Stein doesn’t really know what to say, indeed, because of the strength radiating from the Buddha, as yet unpainted, unvarnished, ungilded and, judging by the fragrance, prepared from sandalwood, even later it is hard for him to speak, so the interpreter tries to initiate some kind of conversation, from which — as is explained a few minutes later — it turns out that the statue was made here, in Jiuhuashan, because there is a workshop here, and in this workshop is an expert woodcarver who makes Buddhas, well, he made their statue, the boy, his face radiant from joy that the statue is so pleasing to the two foreigners, points to somewhere outside, clearly to where the workshop is, with its Buddha-carving master, but they are already returning to the table near the entrance where the boy had been dozing before, and they spread out a piece of paper so that he can sketch for them where this workshop is, of course they can’t understand the drawing, they don’t know where they are, or what is where, generally speaking; they look at the clumsy but basic sketch, upon which the name of the place is also written, so that if necessary they can show the drawing to someone, they nod as the boy, his finger following the lines he has drawn, explains again and again where they need to go, how they can find the workshop, then, bowing, they thank him warmly for his help and make their way outside, but then he indicates that they should wait, and he runs off somewhere, returning a minute later with a tiny little bundle of gifts, two books from the Chinese translation of the Lotus Sutra,[5] a small tourist publication about Jiuhuashan, two tiny statues of the Buddha carved out of soapstone and tapes of Buddhist prayers in decorated boxes, one for the interpreter and one for Stein — presumably this is everything that the boy has, and now by all means he wants to give this everything to them, as they stand there in the doorway they are at a loss, because they see the kind monk finds even this to be too little, he would like to give them something. . or tell them something, he tries to find the right words, he tries, in his dialect, to speak the language of Beijing so that the interpreter can understand, but it doesn’t work, it could be some important advice, or reassurance, or warning, but it is impossible to make out the essence, the interpreter just shakes his head, and now Stein tries with all his strength to help the interpreter by how he is listening and looking, because the whole thing is as if the monk were trying to warn them about something — but of course this is just guesswork, they don’t understand anything, they bow to one another with ritually folded hands, they bid farewell to one another, and finally they step out through the gate of the temple into the eddying nothingness, the touching gifts in their bags, and that colossal, unvarnished, unfinished Buddha beneath the canvas with his own unforgettable sublimity in their memories — the boy is at the gate, he bows and waves until he finally disappears in the fog, but until the end it was as if somehow, just somehow, he wanted to tell them something very important.
They are to the south of the Yangtze, and, really, they dressed for the weather in this region as it should be in May, that is, sandals, one in a light linen shirt and the other in a T-shirt, so that they froze on their journey, and now, when they step out again into the cold rain, only a few hundred metres along the water-slick steps is enough for Stein to see that the interpreter, the student from Shanghai who selflessly, out of sheer benevolence and enthusiasm for this topic, joined Stein on this trip, is shivering from head to toe. We really need that raincoat, says Stein reassuringly, and the warm things too, he consoles him, so let’s go back: they decide to somehow find the path leading down to the main street, so that they can buy something. Logically, they decide upon the row of steps at the first crossing leading downwards, but it soon emerges that there is no sense in making decisions like this, as the stairs really do head downward for a while, but then, as if having thought things over, after a bend head upward once more. And that’s how it goes from this point on, the path heads down, the path heads up, then down again and up again, they wander here and there, they come to newer and newer crossings where they have to make a decision, and they continually make bad decisions, or now for them there is no such thing as a good decision, because even the advice which they ask for and they get from the people on the path doesn’t help, these people who — tourists like them, or pilgrims — smile and gesture: just keep going, they wave and nod that it’s good, perfect, they could not possibly be going in a better direction, just keep going, they chirrup gaily, but Stein and the interpreter don’t even know if they understand where they are trying to go, because they tried to explain through gesticulations that — even now! — they are not looking for this or that monastery but the village, where they would like to return, at which the warmest reassurance is always given, that, yes, this is exactly the right path, they should just keep going, just keep going, just keep pressing on ahead, and they will be there in no time at all, no cause for any concern — and after a few steps the passers-by cheerfully disappear once again into the fog.
So of course they do not find any path leading downward, on the contrary, they become ever-more entangled in the labyrinth of Jiuhuashan; however, on another elevation, next to a lookout pavilion, understandably deserted, they suddenly come upon vendors’ tents, which jump out of the fog so unexpectedly that they nearly recoil. There are rain ponchos and plastic tea flasks but also pilgrimage tote bags, the Amida Sutra[6] printed on artificial silk, Guanyin[7] emblems, rosaries, incense, red wax-paper parasols, books, soya slices, pirated cds and dvds, and what is most important: hot tea, so they are saved, they breathe a sigh of relief, they buy two raincoats, two portable, lidded, plastic tea flasks which they immediately have filled with tea, then they stand beneath the tents so that the rain hardly touches them, and they both take a cup of hot steaming tea; they sip the tea, burning their mouths and their throats, and it is an unspeakably good feeling as it warms them up within a few minutes, as they stand there shivering, the cold finally leaving their bodies, such a good feeling that they don’t even notice each other for a while, and they’re not even bothered that they had to pay twice the going price, they’re in China after all, they brush it off, and they just look at the vendors standing around reluctantly, and clearly sullen because of the bad business, they just look at them, are they earthly beings, or did they suddenly come here from somewhere else. .