Yu Yan Chen (陈瑜燕) is an award-winning poet and literary translator. She won Singapore’s Golden Point Award in 2015 and garnered the top prize at the Flushing Poetry Festival in 2019. Her first poetry collection, entitled Small Hours, was published by the NYQ Books in 2011. Her second poetry Grandma Says (祖母说), was published in 2017. Her translation of The Chief Cellist, a children’s book by Taiwanese author Wang Wenhua, was published by the Balestier Press in 2015. She currently resides in Singapore and has translated short stories, essays and poems by Yi Sha, Mai Jia, Li Juan, Han Dong, and Zheng Xiaoqiong.
Li Juan (李娟) was born in 1979 in Xinjiang Province. She spent her childhood in remote towns in both Sichuan and Xinjiang. She used to work on the assembly line, but became a government employee at a later time. In 2007 she resigned to write full time. Her works center on her sensitive meditations while living among the Kazakh nomads of the Altay region. Her prose collections include Nine Chapters of Snow, Corners of Altay, My Altay, Please Sing Out Loud while Traveling through the Night, and Remember Little, Forget More. Corners of Altay has been translated into French and Korean. She has also won a number of prestigious awards including the People’s Literature Award, Zhu Ziqing Prose Prize, Mao Dun Literature Prize, and Shanghai Literature Prize, among others. She currently lives in Altay, Xinjiang.
(translated by Yu Yan Chen)
Ever since the pink coach started its route, we never used the minivan to go to town anymore; the fare was 20 yuan per person, but it only costs 10 yuan for the pink coach. It used to be that additional fares were charged when your luggage was slightly bigger than usual, whereas now you could load freely. Most importantly, there was suddenly a proper schedule for the coach, unlike the minivan that always had to wait until it was full, delays be damned.
‘The pink coach’ was really just a used, medium-sized coach. The driver was on the chubby side, and happy as a hippo. Whenever he saw someone running toward the road from far away, making a long trail of footprints in the snow, he would ever so joyfully apply the brake and say, “Ah-ha! Ten more yuan is coming!”
All the children inside the coach would then shriek a collective “Whoa!” – as though commanding a horse to stop.
With six of my fellow passengers and I packed into the tiny space between the engine and the front row, we were already full to the brim. However, when the coach arrived at Wanahara Village, five more people and two sheep squeezed in. By then I could hardly move my arms, which gave me a strange urge to hop on top of the two sheep. Luckily, as more and more people got on, the unheated coach began to warm up, and the few men sitting in the back row began to drink alcohol, soon moving on to cheering and singing. About an hour later they got into a brawl and the driver threw every one of them out. Finally we were able to breathe properly.
Although there were very few villages dotted along the Black River, quite a number of passengers rode the pink coach to the Qiakuertu Township every day. The coach set out before five every morning, its lonely shadow crossing the dark villages one by one, honking on the way and waking up window lamps one at a time. While the honking still echoed in the previous village, the next village was already awake, and people stood by the roadside wrapped in layers, their luggage in a big pile on the snow.
Akehara was the last village to the west along this strip, which made it the first village on the daily route of the pink coach. As a result, I was always the first to get on. The inside of the vehicle felt empty and cold, thick with the warm air from my breath. The driver would greet me in a loud voice over the noisy engine, “How are you, young lady? How is everything?” Meanwhile, he would lift up a heavy sleeveless jacket made of sheepskin from the seat next to him and throw it to me. I would catch it and wrap it around my knees.
The night was still deep and the snow heavy. Before us the Gobi Desert stretched vast and expansive, with not a single tree in sight. I had no idea how the driver kept track of the road and the vehicle on pavement without once going astray, since it was the same colour as the ground.
As the sky lit up, the coach was already packed with people, yet it remained bitterly cold. Being inside the vehicle at minus 20 to 30 degree Celsius for a long period of time had taken a toll on me. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two chubby old people sitting on top of the engine cover in front of the first row, facing each other. How warm it must be! So I forced my way to the spot and planted myself in the gap between them, sitting on the luggage that was stuffed in by their feet. Feeling much more comfortable at last, I soon discovered – rather embarrassingly – that they were actually husband and wife.
This couple held hands all the way, but they had no place to put them, so they rested them on my knee. I also had no place to put my hand, so I placed it on the old man’s leg. Later on, the old man’s large hand held on to one of mine to warm it up, while mumbling something to his wife. Soon the old lady took my other hand to keep it warm. Along the way I shrank my hands back quite a few times, but the couple quickly took them again.
Despite the string of comings and goings, the coach seemed to remain full of passengers. Most of them were hitchhiking, in the process of walking from one village to another in the snow. When they saw the pink coach, they waved and hopped on. In fact, even if they hadn’t asked the coach to stop, the driver would have stopped in front of the pedestrians anyway. The passenger sitting by the door would then greet them in a loud voice, “You want a ride? Come quickly! It’s freezing!”
