The Tree That Bleeds by Nick Holdstock

Author:Nick Holdstock [Holdstock, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Ethnic minorities & multicultural studies
Publisher: Luath Press Ltd
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

69

THE BUS BUMPS towards Urumqi. Out the window, all is white. You seek solace in your book but the sound spitting from the television will have none of it. The film still looks (and sounds) to be the one put on five hours ago, a kung fu film whose plot consists of a Chinese woman punching Japanese men.

No one else seems interested; they slump, feign sleep or stare into the bleaching void, willing time forwards or back. Snow falls with the intentness of rain, eager to settle and transform the terrain; for everything to be smooth.

The bus pulls into a yard with restaurants on three sides: an Lshape of Hui places, a brief stroke of Han. You head for the latter, thinking it will be quieter. The atmosphere inside is funereal and you are halfway through turning to leave when a man shouts at you. He tells you to sit; you do. He asks what you want; you say noodles. He stomps into the kitchen, screams the order, and is met by the shrill cry that there are none. The volume increases, and the pitch, and suddenly there are emphatic thumps. You make your exit and head for one of the Hui restaurants. Your shoes seek purchase on the ice but fail. As you lie on the ground, you stare at the ice, beneath which playing cards are frozen. You see a queen of hearts, a ten of spades. You do not see a three. Then a man helps you up and leads you into his restaurant.

Inside the air is thick with steam and breath. A woman brings you a bowl of caramel-coloured tea. The air smells of mutton and smoke. You rub the window into visibility. A flock of sheep surround the bus. They scratch themselves on the exhaust, nibble at the wheels.

Your laghman arrives, first at your table, then your lower intestine. But there is no time to digest. When the bus driver sounds his horn, everyone bolts for the toilets.

Each stall consists of two planks over a hole, underneath which lurks the cesspit. In summer the stench would be awful, but on this winter day it's almost beautiful: faeces glisten in weak light; the ice is yellowed and smooth. The only thing that spoils the mood is the man squatting next to you. He strains and grunts, then sighs, relieved, his difficult task complete.

From Urumqi, you fly south to Kunming ('city of eternal spring'), and from there to Bangkok. All the foreign men you meet there seem intent on taking you to as many strip bars as possible. You flee to Cambodia, where the men instead try to make you accompany them to the $3 brothels. One evening you find yourself in a grubby one street town 11km north of Phnom Penh. Limbless children wave their stumps in your face while diseased dogs fight. Two fat American men feed a teenage girl ice cream. At the end of the street the spire of a Catholic church rises above it all.

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