“Pull — money to open the gates — politics — something.”
“But it takes nothing,” she said. “I have nothing and I went in and saw them both.”
He shrugged his shoulders and kept his eyes on the road and was silent for a long time. Then, without moving his eyes from the road, he began suddenly to talk to her.
“Ours is the most beautiful country in the world. Look at those mountains! They are the most beautiful in the world. I was sick to get back home.”
Indeed all around them was very beautiful. The hills, bare of trees but covered with ruddy winter grass, were purple in the evening, a rich purple against a gilded sky. In the valleys the farmhouses clustered in villages, which lay before the mountains, and the hills were terraced into fields. Blue-clad farming folk stood at their doors to watch the trucks go by, and little children ran to the roadsides to shout to them and wave their arms. Bamboos were still green in the hollows of the hills, and now and then a temple roof lifted its high pure curve.
“This is what I came back for,” he told her, still in English. “I came back for this land and these people — not for any big men at the top.”
“Are you a communist?” she asked out of a second’s instinct.
“I don’t know what you mean when you say communist,” he retorted. “I’m a man of the people.” He was silent again for a long time and then he said, “Of the people — by the people — for the people.”
She recognized the familiar foreign words without knowing why he used them now. Nor did he explain them. They rode another half hour in silence, and he drew up smoothly outside the gates of a small town. “Here is where we camp tonight,” he said and leaped out.
She climbed down then and saw him, before she turned away, examining the vehicle as tenderly as though it were a living creature that belonged to him.
“Tomorrow I must ask him his name,” she thought, and she wondered that she had not asked it today. But she had not. Names seemed meaningless. They were all moving forward together and the name of any one was nothing.
VIII
SHE SAID TO HERSELF that certainly she could not sleep. Never in her life had she lain upon the ground to sleep. The four girls had piled some straw under her and when she had seen that all were in their places for the night, fed and cared for, she had lain herself down with her blankets wrapped about her. They slept in the back courtyard of a temple. The men were in the front, and this back room was very small so that half of the women slept outside, and she had chosen to be among these. The night was not cold and its silence was broken by the small waterfall of a brook which had been led through the court from the hillside above the temple. The tinkle of the water teased her ears for a while as she thought of the day.
“Certainly I cannot sleep,” she thought, but it did not seem to matter whether she slept or not. What did anything matter that might happen to one person? She lay thinking that for the first time in her life it seemed of no meaning what happened to her, no, nor even what happened to Sheng, wherever he was. They were being swept along in the same great wave westward. They might meet and they might never meet, and this, too, was without meaning. To go on, to find the enemy, to defeat that enemy, for them all this had become the whole of life.
… In the morning she woke first. For an instant she could not find herself. Upon the gray morning air, now very chill and damp, she heard the thin struggling crow of a young cockerel. Then she saw lights already lit in the temple and, lying a moment longer, she heard the deep droning chant of the priests at morning prayer. This was a Buddhist temple and the music, though so old that its source was far beyond the memory of any man now alive, still had foreignness in its cadence. It had come from India and India was in its sound. She had never seen India, nor ever thought of it except as a color upon the map at school. In this gray dawn, listening to the chant, she thought of India as the land toward which their faces were now turned. In ancient days men had gone from China to India to find a new and better god. An emperor had told his messengers, “I hear there is a god in India whom we do not have. Go and find him and bring him here to live with us.” So they had gone and found Buddha.
Now they went toward India, soldiers and not priests. Thousands of soldiers went even on foot, dragging artillery behind them by ropes and straps across their shoulders. They were camping somewhere now on the road. Thirty miles was their day’s march and they had set off two days earlier than the trucks, and the trucks had not caught up to them yesterday.
At her side Chi-ling lifted her head.
“Are you awake, captain?” she asked. For captain was the title that Pao Chen had given to Mayli.
“I am awake,” Mayli replied.
She put back her blanket and sat up. All about her heads lifted. They had not been sleeping either, but waiting, and when they saw her awake one by one the young women rose and folded their blankets and packed their knapsacks and bundles, and almost in silence they all did this.
And Mayli was among the first and she went to the temple kitchen. There she found two old priests already behind the great earthen stoves feeding in grass, and there was a cauldron of water very hot.
“Dip in, lady,” the old priest said, not looking at her because she was a woman. “That is water for washing.”
She saw a tin basin there and she dipped a gourd dipper into the hot water and she took the full basin and in a corner behind some bamboos, she washed herself and combed her hair. She had kept her hair long as it was, but at this moment combing it over her shoulders, she thought:
“What will I do with this hair? What can it be but a care to me?” For one moment she thought of Sheng and how he had liked her hair long.
“I like to know that a woman is a woman when I look at her,” he had said once when she had teased him by saying she would cut off her hair as many women now did.
But she thought of him for only a moment. Then she seized the long twist in her hand and went to where she had slept and opened her pack and took out the little scissors that Liu Ma had put in her sewing bag. Holding her hair in her left hand she cut it off at her neck with the scissors. The women watched her, but no one said a word. She went with the long hair in her hand into the kitchen and she went behind the stove where the little old priest was crouched, and before his astonished eyes she thrust her hair into the fire like grass.
He chuckled and she saw his toothless gums. “I swear it is the first time priest’s breakfast has been cooked by woman’s hair,” he said in the little high squeaking voice of a eunuch.
She smiled and went away again, and out in the court she shook her head, and the wind was cool in her short hair. She felt light and free, and from that day she held her head higher than before.
… On this day the Big Road, which had risen beneath them as they traveled it the day before rose still higher upon the mountains. They had come by small roads until a day ago, to escape the enemy’s bombing. But as they had come near to the border, the order came down to move south on the Big Road. Who had not heard of this Road? They all knew how it had been made by men and women whose tools were the spades and hoes with which until now they had tilled only the fields. Those who had no tools had used their hands.
Mayli rode in the second truck in which she had been the day before, and she was glad of that, for now the young engineer made her see that which without him she might not have seen with understanding. He was in the truck when she came out, after she had been busy with all she was responsible for. It was her pride that not one moment’s delay should be caused by her women, and so she stood waiting at their head outside the temple when Chung came out. He smiled ruefully when he saw her there, for his own garments were hastily put on and his hair stood up unbrushed.