Dao of Language

In the time that has passed since we left the city I have had more than enough occasion to reaffirm my idea that traveling in this world, however magnificent the carriage that carries you may be, consists for the most part in contemplating how the same landscape repeats itself hour after hour.

And on top of that the heat does not help, since the air enters through the cracks of the little curtain thick and dry, loaded with that smell of parched earth that has accompanied me since we lost sight of the last cultivation fields, and there is no posture in the seat, however well cushioned it may be, capable of entirely deceiving the hours of confinement.

So, when I finally hear Bai Zhen’s voice from outside, I almost appreciate it.

“We stop here”, he orders, with that dryness of his that at this point I would recognize with my eyes closed. “We will spend the night at this spot.”

And, the moment he pronounces those words, the entire procession stops immediately. I notice the slight jolt of the carriage as it halts, I hear the snorting of the enormous horses and the creaking of the harnesses as they are loosened, and I perceive that subtle change in the atmosphere that occurs whenever a group on the march decides that, for today, it has already walked enough.

I draw back the little curtain, take a look outside and confirm that the spot Bai Zhen has chosen to spend the night is a reasonable clearing to one side of the road, cleared enough to camp and sheltered enough for the choice to make sense. It is not that I understand much about these matters, but at least it gives the impression that the man knows what he is doing, which, within how little he pleases me, is nonetheless a relief.

I turn toward Lianhua, who already observes me with that quiet attention of hers, waiting as always for what I am going to ask of her.

“Lianhua”, I tell her. “Take me out of the carriage, please, since I feel like having dinner outside and taking in what little air there is. And there’s no need for you to bring down the wheelchair, seating me anywhere is enough for me.”

Lianhua nods without raising any objection, although I see how her eyes run over the terrain an instant, evaluating where to settle me. She decides quickly, takes one of the cloths we carry among the luggage and gets down from the carriage to spread it out with care on the ground beside one of the enormous rear wheels, smoothing it well so that not a bit of earth comes to graze my clothing, and only when she is satisfied with the result does she come back for me.

She surrounds me with her arms, lifts me from the seat and takes me outside. A moment later she deposits me on the cloth with the same care as always, resting my back against the wheel of the carriage, which is so large that it serves me as a backrest without the least difficulty, after which she settles my skirt, checks that I am well seated, and only then steps away.

And while Lianhua occupies herself with me, Xia has already set to work on her own.

I see her get down from the carriage with her backpack and that tranquil determination that comes over her whenever she has a task in hand, as if the mere fact of being able to be useful filled her. She leaves the backpack on the ground, approaches the three Nei Wei who have been driving the carriage throughout the whole day and, after a brief exchange of words I don’t quite manage to hear, the three nod with something that resembles grateful surprise quite a bit.

I don’t need to hear the conversation to guess what it is about. I know Xia, and I know perfectly that she has just proposed to prepare dinner for them too.

And, indeed, a moment later one of the Nei Wei approaches to lend her a hand. Xia clears a small circle of earth, arranges some stones around it and the Nei Wei lights a small fire that she would not have been able to light with such ease. It is a minor detail, one of those I almost never notice, but that reminds me that the women who drive this carriage are considerably more than mere coachwomen.

With the fire now lit, Xia opens her backpack and begins to take out utensils, and here I really cannot help smiling, because out of that backpack the pots and pans come one after another in a quantity that attests to how much fits inside it when it is well made use of. A small pot, bowls, a knife, herbs wrapped in cloth, strips of dried meat, vegetables that still preserve a good part of their freshness. It is the kind of display that only one who has learned to do things well can permit themselves, and watching her work with that serene concentration turns out, I don’t quite know why, strangely comforting to me.

I stay like that a while, with my back resting against the wheel, observing how Xia begins to prepare what promises to be a simple but more than decent dinner, and at some moment my gaze deviates toward the five disciples of the Sect.

