We spend a couple of days in Chengdu, as we were unable to get tickets for the night train to Guiyang for the day after we arrived. We stay at the same guesthouse we stayed at before, whose chilled atmosphere and availability of Western food makes the two days recuperating that much easier to bear.
We manage to make a second trip to the Decathlon Sports Megatore since arriving in China to acquire more quality, low-cost camping gear for December's trip to New Zealand, as well as visiting the IKEA across the street for a couple of hotdogs.
I discover that my iPod works once more, having itself recovered from the effects of high altitude, and I get around to finishing a short story I'd begun when we'd first arrived in Chengdu nearly a week and a half ago.
The Dining Car
The train lurches forward amidst the low rumble of pistons and grinding steel. The wholesaler, returning home after two days in Xi’an, lights a cigarette and gazes listlessly out the dining car window at the setting sun. Its’ dim light casts a golden hue over the fields of yellow and green that stretch out to greet the foothills of the Qingling Mountains.
Years of stress and worry have left their mark on his wearied face, and as he inhales they appear to become more deeply entrenched, adding decades to an already ancient face. He thinks of his business, his wife, and his daughter, his only child, who is set to marry in a few weeks time. It was not that he objected to the marriage. Her fiancée had begun a promising career in Shenzhen the year before, and she would certainly be provided for. He knew that she was deeply in love and that her new husband would make her happy. What worried him was what place he would have in her new life. Would she still need him? What could he possibly provide that was now to be provided by somebody else?
The dining car is full, mainly with train staff catching a quite dinner in between stops. Two ticket attendants slide into the seat across the table from the wholesaler.
“I can’t stand these foreigners,” says the first as he unbuttons his collar. His prominent under-bite served to accentuate the dark mole that protruded from between his lower lip and chin, a sure sign, his mother had insisted when he was a child, of his future success in the ranks of the Party. “This last one complains it’s too cold, then two minutes later says it’s too hot. These white women are just not fit to travel.”
“But have you noticed the size of their breasts?” asks the other as he pours a satchel of green tea leaves into the steaming water of his thermos. “I’d say it’s all worth it to get a good look.”
“Not this one, brother. Hers had more wrinkles than my granny’s ninety-year-old arse!”
They do little to conceal their boisterous laughter as the waitress, wearing white shoes, white dress, white apron and a peaked white cap (a colour she feels does little to slim her figure), walks by with a steaming plate of spicy tofu, greens and rice. She can tell what’s preoccupying their thoughts by the tone of their laughter and hint of lust in their eyes .
She is tired of men like these who seem to be driven solely by their basest desires. For as long as she can remember, they are the only kind of men who have ever paid her any attention. She is getting older, and her rough hands and calloused toes reveal too many years in front of and behind the restaurant counter. And while she recognizes that her marriage prospects diminish with each passing year, she longs for nothing more than the warmth and comfort of another’s touch. She gazes longingly at the outstretched arms of two young lovers to whom she serves, whose hands and fingers lay entwined on the center of the table.
“We don’t have a choice,” the young man says, removing his hands from the table to allow room for their food.
“So you say,” the girls replies in a low voice. She picks up a few pieces of tofu and chews slowly, her eyes averting his.
“What more do you want me to do? You know it’s impossible. How many more times do we need to have this conversation?”
“It’s never a real conversation. A conversation requires two people. You seem happy listening to your own voice. You never think about my feelings.”
“Your feelings? This has nothing to do with me. I’m only thinking of your feelings. I’m only thinking about what’s best for you.”
The tinny sound of Chinese pop from the small speaker in his cell phone signals a call. The young man flips open it open to answer it. He shifts sideways in his seat to face the aisle, disengaging himself from the need to carry on his previous discussion any further.
“Boy! Three more beers!” shouts the conductor from across the aisle.
“Chief, why so generous?” asks one of the two men sitting opposite him after promptly downing the remainder of his beer.
“To celebrate!” shouts the conductor, flashing a wide grin that reveals three gold-capped teeth. His glassy eyes and crimson cheeks suggest that the celebrations began long before he was joined by his present companions. “Besides, who said anything about being generous? This comes out of your next pay!”
The three men burst into laughter, the two rather nervously, unsure whether or not their boss is speaking the truth.
“Tell me chief, what are we celebrating?” asks the second man, whose forehead is shiny with sweat from too much alcohol and too many Sichuan peppers.
The drink-seller places three cold bottles of Tsingtao on the table and pries open the caps with the bottle opener attached to his belt. The conductor raises his bottle to toast his friends. “We celebrate, my friends, the birth of my first grandchild!”
“Congratulations, chief,” says the first man. “What did they name him?”
“Him” Who said anything about a him? It’s a girl you idiot!” shouts the conductor, his face flashing red.
“Sorry, chief.”
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