachings, Wu Aizhen could not explain too deeply to her at that moment, so she merely smiled and kept quiet.
“I’m going to give this statue to Father. Father is so alone. I hope Father can have a perfect love.” Keiko studied the small figurine in her hands.
“What does your father do for work?” Wu Aizhen asked.
“Lots of girls like my father.” Keiko answered something else entirely, perhaps deliberately avoiding Wu Aizhen’s question. “But many women are afraid of my father. My teacher, Aunt Mayumi, is completely infatuated with Dad; she often buys me gifts to find out news about him, says if Dad doesn’t marry she’ll never marry, but she doesn’t even have the courage to go on a date with him. Father is actually a very good person — I don’t know why they’re afraid of him. Even my grandmother is afraid of him.”
“This statue is Mahakala.” Keiko put down the figurine in her hand and pointed to the other one, a wrathful-looking statue.
“In Japan, Mahakala represents wealth and fortune. But this statue looks different from the Japanese Mahakala images. I’m sure my grandmother would like it. I’ve seen her invite a Mahakala statue home before.”
“Keiko, you and your father speak Chinese so well — where did you learn?”
“Minghui, the amah who raised me, was my father’s nanny when he was a child. She’s from Shanghai, her Chinese is very good, and she’s a Christian. She taught both my father and me Chinese. She never married her whole life — she raised my father, then raised me. This bracelet I’m wearing, I want to give to her.” Keiko shook the bracelet on her wrist. “But my father’s Chinese is better than mine, and my English is better than his. I can also speak Shanghainese.”
“Ngoo-zy sang-he-ning” — I’m from Shanghai. Keiko said a line in Shanghainese with flawless pronunciation, making Wu Aizhen, lying on the bed, laugh.
“Keiko, what about your mother?” Wu Aizhen was not normally one to pry into other people’s family affairs, but Yamaguchi Mingchuan had struck her as far too unusual. That all-destroying black hole lodged in Wu Aizhen’s mind without respite. Until she knew his true name and identity, Wu Aizhen would rather call him the “Demon King.”
“Father says she’s dead, but I know she’s still alive.” Keiko spoke bluntly, with certainty. She seemed to be answering Wu Aizhen’s question, yet also speaking to herself, reinforcing her own conviction.
“Oh!” Wu Aizhen did not press further. The tangled debts of gratitude and grievance woven through human emotion were better left unasked; they could hardly be explained in a few words anyway.
Keiko took the union statue and went out. A moment later, she came back beaming and said to Wu Aizhen, “Father really likes it. He even asked me what ‘the non-duality of emptiness and bliss’ means. I said I didn’t know, that you’d told me about it, and that he should ask you. Looks like my wish is about to come true.”
Wu Aizhen said, “What matters is that your father likes it. It’s a gesture from your heart, a keepsake. What the statue expresses isn’t really all that important anyway.”
“Auntie Aizhen, I feel like everything you say is so special — it goes straight to my heart. I really, truly like you. Let’s stay in touch from now on and be good friends, okay? You won’t forget me, will you?”
“Of course not. How could I forget someone as lovely as you.”
“Wow! That’s wonderful.” Keiko unexpectedly threw herself forward and hugged Wu Aizhen as she lay on the bed, then kissed her on the forehead. Wu Aizhen was slightly unaccustomed to this Western style of expressing affection. She merely patted Keiko’s back lovingly, the way a mother pats her playful daughter.
Keiko lay down on her own bed too, as if their bond had grown closer and closer. She opened up and began talking freely with Wu Aizhen about everything under the sun — religion, love, family, morality, beauty care — but she never once mentioned her father’s profession. She brought up how her father refused to let her see her mother, and at this point she grew sad. “Father has never been willing to admit she’s alive. But the truth can’t be concealed. I don’t understand why Father would do this. I just want to know something about her, to see what she’s like. It wouldn’t affect my love for Father in the slightest. It wouldn’t affect anything at all. I grew up with my amah. Amah didn’t talk much; her face was always cold. She taught me English and Chinese, but beyond that, she rarely communicated with me. I was a little afraid of her. And my grandmother — her relationship with Father isn’t good. When she’s in a good mood, she’s very loving toward me; when she isn’t, she barks at me. Her moods are totally unpredictable. When I was little, I could never figure out whether she actually loved me or not. But I love them. Father can be harsh with other people, and on the surface he’s strict with me too, but he’s never once scolded me. I’m not afraid of him. Sometimes I can read what’s in his eyes…” Keiko went on, caught up in her own words.
At first Wu Aizhen conversed with Keiko in earnest, but after a while she was only listening hazily. Her head felt heavier and heavier, as though she were coming down with a cold. She got up, took out the cold medicine from her bag, and swallowed a few tablets. Seeing her take medicine, Keiko immediately sat up and gazed at her with concern, asking if she needed any help.