They are spread out around the clearing, occupying themselves with their things with that distant efficiency that characterizes them. None has taken out anything resembling food, nor has made a move to approach our little fire, and that indifference gives me something to think about, because one thing is that they are rude, something I already have more than assumed, and quite another very different one is that they spend the entire trip without eating a bite.

Bai Zhen is a short distance from me, supervising who knows what with the customary furrowed brow, so I decide that I lose nothing by asking.

“Disciple Bai Zhen”, I tell him, raising my voice a bit so that he hears me. “Since my handmaiden is preparing dinner, if you and your companions wish, it would be no trouble at all for her to prepare something for you as well.”

Bai Zhen does not even bother to turn fully toward me. He turns his head barely, just enough to make clear that he has registered that I have spoken to him, and replies with the same dryness as always.

“It is not necessary”, he says. “We have Fasting Pills, since that way we don’t have to waste time preparing food during a mission.”

I nod slowly, because the answer, deep down, was the most predictable of all.

“I understand”, I reply.

But, since we have exchanged two sentences in a row without either of the two parties ending up irritated, I decide to take advantage of that tiny crack to try to break the ice a little, mainly because five days of glacial silence strike me as a wholly unnecessary torture.

“The truth is that I also took Fasting Pills on one occasion”, I add in a light tone, almost conversational. “Although, if I am honest with you, I don’t remember absolutely anything of the experience, because when they gave them to me I was unconscious, so I suppose it doesn’t quite count.”

And I wait, with a half-smile already prepared, for some kind of response. A grunt, a look, an I see that would allow me to keep pulling the thread.

But I obtain nothing.

Bai Zhen limits himself to turning his gaze away again, as if my words had been no more than a background noise unworthy of attention, and continues with his own affairs without dedicating to me half a gesture more.

I let out a small sigh and swallow the smile, since it is clear that the conversation has died without getting to serve any purpose.

“All right”, I murmur to myself, resigning myself to the fact that with this man subtleties are superfluous.

Because it is clear that Bai Zhen is not one of those who soften with a friendly chat, and that any attempt on my part to treat him as a travel companion is going to crash again and again against the same wall of indifference. So I decide to change strategy and be direct, which at least is a language he perhaps does understand.

“Disciple Bai Zhen”, I try again, this time without beating around the bush. “Would you mind if I asked you some questions about the Sect? I am going to spend a while there and I am not at all acquainted with its rules or its customs, and I would prefer not to offend anyone out of pure ignorance, so it would be of great help to me to know how I should behave.”

Bai Zhen does turn this time, although only to dedicate to me a look so loaded with annoyance that it is almost admirable that so much reluctance can fit into a single gesture.

“My task is to escort you to the Sect”, he replies coldly. “Not to satisfy your curiosity.”

And with that he considers the conversation settled, leaving me with the questions in my mouth and the clear sensation that, as far as he is concerned, he would be much happier if I were a silent bundle that limited itself to occupying the carriage without giving problems.

I am about to resign myself when a different voice intervenes from one side.

“Don’t be so curt, Bai Zhen”, says a clearly feminine voice.

I turn toward the origin of those words and come across Song Yan, the only woman of the group and the only one, so far, who has treated me with something resembling courtesy. She has approached a few steps and looks at Bai Zhen with an expression that has nothing of the defiant about it, but rather of the sensible, like one who points out an obviousness that has escaped the other.

“Preventing the little princess from committing an error of etiquette can also be considered protecting her”, she continues with all tranquility. “After all, if she offends someone of the Sect without knowing it, the problems that derive from it could end up being our affair.”

Bai Zhen observes her a moment in silence, weighing the argument, and although his face does not change much, there is something in his way of looking at her that tells me that she is not wrong and that he knows it. In the end, however, he does not bother to grant it to her aloud, but rather limits himself to shrugging his shoulders slightly and to passing the matter to her with the same ease with which one takes a weight off one’s shoulders.

“Since that is your opinion then it will be you who takes charge of it”, he tells her.

