The Silk Road Affair

AS PEALE WOULD soon learn, Ho had already brushed up on the Xinjiang Province road maps. The straightest route out of China was through Khorgos, four hundred miles, but as they had learned, that was closed down. “Okay, I’ve talked to the taxi guy. No problem going north to the next big stop, a city called Karamay. That’s a big tourist route It goes over the mountains to a lake resort, Ulungur Lake, a big national park. The Aspen of Xinjiang.” “Damn, we forgot our skis,” Peale said. It was humor under stress, and he hoped it worked with Ho after their little spat. “More like camels,” she said. “Any route is mostly desert.” She explained more. Northward took them to Karamay City, about two hundred fifty miles. That was five hours before sunset. Then she said they’d think it over. The could cut west and try to hit the Kazakh border at a town called Tacheng City. It was a big border crossing complex. “Bigger is better sometimes,” she said. “And the alternative?” “If Tacheng looks iffy, we keep going north. Then east toward Kazakhstan, a crossing called Jimunai Port. Farther, but probably easier of the two.” “Easier?” “Less uptight,” she said. “Either way, we’re going to make some donations.” She patted where all the currency packs were stowed away. “Forgot my American Express.” “How far we talking about?” Peale was an Afghanistan vet and no stranger to desert stretches. “From here, about four hundred miles to Tacheng. More than seven hundred to Jimunai. For the first, just think a desert drive from D.C. to Boston.” “For the next?” “Say, less than Albuquerque to L.A., at least an hour less.” “Look at the bright side,” Peale said. “Both are beautiful desert drives.” He awaited Ho’s response to that, which came after a pause. “I can’t guarantee palm-shaded waterholes. Those exotic bazaars with belly dancers will have to wait.” “Those were the days,” Peale said. Yes, he assured himself, she does have a sense of humor under that reserve. Humor under fire. It always helped, and it was the only antidote to nerve-wracking circumstances in the field, at least for him. The day was getting late. In either choice of the route, they’d be crossing into Kazakhstan in the dark of night. They needed to use the daylight to their best advantage. Having gotten into the taxi, Ho in the front, Peale in the back, they headed north. The driver was middle-aged man who wore a squared cap and a five-o’clock shadow. The road followed the oases along the mountain. Eventually they passed by the Phoenix Group/Silk Road Co. turnoff. “Reddam,” Peale said with a flourish, looking at Ho. “Latin for ‘I shall return.’” “If anybody, its ‘we shall,’” Ho said. The road curved northward. The green around Urumqi gave way to Xinjian’s lunar landscape. Ridges carved up the sanded areas, which were flat as a dinner plate. Hughes of gray, rust red, black and brown tinted the soils. Their heads grew a little light in the accumulating heat of the day. There was nothing left to do but sit like melting waxworks—or talk. Adopting a Cowboy twang, Peale said, “There’s jade in them thar hills.” Ho said, “For my cultural contribution, I have a Chinese proverb.” “And that is?” “Du wanjuanshu bu ru xíng wanlǐlu. Mandarin for ‘Reading a thousand books is not as good as traveling a thousand miles.’” “Don’t remind me, I mean, the thousand books,” he said. “It makes my head ache.” About two hours in, mostly quiet with a little dozing, he said, “By the way, since you’re saving my life and—” “Don’t jump to conclusions.” “Well, let me ask you something anyway.” “As long as it’s not my weight,” she said. After so much thinking about the Han, this Han, that Han, Peale asked, “How do you deal with the whole racism thing? I mean, the American railroads, ‘Chinamen’ labor, the Exclusion Act and all that. Not a pretty picture.” That was the troubled history of early Chinese migration to the United States. “There’s some kind of racism all over the world, but it doesn’t control my life.” “Not even a little?” “For me the past is fascinating, but it’s not the now. It’s not necessarily the future.” “Be here now,” Peale said. “Ah, so you’re a pop philosopher, too.” “I try.” Ho said, “Okay, I guess what’s really Chinese about me, besides the chopsticks, is this. It’s very old. Very Confucian in fact. You have parents. But you also have a country, a kind of parent. It makes you who you are, whether you were born there or live and die there. My mother and father told me this. They also said, ‘When you visit someone’s home, you don’t rearrange the furniture.’ And I’ve been persuaded.” Peale said, “So, Chinese-American.” Ho wanted to say it could be worse, she could be a Uyghur in China—but instead she said, “No, American-Chinese.” “Much clearer,” Peale said. The desert stretched to every horizon. At times a long line of covered trucks would pass by in the other lane. The hot wind would rock the jeep and raise dust. Far off they both noticed a dark cloud. It hung over a mesa, and stranger still was the rumble of distant thunder. Some of the tall protruding rocks cast knife-like shadows. Peale was still curious, so he said, “Okay, so we’ve got the Secrets Act, but what can you tell me about yourself before this government business?” Ho sat quietly for a while. She’d prefer to talk about the weather, but the lull was like a vacuum, sucking out her memories. And it wouldn’t be remiss to tell her partner a few things. She started with her upbringing in Chicago, a bright Asian kid who got into the University of Chicago with a humanities major. “So around the campus there was this Chinese student organization, exchange students from the mainland, and some off-campus activists. I kind of got sucked in, you know, youthful idealism.