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themselves： there are always winners and losers and the loser is trying to get out of paying。 They’re openly gambling in the inn despite the Public Security Office notice on the wall prohibiting gambling and prostitution： you decide to check whether the law has any effect。 You put on some clothes； go down the corridor and knock on the half…closed door。 Your knocking makes no difference； they keep shouting and yelling inside and nobody takes notice。 So you push open the door and go in。 The four men sitting around the bed in the middle of the room all turn to look at you。 But it’s you and not they who gets a rude shock。 The men all have bits of paper stuck on their faces； on the forehead； lips； nose and cheeks； and they look ugly and ridiculous。 They aren’t laughing and are glaring at you。 You’ve butted in and they’re clearly annoyed。
〃Oh； you’re playing cards；〃 you say； putting on an apologetic look。
They go on with their game。 The long paper cards have red and black markings like mahjong； there’s a Gate of Heaven and a Prison of Hell。 The winner penalizes the loser by tearing off a strip of newspaper and sticking it on a designated spot。 Whether this is a prank； a way of letting off steam； or a tally； is agreed upon by the gamblers and there is no way for outsiders to know what it’s all about。
You beat a retreat； go back to your room； lie down again； and see a thick mass of black specks around the light globe。 Millions of mosquitoes are waiting for the light to go out so that they can e down to feast on your blood。 You quickly let down the mosquito net and are enclosed in a narrow conical space； at the top of which is a bamboo hoop。 It’s been a long time since you’ve slept under a hoop like this； and you’ve long since passed the age of being able to stare at the hoop to lose yourself in reverie。 Today； you can’t know what traumas tomorrow will bring。 You’ve learnt through experience everything you need to know。 What else are you looking for？ When a man gets to middle age shouldn’t he be looking for a peaceful and stable existence； find a not…too…demanding sort of a job； stay in a mediocre position； bee a husband and a father； set up a fortable home； put money in the bank and add to it every month so there’ll be something for old age and a little left over for the next generation？
Chapter Two
It is in the Qiang region halfway up Qionglai Mountain； in the border areas of the Qinghai…Tibetan highlands and the Sichuan basin； that I witness a vestige of early human civilization； the worship of fire。 Fire； the bringer of civilization； has been worshipped by the early ancestors of humans beings everywhere。 It is sacred。 He is sitting in front of the fire drinking liquor from a bowl。 Before each sip he puts a finger into it and flicks some on the charcoals which splutter noisily and send out blue sparks。 It is only then that I perceive that I too am real。
〃That’s for the God of the Cooking Stove； it’s thanks to him that we can eat and drink；〃 he says。
The dancing light of the fire shines on his thin cheeks； the high bridge of his nose； and his cheekbones。 He tells me he is of the Qiang nationality and that he’s from Gengda village down the mountain。 I can’t ask straight out about demons and spirits； so I tell him I’m here to do some research on the folk…songs of the mountain。 Do traditional song masters and dancers still exist here？ He says he’s one of them。 The men and women all used to form a circle around the fire and dance right through to daybreak； but later on it was banned。
〃Why？〃 I know quite well but I ask。 I’m being dishonest again。
〃It was the Cultural Revolution。 They said the songs were dirty so we changed to singing Sayings of Mao Zedong songs instead。〃
〃And what about after that？〃 I persist in asking。 This is being a habit。
〃No…one sings those anymore。 People are doing the dances again but not many of the young people can do them； I’m teaching the dances to some of them。〃
I ask him for a demonstration。 Without hesitation； he instantly gets to his feet and proceeds to dance and sing。 His voice is low and rich； he’s got a good voice。 I’m sure he’s Qiang even if the police in charge of the population register insist that he isn’t。 They think anyone claiming to be Tibetan or Qiang is trying to evade birth restrictions and have more children。
He sings song after song。 He says he’s a fun…loving person； I believe him。 When he finished up as village head； he went back to being one of the mountain people； an old mountain man who likes good fun； unfortunately he is past the age for romance。
He also knows incantations； the kind hunters use when they go into the mountains。 They are called mountain black…magic or hexes and he has no qualms about using them。 He really believes they can drive wild animals into pits or get them to step into snares。 They aren’t used only on animals； they’re also used against other humans beings for revenge。 A victim of mountain black…magic won’t be able to find his way out of the mountains。 They are like the 〃demon walls〃 I heard about as a child： when someone has been travelling for some time at night in the mountains； a wall； a cliff or a deep river appears right in front of him； so that he can’t go any further。 If the spell isn’t broken the person’s feet don’t move forward and even if he keeps walking； he stays exactly where he started off。 Only at daybreak does he discover that he has been going around in circles。 That’s not so bad； the worst is when a person is led into a blind…alley： that means death。
He intones strings of incantations。 It’s not slow and relaxed like when he is singing； but just nan…nan…na…na to a quick beat。 I can’t understand it at all but I can feel the mystical pull of the words； a demonic awesome atmosphere instantly permeates the room； the inside of which is black from smoke。 The glow of the flames licking the iron pot of mutton stew make his eyes glint。 This is all starkly real。
While you search for the route to Lingshan； I wander along the Yangtze River looking for this sort of reality。 I had just gone through a crisis and then； on top of that； a doctor wrongly diagnosed me with lung cancer。 Death was playing a joke on me but now that I’ve escaped the demon wall； I am secretly rejoicing。 Life for me once again has a wonderful freshness。 I should have left those contaminated surroundings long ago and returned to nature to look for this authentic life。
In those contaminated surroundings I was taught that life was the source of literature； that literature had to be faithful to life； faithful to real life。 My mistake was that I had alienated myself from life and ended up turning my back on real life。 However； real life is not the same as manifestations of life。 Real life； or in other words the basic substance of life； should be the former and not the latter。 I had gone against real life because I was simply stringing together life’s manifestations； so of course I wasn’t able to accurately portray life and in the end only succeeded in distorting reality。
I don’t know whether I’m now on the right track but in any case I’ve extricated myself from the bustling literary world and also escaped from my smoke…filled room。 The books piled everywhere in that room were oppressive and stifling。 They expounded all sorts of truths； historical truths to truths on how to be human。 I couldn’t see the point of so many truths but still got enmeshed in the net of those truths and was struggling hopelessly； like an insect caught in a spider’s web。 Fortunately； the doctor who gave the wrong diagnosis saved my life。 He was quite frank and got me to pare the two chest X…rays taken on two separate occasions： a blurry shadow on the left lobe of the lung had spread along the second rib to the wall of the windpipe。 It wouldn’t help even to have the whole of the left lobe removed。 The oute was obvious。 My father had died of lung cancer。 He died within three months of it being discovered and it was this doctor who had correctly diagnosed it。 I had faith in his medical expertise and he had faith in science。 The chest X…rays taken at two different hospitals w