The number of passengers reached its peak on Sundays. They were mostly children of Han ethnicity from a village on the lower bank, going back to school in the county town, since there were no Mandarin-speaking schools nearby. They all waited by the roadsides of their villages. As soon as the coach came to a halt, a father would hop on first, fight his way through the crowd, put down the luggage, and clear enough space for his child to sit down. Then he would turn and call out loudly, “Son, come sit here,” followed by another reminder, “Son, did you bring your bread?”
Every time this happened, I always felt disappointed for the driver. He might have thought that this was a 20 yuan fare.
After the father had settled his son, he would squeeze through to the door once more and declare to the driver, “This is the money for my son’s ticket. He paid already, remember. My son is the one with the cap. Don’t forget, Master.”
“Okay.”
“The one at the back with the cap.”
“Got it.”
“Master, my son is wearing a cap. Don’t forget!”
“I know, I know!”
He was still worried, so he shouted into the pool of heads inside the coach, “Son, why don’t you jump up and let the Master see your cap?”
Unfortunately, at that precise moment, everyone was either busy getting on or off, and they were all frantically arranging their luggage. The boy tried to jump up several times, but we still had no chance of seeing his head.
“Okay, okay. No need to jump.”
“Master, my son paid already, and he is the one wearing the cap –”
“I’m about to set off. Those not leaving with us, hurry up and get off.”
“Son, I told you to show the Master your cap. Why don’t you listen?”
Then off we went again, the coach winding down the road from village to village, with passengers waiting by the roadside almost at every one of them. Some of them were taking the coach, but some just wanted to send a message, “Abudula from the fourth Brigade needs to go to the county town tomorrow. Could you pick him up along the way? His house is the second one from the east.”
Or, “Give Pahan this message: buy some celery if there is any money left. Tell him to come home as soon as he can.”
Or, “My Mom is sick. Could you get some medicine for her from the county town?”
Often there were several letters waiting to be picked up by the driver.
Although the coach was very crowded, there was a kind of order within. The first few rows were dedicated to the elderly, while the young people sat on the luggage that was heaped in the aisle. All the children sat on top of the engine cover, which was coated with a thick carpet, and leaned against each other. They might not have known one another, but the older children had the responsibility of looking out for the younger ones, even though the older ones could be just six or seven years old. I saw one of them pushing up the luggage for a three-year-old seated next to him, so that the younger one could sit firmly in his spot. Over and over, whenever the little boy took off his gloves, the older boy would pick them up and put them on him again.
