Rounding a bend, the engine came into view — a big black locomotive, squawking and blowing out smoke and steam, a fat kettle on wheels. The air was so still on the Mongolian plain that on the straighter stretches the smoke from the engine passed my windows and left smuts on my face, and I was eighteen coaches from the smokestack.
By hot, yellow noon, the landscape had wrinkled mountains behind it, but they were bare and blue, and some nearer hills were only slightly mossy. There were no trees. There were plowed fields everywhere, but nothing sprouting. In the villages there was a mud wall around every house. You would not have to be told you were in Mongolia — this was about as Mongolian as a place could possibly be.
I found Mr. Fang staring dejectedly out the window, and feeling sorry for him, I asked him about his Russian teaching.
"I liked it," he said, "except for the Red Guard period."
"What happened then?"
"From 1966 until 1972 there were no classes. I stayed at home and read books."
"Why? Had you been criticized?"
Criticize—that could mean forty-six of them howling at you or even beating you.
"Yes. They said I was a revisionist." In a plaintive way, he said, "Maybe it was true. I did not understand Marxist-Leninist theory." He turned to me and added, 'They didn't understand it either."
"Afterwards, did you feel bitter?"
"No. I said nothing. They were young. They didn't know anything. That whole period was a disaster."
He was upset by the memory, so I left him alone. But my curiosity impelled me to go back, because I couldn't understand how it was that he had spent all those years at home, reading books. I said, "You mean, you were just sitting there, turning pages?"
He shook his head. "I was carrying rocks."
It was forced labor, he explained. The whole technical college had been moved to a remote place called Mengjin, just north of Luoyang, in Henan Province; and there they had built a bridge over the Yellow River.
"Most of these railways were built by intellectuals who were sent to the countryside," he explained. 'That's why they took so long. What did we know about it?"
He was disgusted, he said. In the fifties, Japan and China were about equal, he went on. In the sixties Japan developed and China went backward. "Now look at the difference!"
I did not agree with his analysis, but instead of contradicting him I asked, "Would you like China to resemble Japan?"
"Frankly, no."
We were still at the window. As the mountains receded into the distance, the houses became more frequent and piled up and became uglier — the unmistakable sign in China that a city is not far off. There was a wide dry riverbed, a depleted tributary of the Dahei River, and tall gawky trees — Mongolian trees, like fakes, unconvincing because they are wholly out of place and too feeble to serve any purpose. Most trees I had seen in China seemed purely symbolic. I saw distant watertowers and chimneys, and not far off, a dust cloud. Beneath that dust cloud was Hohhot, the capital of Inner Mongolia.
It was not really a city — it was a garrison that had been plonked down in the Mongolian prairie, and every building in it looked like a factory. It had been planned and much of it built by the Russians, but even its newer structures looked horrible — the hotel, the guest house, the department stores. I wondered whether it looked this way because of the Mongols themselves — what did tent-dwelling nomads know about city planning? But, no, it was not inhabited by Mongols. It was all Hans in short-sleeved shirts, pouting as they cycled on Hohhot's streets.
"What do you want to see?" Mr. Fang said.
"I want to see a Mongol," I said.
'There isn't time."
He explained that all the Mongols were over there, in the grasslands, in the rugged range they called the "Great Green Mountains." The horsemen, the wrestlers, the archers, the yak herds, were absent from Hohhot. They lived in the wild, which was their right these days as a so-called minority.
I declined a visit to Yijinhuoluo, the tomb of Genghis Khan (1162–1227), which the Chinese built recently as a sop to Mongolian national pride. It is a whitewashed yurt, in concrete, in the middle of nowhere.
"I want to see how people live here," I said.
Mr. Fang took me to the Five Pagoda Temple, which was a stack of defaced Buddhas, still showing traces of Cultural Revolution vandalism. But it was high enough for seeing the roofs of the old town, and the crooked lanes, and the minarets of the mosque.
"Let's go there," I said, pointing.
But Mr. Fang maneuvered me into the car, and we drove out of town to the tomb of Wang Zhaojun ("an imperial concubine who crossed the desert 2000 years ago to marry a minority chief in an effort to secure peace between the Han Dynasty and the native Xiongnus"). It was a man-made hill 150 feet high. He urged me to admire the ingenuity of the hill — think of all the digging!
"I would like to see some people," I said.
He took me to a pagoda, a lamasery, and then to the mosque.
"How many Muslims are there here?" I asked a man in a skullcap.
"Thousands."
"Have any been to Mecca?"
"One," he said. 'The government sent him last year."
The mosque was decorated in the Chinese style, with curved-tile roofs and red-painted eaves. In the center of the main building, high above the door, there was a clock face — a large one, that gave the mosque the look of a railway station. But this was all painted, and even the time was painted on it. The time was perpetually 12:45. No one knew why.
The following day I sneaked downstairs, skipped breakfast, and was on my way out the front door of the hotel when Mr. Fang hurried towards me, making a noise. It was a kind of laughter. By now I was able to differentiate between the various Chinese laughs. There were about twenty. None of them had the slightest suggestion of humor. Some were nervous, some were respectful, many were warnings. The loud honking one was a sort of Chinese anxiety attack. Another, a brisk titter, meant something had gone badly wrong. Mr. Fang's laugh this morning resembled the bark of a seal. It meant Hold on there! and it stopped me in my tracks.
"Where are you going, Mr. Paul?"
"For a walk."
Mr. Fang conferred with his Hohhot deputy. My walk was given official sanction, and I was driven about a hundred yards to the People's Park and released. It was not a large park. It was surrounded by high walls. Its artificial lake had dried up. It was very dusty. Here, I walked. Even at this early hour there were Chinese couples smooching. The poor things have nowhere else to go in China except public parks. I said to myself: It is wrong to expect too much from a Mongolian city.
Mr. Fang and his deputy were waiting for me by the turnstile at the exit gate.
"You enjoyed your walk?"
"Very much," I said.
"Now what would you like to do?"
"I think I'll go back and wash up," I said. "I need a shave."
Mr. Fang laughed in consternation and told me to wait. And he held another conference with his Hohhot deputy, while I stood, frowning at the city. There were no clouds overhead. The sky was blue, the earth brown, the air smelled of dust. It was a typical Mongolian day.
Mr. Fang gestured for me to get into the car. We drove across town to what I first took to be a factory and then realized was a hotel. It smelled of peeling paint and rotting carpets. I was escorted to a room where there were barber chairs and sinks. A young man approached holding a towel and twitching it.
Mr. Fang said, "He is very young and inexperienced, but he will try."
The young man smiled and worked open the cutthroat razor that he had been concealing with his towel.