Just then, Brother Nima called everyone to eat at the guesthouse dining room. Roast leg of lamb, roast lamb ribs, and platter after platter of grilled meat were brought out. Wu Aizhen and Keiko drank butter tea. Wu Aizhen had little appetite and ate only a small amount. Yamaguchi Mingchuan and Nima ordered barley wine and both praised the grilled meat as authentic. The dining room had few customers. The guesthouse owner had also returned and knew Nima, so he and the guide Jiexi both joined the meal. It was then that everyone learned the owner was named Jieming, the older brother of the guide Jiexi. In no time Keiko was chatting animatedly with Jieming — Keiko had endless curiosity and questions about Tibet.
During the meal, Wu Aizhen felt a tightness in her chest and couldn’t help taking several deep breaths.
“Not feeling well?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan asked, feigning casualness.
“Father, Auntie Aizhen has a cold.”
“Did you take medicine? You need to take care of your health. Are you short of oxygen? I have a small bottle of oxygen in my bag.”
“There’s a bit of tightness in my chest.” Wu Aizhen smiled. “But I’ve already taken medicine. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan had been drinking, and his face was slightly flushed, making him seem less stern and cold and lending him a touch of gentleness. When his eyes looked at people, they were slightly unfocused, as though veiled in mist under the dim lamplight, his eyes tender and brimming with feeling.
For a moment, Wu Aizhen’s heart was actually jolted by his gaze. She felt that the man before her was strikingly cool, an infinite power concealed within his warmth. But when he sliced the meat with his knife, the focused force of his bearing struck Wu Aizhen as carrying cruelty and a murderous edge. Wu Aizhen could not help breaking into a cold sweat at her own momentary flutter of the heart.
After the meal, both Wu Aizhen and Yamaguchi Mingchuan were ready to return to their rooms and rest. But Keiko wanted to stay and chat a while longer with the Tibetan brothers. Nima thumped his chest and said to Yamaguchi Mingchuan, “Brother, don’t worry. It’s still early — let her enjoy herself. I’ll escort Miss Keiko back in a bit.”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan could hardly object. The rooms were all on the second floor. When they passed his door, he stopped and said to Wu Aizhen, “Come to my room and use the oxygen. A cold combined with oxygen deprivation is hard to recover from.” Wu Aizhen agreed.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan’s room was a single, with a double bed, a set of slightly worn sofas, and a tea table.
Wu Aizhen sat on the sofa. Yamaguchi Mingchuan set his backpack on the bed and searched for the oxygen canister. The canister was small, a portable travel model with perhaps half an hour’s worth of oxygen. Yamaguchi Mingchuan thoughtfully fitted the breathing tube for Wu Aizhen, and after inhaling the oxygen, she felt the tightness in her chest noticeably ease.
“Much better. Thank you,” Wu Aizhen said gratefully.
“Don’t mention it. Lean back against the sofa and rest. Finish the oxygen before you go — I’m in no hurry to turn in.”
As Yamaguchi Mingchuan spoke, he closed the open window. “Rain again.” The rain clattered against the windowpane, and Wu Aizhen felt a trace of chill.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan sat down on the sofa across from Wu Aizhen. He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his eyes on her with brazen intensity as she breathed the oxygen.
Just then, Nima’s singing rose from downstairs — he seemed to be performing again. Yamaguchi Mingchuan closed his eyes, as if listening to the song mingled with the rain. The room’s light was dim, falling on the mottled, dust-covered walls. The Tibetan night was strangely still.
Suddenly, Wu Aizhen heard a familiar melody — the Great Compassion Mantra in Tibetan, sounding like Jiexi’s voice. Tears welled up in her eyes. Little Shramanera, she called out silently in her heart.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan abruptly opened his eyes. Seeing tears streaming down Wu Aizhen’s face, he looked startled.
“What’s wrong?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan’s voice was sincere and gentle, but his body, leaning against the back of the sofa, did not stir.
“Oh, nothing. Sometimes thinking about certain people or things from the past makes me feel a little melancholy.” Wu Aizhen wiped away her tears.
“Is it longing?”
“Perhaps.”
“Longing — it’s a strange feeling. I very much want to long for something, but I never have.”
“Then don’t you even have memories?”
“Memories?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan was quiet for a moment, as if recalling something.
“A man’s memories are too filled with desolation, hatred, and fear.”
“Those are your memories. They don’t speak for all men. A man’s memories should hold tenderness and love as well.”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan froze. He stared intently at Wu Aizhen, his face wearing a complicated expression, his gaze burning hot, charged with a wild desire.
