LI CHAO

DREAM TRAVELLER

translated by Zhu Jiasheng and Henry Stevens

A green-skinned train¹ with the stale taste of last century hurtles across an endless yellow desert. You don’t see any vibrant colors. Do you even know where this train is taking you?

You feel uneasy.

Your hands are locked in a pair of handcuffs. At a glance, someone would think you were attempting a comical bow. The person you are bowing to is a police officer sitting opposite from you, observing you. She is a woman in her thirties. You don’t look at her much, but you know she is responsible for you.

You feel the wheels rolling forward across the endless Gobi. Your vision seems blurred by a sheet of yellow joss paper, so you can’t even see clearly the rocky cliffs floating in and out of view.

You are nervous. You don’t know why. Is the destination of this train a prison or a farm? Eventually, you can’t stand it. The questions in your mind are bigger than this imaginary journey. Where are we going? You ask. You don’t look straight at the woman, but let your sight stray out to the veil of yellow sand.

The woman takes off her hat. A police badge, blinking like a tiny meteor, dazzles your left eye, but you can still see her face. A breathtaking woman, she could be a movie star.

She says, “Do you know what crime you have committed? Have you forgotten what you did? You don’t think you’re innocent, do you?”

No, no, no, you hurry to explain as if in that moment you knew your crime only too well.

Seeing this, she leaves you and goes away.

The train is slowing down now, the shudders from the brakes coming now and again like waves. You wake up on the last tremor. How much time has passed, you don’t know. The woman across from you hasn’t come back yet. Did she leave you?

Although it is still evening, there is a small, incandescent light shining on the railway platform, moths dancing around it, casting shades of yellow onto the tooth-white tiles. The train is empty. You stagger standing up. You want to see what station this is, but the station board on the platform is old and rotten, and you cannot recognize the name from the remaining strokes.

The train is much higher than the railway platform, so you try to be careful getting off, but you still fall. You flop on the platform awkwardly, like a package tossed on the ground, and feel the bitter cold of the platform at night. You struggle to get to your feet and head toward the room for station staff. As you come into the light, your long, thin shadow mutates. You knock on the door, which seems thin and fragile. There is no response. You call out again and finally somebody answers.

Who is it?

You turn the handle, walk into the room. For a moment the warmth makes you speechless, and you even forget to greet the people inside. They are drinking and eating peanuts, the shells piled up on a grimy wooden table looking like a small tomb. Without thinking you edge toward the fire, stretching out your cuffed hands. You feel a little embarrassed but you can't help yourself, the handcuffs wrapped around your hands like a serpent. 

You timidly ask, where are we?

Yangguan², the man crunching on peanuts says.

Yangguang? you repeat, thinking, trying to remember, coming up with nothing. What sunshine?

Not Yangguang. Yangguan. This is Yangguan Station. Do you want a glass to warm up?

Yangguan? You are shocked.

Yinguan, Yangguan. Earth. Hell. You think of an ancient poem whose first two lines elude you, though you remember the last two:

Have another drink of wine, there are no old friends west of Yangguan

You are struck with fear, and you knock back the wine without thinking. As your body warms up, an apathetic bell rings and you try to run out the door, but a hand grabs you. Don’t worry, it’s just the first bell. Come on, have another drink.

You lower your head and look at the icy handcuffs. You put them near the stove until they get warmer, maybe even a little hot. As soon as you move the handcuffs, the second bell rings more urgently. The sound is sharp and brisk. It disappears immediately. You know it’s a sign to get on the train, so you turn quickly without saying goodbye. The man is singing a song behind you. It sounds tragic and stirring, hovering in the air for a long time, but you have no mind to listen to it.

The wind on the platform lashes like a horsewhip, but you have no time to mind while you rush to your car. The train sits restless on the track, then, before you get there—bang! It shakes to life as if threatening to break free of the track. You have no time to get to the door before it’s on its way.

Now you are really scared, and shivering in the wind. You aren’t shivering because of the knife-like wind on the platform, but rather the conscience deep in your heart. It’s blaming you. Why did you miss the train? You can’t explain. You even missed the opportunity to plead your guilt…

At this moment, a familiar figure passes you. Through the train window, you see the competent policewoman staring at you with an indifferent gaze announcing your fate.

She makes her fingers into the shape of a gun, points it at her head, and pretends to shoot.

1. "Green-skinned trains” are a style of train that began running in 1950 and are considered antique symbols of Chinese culture. Although they have mostly been replaced, they were famously cheap and popular, so they are generally looked upon with nostalgia.

2. Yangguan is one of China’s two most important mountain passes on its historical western frontier. In accordance with the poem cited in this story, “Seeing Yuan'er off on a Mission to Anxi,” it is often associated with sadness and loss.