The stairs are as much of an essential element of the sacred elevations in Jiuhuashan as the monasteries; they enmesh the mountain from one end to the other, they announce the presence of the resting spots, the pavilions, the connecting paths, the detours, the paths, the magnificent lookouts as well, they indicate a kind of safe passage in this particularly untraversable, precipitous slope, a decided connection between the numerous monasteries; the system, however, is so complicated, especially to figures such as the two of them in the middle of this thick fog, that even marching along continuously for hours is not enough for them to get their bearings; indeed, as far as that goes, now that they are climbing outside in this complicated and essential stairway-network, they are forced to admit that they are no closer to having any idea as to what kind of consideration brought this system into being, who built it, the knowledge of which all the same would be indispensable to traffic on the mountain — and not only are they compelled to admit this, they admit it with the greatest bitterness, for somehow, again, the long minutes—10 minutes, 20 minutes — are passing and they are not coming across even one of the monasteries they long so much to see, they just keep going, always just hoping that in the next, but in the next, moment something will certainly leap out at them, a gate leading into the Baisui Gong[11] or the Huatian Si; but no, in the fog they find neither the Baisui Gong nor the Huatian Si while the interpreter notes with resignation that, in his opinion, it is also starting to get dark — that’s not possible, Stein protests, obviously it’s just the thick fog blocking the light, but no, the interpreter shakes his head listlessly, according to him this is not a mistaken impression — and here is the most tangible of reasons, that is to say, the watch on his wrist is now pointing to four o’clock, quite simply, evening has begun to fall.
If it is really four o’clock — they once again withdraw beneath the roof of the pavilion, away from the seemingly never-ending eaves — if it is already getting onto four, says Stein, that means then that the monasteries will be closed very shortly. And so nothing would be more sensible, says his companion, than to put off everything else till tomorrow, go home to the hotel, have a good bath and rest, well wrapped up, from this day of not-inconsiderable ordeals. He looks at Stein hopefully, and it is clear that he is prepared for the most vehement of debates, anything to convince the other to give up — well, that’s a good idea, the other bows his head, he drinks the last sip of tea from the plastic tea flagon, and they head off towards home. It’s strange, but now they suddenly find the staircase which leads downward, the one which later on does not suddenly begin heading upward again, as has happened so many times on this extraordinary day, they trudge downward, holding on to the railing, because the staircase is very slippery, when suddenly, due to the fog, once again, fairly unexpectedly, a person appears before them. Judging from his bouncy gait, it is a young man and it seems that with his rubber boots, and a plastic bag in his hand, he too is steadily heading downward, so that so far everything would be fine, it’s just how he is going down the stairs in front of them that strikes the eye immediately, that is, on the one hand, there is an uncommon resolve in his movements, on the other, however. . he is not walking like them, holding on to the railing, moving in a straight line; instead, he is waddling, as one used to call it in childhood, waddling here and there but all the while systematically descending; he goes from one side, let’s say, from the railing on the right to the railing on the left, but, in the meantime, taking three or four steps down, so that he progresses — and this is truly the correct expression — systematically, and really, like someone who still has a few kilometres in front of him so that he does all this seriously, so it isn’t possible to think that this person in front of them here — who nonetheless is certain that no one sees him — is feigning anything, no, the two visitors look at each other incredulously, he is not pretending, there is something wrong with him; moreover, when they get closer to him, and he looks back, frightened, realizing that someone is behind him, it immediately becomes obvious that he is not crazy. So what then? What is going on here? Stein looks the interpreter questioningly, but he just shakes his head and watches how, from that point on, the man in front of them does not begin to walk with a regular gait, now that he knows that they are watching him, but progresses in the same way, waddling here and there between the left and right sides of the staircase.
Stein motions to his companion to follow and, quickening his steps, catches up to the man in front of them, but since he is obliged to take up his style, he too begins to walk in the same way, zigzagging downward, from one side to the other, mimicking him as much as he can, so that he can speak to him, for he has not changed anything about his peculiar gait even though there is someone right beside him.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know where the hotel is?’
‘Are you looking for the Huacheng Si?’[12]
‘No, the monastery is probably closed already. The hotel.’
‘The Huacheng Si is that way.’
He looks very frightened. Stein, to reassure him, gazes at him in as friendly a way as possible, as does the interpreter who translates from behind.
‘Are you from here?’
‘No. Just working here.’
‘Is it always like this during the month of May here? The rain doesn’t really want to stop.’
‘Sometimes it is.’
‘What’s it usually like here? Is it going to rain tomorrow too?’
‘Rain tomorrow. Then no more rain.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I watched the weather report yesterday on TV.’
They waddle on, following his zigzags, and for a while nothing comes to Stein’s mind. The man speaks first.
‘It’s good to walk like this.’
Stein doesn’t really know how to respond. Should he approve? Refute? He changes the subject.
‘You said before that you work here. What kind of work is there here?’
‘I make deliveries to the mountain.’
‘To the mountain? Where?’
‘Up. Sometimes building materials, sometimes vegetables. Whatever is needed. Everything has to be carried.’
‘But this is a really long trip.’
‘Twice a day. This was the second time. Going home. Don’t live here.’
Once again muteness settles upon them. It’s reassuring that he no longer seems so frightened, that he has regained his earlier impassiveness, but somehow Stein cannot find a way to address why they cannot speak of the most important thing: why he walks that way. They follow him as precisely as they can, but sometimes they miss a step and are obliged to cheat by taking two. He, however, never steps the wrong way, he moves in faultless tempo, quickly, briskly, in that unshakeable impassiveness now regained once and for all, he goes down the stairs from one edge to the other and back again, and then again. The stairs are winding, they see only each other: they descend in that quick pace in vain, the fog does not grow any thinner.