Wu Aizhen was about to take her leave. Yamaguchi Mingchuan leaned forward and pressed a hand on her arm, saying, “Miss Wu, I’m sorry. You don’t need to worry about anything. Please finish the oxygen, and talk with me a little longer, will you? You are a woman of great wisdom. I admire you very much. I’ve had some wine, but I’m perfectly clearheaded.”
Wu Aizhen sat back down.
“Keiko very much wants to see her mother.” Wu Aizhen changed the subject. Her psychologist’s habit made her come straight to the point. She felt that with a man like Yamaguchi Mingchuan, it was best to say exactly what she was thinking. Perhaps she could do Keiko a favor.
“Has Keiko been talking with you about something?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan asked with surprising calm, his face full of smiles, his tone unwavering. Wu Aizhen was taken aback — she had assumed this would be a difficult subject to broach, that Yamaguchi Mingchuan would be somewhat stung, would show some reaction. But Wu Aizhen had overlooked his eyes. As he spoke, his gaze had darkened, and something venomous seeped from deep within it.
“Keiko says you told her that her mother is dead, but she’s heard from others that her mother is still alive. Why are you hiding the truth? Can you tell me the reason?”
Wu Aizhen’s professional instincts as a psychologist had led her to mistakenly assess this as merely an emotional tragedy. She only wanted to help Keiko untangle this intractable knot between her parents.
“Did Keiko ask you to come and ask me?”
“No.”
“Then you are far too curious. You shouldn’t rashly involve yourself in the emotional life of a stranger’s family. That is not a display of wisdom.”
“I only wanted to help Keiko. She’s a lovely girl, and I hoped such a lovely girl could have a mother’s love. Besides, just wanting to meet the mother who gave birth to her — even a person with a heart of stone would grant that wish.”
“She’s dead! She’s a whore. Even if she were alive, she isn’t worthy of having anyone of Yamaguchi blood come see her.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan’s tone was vicious. Wu Aizhen felt a bone-deep chill.
“All right, Miss Wu. We should both get some rest.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan was showing her the door. The oxygen had just run out. Wu Aizhen said nothing more and politely said good night to Yamaguchi Mingchuan.
Back in her own room, Wu Aizhen felt crushingly sleepy — perhaps the cold medicine was kicking in — so she washed up quickly and went to bed. She had no idea when Keiko returned. She dimly heard Keiko calling her. She opened her eyes and saw Keiko standing by her bed. “Auntie, are you feeling terribly ill? I heard you moaning.” Keiko placed her hand on Wu Aizhen’s forehead as she spoke, then immediately pulled it back, her face going pale with shock.
“Auntie Wu, you’re burning up!” Keiko rushed into the bathroom at once and came back with a towel soaked in cold water, laying it across Wu Aizhen’s forehead.
Wu Aizhen could hear herself gasping. Her chest felt as though a great stone were pressing down on it, so heavy she could barely draw breath, and the top of her head throbbed as if about to split open — even opening her eyes was a struggle.
“I’m going to tell Papa.” Keiko left. Wu Aizhen no longer had the strength to stop her.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan came into the room. He tested Wu Aizhen’s forehead with his hand, saw her panting heavily, her face flushed deep red, and said quietly, “It doesn’t seem to be just a cold.”
“Papa, help Auntie Wu.” Kindhearted Keiko was on the verge of tears. Yamaguchi Mingchuan seemed to reflect for a moment, then walked out. A short while later he returned, Nima following behind him.
Nima walked over to Wu Aizhen’s side. “It’ll be all right. Just hold on a little longer — a car will be here soon to take you to the hospital.”
Nima stood and turned to Yamaguchi Mingchuan. “You really are resourceful. And your friend — the man really went above and beyond, driving all the way out here in the dead of night to pick someone up for you.”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on Wu Aizhen with a certain tension. She looked seriously ill. No one was in any mood for talk or laughter; they could only sit and wait in silence. Keiko pressed a cold towel to Wu Aizhen to bring her temperature down. “What time is it?” Wu Aizhen asked weakly. “Twelve o’clock,” Keiko said. She had already helped Wu Aizhen into her clothes.
The moment Yamaguchi Mingchuan heard a car pulling up outside, he rose at once, strode to the bed, and scooped Wu Aizhen up in his arms. No one found the gesture startling. The waiting had weighed heavily on everyone. Keiko and Nima gathered the luggage they had already packed. Outside the guesthouse, two black Hummers stood waiting. Yamaguchi Mingchuan settled Wu Aizhen into one of the vehicles, then turned back to Nima. “You stay here. Get the car fixed tomorrow and head back then. If I need anything, I’ll be in touch.”
“Brother Nima, don’t worry,” Keiko said. “My father and I will take care of Auntie Wu.”
Nima watched the two cars tear away into the dark night. Mystery after mystery rose in his heart.
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