And here is where the scene takes a turn I did not expect, because instead of accepting the task reluctantly, as would be logical when it comes to an assignment that has just been foisted on her, Song Yan receives it with something that, however strange it may seem, resembles enthusiasm quite a bit.

It is a subtle change, but unmistakable. Her posture relaxes, her expression softens and, without further delay, she approaches to where I am seated and settles herself on the ground a short distance from me, with the naturalness of one who had been wishing for a while for an excuse to do just that.

I, who don’t quite understand that sudden change of mood but who certainly do not intend to waste it, dedicate to her a sincere smile.

“I truly thank you”, I tell her. “I know you are not obliged to help me, so I doubly thank you for wishing to do so.”

Song Yan makes a gesture with her hand, playing it down, as if the matter did not merit so much thanks.

“It is nothing”, she replies. “But, before answering your questions, would you mind if I asked one of you?”

The request catches me a bit by surprise, but I see no objection to it.

“Of course, it is the least I can do”, I reply without hesitating. “Ask whatever you want.”

Song Yan nods, and for a moment she hesitates, as if what she is going to ask made her a little excited and at the same time gave her some reservation, but finally, with a smile that lights up her face, she decides.

“Is it true that you are the author of Journey to the West?” she asks me.

And I confess that, for an instant, I am left completely blank.

Because, of all the questions that had crossed my mind that someone of the Sect might want to ask me, that one, frankly, did not figure on the list even remotely. I had contemplated questions about my condition, about my rank, about my inventions, even some with ulterior motives about my capacity for cultivation. But that a disciple of the Sect should ask me, with shining eyes, whether I am the author of a novel is something for which, simply, I did not come prepared.

Fortunately the surprise lasts me little, so I recover and return her smile.

“That’s right”, I reply. “I was the one who wrote Journey to the West.”

The confirmation seems to ignite something in Song Yan, whose face lights up in a way that turns out almost moving in someone dressed in the severe tunics of the Sect. And from there, during the following minutes, she launches into asking me questions about the book one after another, with the avidity of one who has been holding them back for a long time and finally has before them the only person capable of answering them.

Whether such a scene I had planned from the beginning or it occurred to me on the fly. Whether such a character was inspired by someone real. What I meant exactly by a certain passage. Whether what I insinuate in such another is true. And I, a bit overwhelmed but also secretly flattered, go answering all of them with a smile while inside I don’t stop marveling that someone of the Sect, no less, should turn out to be a little admirer of my novel.

And it is precisely that thought which, when Song Yan’s round of questions finally subsides, leads me to formulate one of my own.

“May I ask you something too?” I tell her. “Is it common for the people of the Sect to have read the novel? I did not expect, sincerely, that my work would have reached it.”

Song Yan nods with evident satisfaction, like one who was wishing to give the answer.

“Among the Outer Disciples, Journey to the West is very well known”, she tells me. “It circulates quite a bit and there are many who have read it. In fact, it has had more influence than you probably imagine, because there are a good few who, after reading it, took up using the staff as a weapon.”

She makes a small pause, and I notice how something dangerously resembling amusement peeks at the corner of her lips.

“And then there is one in particular who took it especially to heart”, she adds. “Ever since he read it, he has begun to imitate Sun Wukong in everything he can. He goes dressed in his manner, behaves like him and even goes around saying that he is going to master the seventy-two transformations.”

And the moment she pronounces those words, I cannot help a groan escaping me and covering my face with my hands.

Because my imagination, which in moments like this functions with an exquisite cruelty, paints for me at once an image as vivid as it is embarrassing. A disciple of the Sect of questionable mental age, stuffed into a shoddy imitation of Sun Wukong’s attire, adopting grandiloquent poses and shouting at the top of his lungs phrases as solemn as they are ridiculous about celestial transformations he is never going to achieve.

The kind of spectacle that in my previous life would have had a very concrete name, and that consists, basically, of a textbook case of chuunibyou in its purest state.

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