The watch on Stein’s wrist shows nine minutes past eight when, in a bend hardly a hundred metres from the intersection of three main highways, the driver suddenly brakes, and picks up, from the mud on the side of the road, a middle-aged woman, clearly waiting for this bus: from this point on, that part of the journey begins in which they can no longer hide from each other the thought that perhaps they did not thoroughly consider all the difficulties inherent in their plan of going to Jiuhuashan — that is, is the risk worth it when the goal of travel is so uncertain? — because surely, says Stein to his sleepy companion, still shivering in the cold, both of them, the two white Europeans, cannot understand anything of this at all, they cannot even understand how a bus route like this operates: how could this woman know that she had to wait here, and how could the bus driver know that this woman would be waiting exactly here, in this bend in the road, and at exactly this time, let’s say, at around eight o’clock, because you can’t speak about schedules at all, that’s how it is, it’s impossible to understand anything here, the interpreter nods in agreement a little anxiously, and so this, says Stein, is just one of the many functioning rules, unknown to them, just a mere fragment of the entire system upon which they are relying, and which somehow still continues to exist, so that this route and all the others here in China can continue to operate, namely, that of these routes, every day and every morning and evening and afternoon and morning, there are a few million, and there is transportation — just one among the many, he looks at the woman as she climbs up through the open door and joins the other passengers crammed together, then without a word presses a few yuan into the conductor’s hand, then squeezes among the passengers, starts off immediately to the back, to the same side where the foreigners are sitting, one row in front of them, sets down her huge bundles and, finally, sits down next to the window — she’s wearing a thick quilted jacket, a peaked felt cap, a thin scarf and heavy boots, and the entire creature is soaked from head to toe, so much so that for several minutes the water keeps dripping off her, and the poor thing creates the miserable impression of a bedraggled, beaten dog, a being, moreover, entirely indistinguishable from the others: in vain does he look at that face, as much as he can see from his seat at the back, a completely interchangeable face, almost the complete average of a face, impossible to form the basis any of observation, he looks in vain, he is incapable of distinguishing it from the others, because it is not possible, because it is exactly the same as thousands and thousands and millions and millions of other faces in this inconceivable mass which is China, and where can this ‘China’ be other than in this immeasurable and inexpressible mass of people unparalleled in world history, this is what determines it in every respect, what renders it so frighteningly massive, so frighteningly unknowable, and where the face of this woman, her entire presence, as she sits one row in front of them, on the other side, creates the feeling that they don’t know, because it is impossible to say who sat down there, as anyone could have sat down there, this woman could be anyone, this woman, and this is the most pitiless of all the pitiless truths: it doesn’t matter who she is — there she sits, water dripping off her, she too looks out of the grimy window — and then this interchangeable, this possibly most average of the average, this featureless being, without anything having changed in her interchangeable, average, featureless nature, does something completely unexpected, something which could not have been predicted: she opens the window — she grabs its handle, wrenches it to one side, pulls it at least halfway open, at which of course the icy cold rain and the icy cold air blow in, it is really so unexpected that in the first moments no one can really comprehend it, neither them nor the other passengers, the four passengers who with the Caucasians are squeezed in the back here; so contradictory it is to all common sense that someone who is so drenched and has spent who knows how much time out there in the cold drizzling rain, who clearly was half frozen to death when she boarded the bus, finally sits down and then opens the window onto herself and onto them — neither they nor the others can speak a single word for a while, they just look at the woman as the wind half sweeps the soaked hat off her head, they stare dumbfounded as she adjusts her hat and closes her eyes and, with her head slightly thrown back, leans on the arm rest, and she doesn’t move, the wind blows in, they just stare at her and don’t understand what she is doing, no one says anything for a long time — and so the bus goes on, into the fog, into the dense approaching traffic, forward, supposedly towards Jiuhuashan.
Two Pilgrims
They have been travelling for more than four hours when suddenly the asphalt comes to an end. The bus proceeds along a bumpy dirt road, then half an hour later passes below a Communist-era triumphal arch made out of concrete, in the centre of which they can glimpse for a moment the red star high above, and on either side a few slogans, washed away by the rain, about the glory of work, until finally, teetering among the huge potholes, they turn into a larger bus yard situated between a few unspeakably wretched huts; the driver steps on the brake, the conductor opens the door and the vehicle, with a huge groaning sound, comes to a stop.
Stein and his companion don’t move, but when they see that the other travellers are lethargically beginning to gather up their things and, one after the other, getting off the bus, nothing remains for them to do but the same. They look over here, they look over there, but there is nothing remotely resembling a mountain anywhere in sight, all around them are flat cornfields, and across from them a grimy concrete building; the driver and the conductor wordlessly pack up their things and leave the bus so quickly that they can barely catch up.
‘This still isn’t Jiuhuashan, is it?’—they ask. ‘When will the bus be leaving again?’
Neither the conductor nor the driver utters a single word, they don’t even slow down; like people with some kind of urgent business, in one moment, they have already disappeared into the building. Jiuhuashan — they try again, here with one traveller, there with another, but no one answers. Jiuhuashan, they say to a few young men standing beneath the eaves of the building, but they too just look at them, then, sniggering, turn away in confusion. Then they notice a small group: there is something unusual about them, because suddenly they pick up their belongings and set off for the rear corner of the muddy yard where it seems there are a few battered minivans waiting. Nothing indicates that they might be utilized for any purpose whatsoever, nonetheless there are one or two people sitting in each, and if they are not doing anything, if they are not giving any kind of sign of waiting for passengers, it’s still as if the people surging towards them somehow know better — so it seems to the two Europeans that it would be best if they too joined the back of the small group, in other respects not too reassuring looking, straining towards the minivans, and to try yet again:
‘Jiuhuashan?’
A woman of about 60 looks back at them with a cheerful, friendly gaze, nods and points at a battered vehicle.
‘Jiuhuashan!’
The group immediately begins to talk to a man sitting behind the steering wheel of one minivan but he just gazes indifferently ahead, as if he were completely alone in the universe. The people in the group, however, don’t give up, they just keep talking and talking and talking until the man slowly turns his head, looks them up and down, then climbs out with difficulty and, as if he wasn’t really in the mood for this, with a surly expression, fiddles for a long time with the lock and finally opens the door and the usual battle for seats begins, and although this time they encounter considerably more difficulty, everyone behaving as if everything were perfectly normal, and already gazing ahead readily and confidently, the man looks them up and down one by one, or in the best-case scenario as if he were counting them, then mutters something to the person sitting next to him and starts up the motor.