There was a two year-old boy with rosy cheeks sitting across from me, staring at me quietly with his big blue eyes. For two to three hours he kept the same exact position, not moving at all, let alone crying or fussing about.
I said loudly, “Whose kid is this?”
No one answered. Only snores could be heard inside the vehicle.
I asked the boy, “Who is your daddy?”
He continued to look at me with his big blue eyes, not even blinking.
I wanted to touch his hand to see if he was cold, but as soon as I reached out, he quickly extended his arms and wanted me to hold him. A tender feeling enveloped me as he came over. He fell asleep as soon as he was comfortable, with his small, soft body leaning on my arms, his little head tilted to one side. I dared not move for the rest of the journey, afraid of disturbing the lonesome dream of the little person in my arms.
~
粉红色大车
李娟
(2007-04-13 15:24:40)
自从有了粉红色大车，我们去县城就再也不坐小面包车了。小面包车一个人要收二十块钱，粉红色大车只要十块钱。小车捎点大件东西还要另外收钱，大车随便装。最重要的是，大车发车总算有个准时了，不像小车，人满了才走，老担误事。
“粉红色大车”其实是一辆半旧的中巴车，司机胖乎乎、乐呵呵的，每当看到远处雪地上有人深一脚浅一脚地向公路跑来，就会快乐地踩一脚刹车：“哈呵！十块钱来了！”
车上所有的孩子则齐致地发出“嘟儿～～～”——勒马的命令声。
我和六十块钱挤在引擎和前排座之间那块地方，已经满满当当了。可是车到温都哈拉村，又塞进来了五十块钱和两只羊，这回挤得连胳膊都抽不出来了，真想让人骑到那两只羊身上去……好在人一多，没有暖气的车厢便暖和起来了。于后排座上的几个男人开始喝酒，快乐地碰杯啊，唱歌啊。一个小时后开始打架。司机便把他们统统哄了下去。这才轻松了不少。
虽然乌河这一带村庄稀廖，但每天搭粉红色大车去县城或者恰库儿特镇的人还真不少。每天早上不到五点钟车就出发了，孤独地穿过一个又一个漆黑的村庄，一路鸣着喇叭，催亮沿途一盏一盏的窗灯。当喇叭声还响在上面一个村子时，下面村子的人就开始准备了，穿得厚厚的站在大雪簇拥的公路旁，行李堆在脚边雪地上。
阿克哈拉是这一带最靠西边的村子，因此粉红色大车每天上路后总是第一个路过这里。我也总是第一个上车。车厢里空荡而冰冷，呵气浓重。司机在引擎的轰鸣声中大声打着招呼：“你好吗？身体可好？”一边从助手座上捞起一件沉重的羊皮坎肩扔给我，我连忙接住盖在膝盖上。
夜色深厚，风雪重重，戈壁滩坦阔浩荡，沿途没有一棵树。真不知司机是怎么辨别道路的，永远不会把汽车从积雪覆盖的路面开到同样是积雪覆盖的地基下面去。
天色渐渐亮起来时，车厢里已经坐满了人，但还是那么冷。长时间呆在零下二三十度的空气里，我已经冻得实在是受不了。突然看到第一排座位和座位前的引擎盖子上面对面地坐着两个胖胖的老人——那里一定很暖和！便不顾一切地挤过去，硬塞在他们两人中间的空隙里，这下子果然舒服多了。但是，不久后却尴尬地发现：他们两个原来是夫妻……
这两口子一路上一直互相握着手，但那两只握在一起的手没地方放，就搁在我的膝盖上……我的手也没地方放，就放在老头儿的腿上。后来老头儿的另一只大手就攥着我的手，替我暖着。老太太看到了也连忙替我暖另一只手。一路上我把手缩回去好几次，但立刻又给攥着了。也不知为什么，我的手总是那么凉……
车上的人越来越多，不停地有人上车下车。但大都是搭便车的――正顶着风雪从一个村子步行到另一个村子去，恰好遇到粉红色大车经过，就招手拦下。其实，就算是不拦，车到了人跟前也会停住，车门边坐的人拉开门大声招呼：“要坐车吗？快一点！”
周日坐车的人最多，大多是下游一个汉族村里返校上课的汉族孩子。一个个背着书包等在村口，车停下后，父亲先挤上车，左右突围，置好行李，拾掇出能坐下去的地方，然后回头大声招呼：“娃！这呐坐定！”又吼叫着叮嘱一句：“娃！带馍没有？”
每每这时，总会替司机失望一回。还以为这回上来的是二十块钱呢……
那父亲安顿好了孩子，挤回车门口，冲司机大喊：“这是俺娃哩车票钱，俺娃给过钱哩！俺娃戴了帽子，师傅别忘哩！”
“好。”
“就是最后边戴帽子那哩！”
“知道了。”
“师傅，俺娃戴着帽子，可记着哩！”
“知道了知道了！”
还不放心，又回头冲车厢里一片乱纷纷的脑袋大吼：“娃，你跳起来，让师傅看看你哩帽子！”
无奈此时大家都忙着上下车，手忙脚乱地整理行李，那孩子试着跳了几次，也没法让我们看到他的脑袋。
“好啦好啦，不用跳了……”
“师傅，俺娃是戴帽子哩，俺娃车钱给过哩……”
“要开车了，不走的就赶快下去！”
“娃，叫你把帽子给师傅看看，你咋不听？！”
“……”
车在一个又一个村子里蜿蜒着，几乎每一个路口都有人在等待。有的是坐车，有的则为了嘱咐一句：“明天四队的哈布都拉要去县城，路过时别忘了拉上他。他家房子在河边东面第二家。”
或者是：“给帕罕捎个口信，还有钱剩下的话就买些芹菜吧。另外让他早点回家。”
或者：“我妈妈病了，帮忙在县城买点药吧？”
或者有几封信拜托司机寄走。
车厢里虽然拥挤但秩序井然。老人们坐在前面几排，年轻人坐在过道里的行李堆上。而小孩子们全都一个靠一个挤在引擎盖子上――那里铺着厚厚的毡毯。虽然孩子们彼此间谁也不认识，可是年龄大的往往有照顾大家的义务。哪怕那个年龄大的也不过只有六七岁而已。他一路上不停地把身边一个三岁小孩背后的行李努力往上堆，好让那孩子坐得稳稳当当。每当哪个小孩把手套脱了扔掉，他都会不厌其烦地拾回来帮他重戴上。
还有一个两岁的小孩一直坐在我对面，绯红的脸蛋，蔚蓝色的大眼睛，静静地瞅着我。一连坐了两三个小时都保持着同一个姿势，动都不动一下，更别提哭闹了。
我大声说：“谁的孩子？”
没人回答。车厢里一片鼾声。
我又问那孩子：“爸爸是谁呢？”
他的蓝眼睛一眨都不眨地望着我。
我想摸摸他的手凉不凉，谁知刚伸出手，他便连忙展开双臂向我倾身过来，要让我抱。真让人心疼……这孩子身子小小软软的，刚一抱在怀里，小脑袋一歪，就靠着我的膊弯睡着了。一路上我动都不敢动弹一下，生怕惊忧了怀中小人安静而孤独的梦境。
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