The Five Brothers' Dream

When Ma Yide arrived in the ancient Western Regions, it was the middle of May.
The train had run northward from Canton for several days and nights. Outside the window, there had first been paddy fields along the Southern Mountain Ranges, village houses, and banana groves; then the wheat waves, yellow earth, and level plains of the Central Plains. Later still, mountains and rivers gradually opened wide, and the sky seemed as though someone had washed it clean—the farther west they went, the higher and bluer it became. By the time the train entered Urumqi, Ma Yide pushed open the window, and the wind that rushed into his face was not Canton’s damp and fishy heat, but a clean, brisk vastness scented with dust and grass.
Standing on the platform with a canvas bag on his back and more than fifty thousand yuan still pressed against his chest, he suddenly felt as though his heart had been blown open by the wind of the Tianshan Mountains.
“Yide!”
Beyond the crowd, someone called loudly.
Ma Yide turned and saw two young men striding toward him. The one in front was his cousin Ma Chengye. He had already graduated from the Police Officers’ University and remained there to work. His figure was upright, his features proper, and he wore a blue shirt washed almost pale. He still walked with the same steadiness he had shown at the ancestral ceremony years before. Behind him was Ma Chengzhi, sturdy in build and slightly darkened by sun, now serving in the Armed Police. His brows and eyes carried a new heroic bearing, yet when he smiled, it was still the same open brightness of their youth.
The three brothers met outside Urumqi Railway Station. First they froze for a moment; then they embraced with force.
Ma Chengzhi patted his back and laughed. “Good boy, you really came! I thought you would finish boasting in Canton and leave it at that.”
Ma Yide flung the canvas bag over his shoulder. “I may not dare claim much else, but when I boast, I at least have to try riding the ox.”
Ma Chengye smiled. “Don’t hurry to ride the ox. There are still some days before the Hami melons fully ripen. The fields are not at their best yet. Pick them early and the sweetness will not be enough. Since you have come all this way, first take a look around the ancient Western Regions.”
“See the ancient Western Regions?” Ma Yide’s eyes lit up.
Ma Chengzhi threw an arm around his shoulders. “Yes. In the north, one sees the mountains; in the south, one sees the soul. If you do not understand this land, do not speak of doing business here.”
That evening, they first went to the home of their eldest uncle, Ma Zhihui.
Ma Zhihui had already retired and lived in a quiet courtyard in Urumqi. Several elm trees grew in the yard. Neatly stacked coal lined the wall, and a few pots of nameless flowers sat upon the windowsill. Aunt Feng Beeyer prepared a table full of food: hand-grabbed mutton, pilaf peppers and onions, pulled noodles, big-plate chicken, roasted naan, and a pot of hot brick tea.
As soon as Ma Yide entered, he smelled lamb and cumin, and his stomach immediately growled.
Feng Beeyer smiled. “Child from Canton, are you afraid of the smell of mutton?”
Ma Yide sat down and immediately picked up a piece. “Aunt, right now I fear nothing except failing to make money.”
Everyone at the table laughed.
Only Ma Zhihui looked at him and slowly said, “Making money is a good thing. But when you come to the ancient Western Regions, you must first learn reverence for Heaven and Earth. This is not Canton. In Canton the roads are narrow, and people rely on squeezing past one another. In the ancient Western Regions, the roads are wide, and people eat by Heaven’s favor. Whether melons succeed or fail depends on wind, sand, sun, and water. Not one can be missing.”
Holding his teacup, Ma Yide listened seriously.
Ma Chengzhi cut in from beside him. “Eldest Uncle is giving you your first lesson: don’t think the twenty cents’ melons are just lying there waiting for you to pick up money. The melons of the ancient Western Regions are sweet because the days are hot, the nights are cool, the sun is fierce, and the water is clear. People are the same. Without tasting a little heat and cold, they cannot become sweet.”
Ma Yide smiled. “Then I have come to be sun-dried.”
The next day, the three brothers first went north.
As the vehicle left Urumqi, the Tianshan Mountains gradually revealed their outline in the distance. These were not the soft mountains of Jiangnan, nor the humid mountains of Lingnan. The Tianshan were high, cold, and vast. Snow peaks stretched across the horizon like a row of silent giants wrapped in white robes that had not melted for ten thousand years, looking down upon the grasslands, river valleys, cities, and the busyness of human life below.
In May, the foot of the northern ranges had already turned newly green, yet the summits remained covered in white snow. Along the road, poplars stood in rows, irrigation water ran clear, and in the distant pastures cattle and sheep were scattered like pearls. Felt yurts lay quietly among the green grass, and threads of cooking smoke rose one by one. Sitting by the car window, Ma Yide could hardly bear to blink.
“Brother Chengye,” he murmured, “this place is too big. So big that it makes a person feel his own little worries are small.”
Ma Chengye smiled faintly. “That is why I like it here. When a person stays long in a large place, he is less likely to become petty.”
Ma Chengzhi laughed. “That’s the tone he learned at police school. If you ask me, the ancient Western Regions are big because you can walk until your legs break and still not reach the end. When we trained on long marches, all you could see was road. You walked until you began doubting life itself.”
They first went to Heavenly Lake.
The mountain road wound upward, the pine forest grew denser, and the air became cooler. When they reached the lakeside, Ma Yide suddenly fell silent.
Heavenly Lake lay quietly in the embrace of the mountains. Its water was blue beyond measure, and snow peaks were reflected within it. Cloud shadows passed across the surface like the sleeves of immortals lightly brushing the water. Cold firs stood around the shore. When the wind passed through them, the pines murmured low. In the distance, tourists took photographs, and a few minority elders slowly led horses by, their bells ringing clearly. The sound fell into the lake light and mountain colors as though coming from an ancient book.
Standing by the water, Ma Yide suddenly thought of the lotus pond before Heavenly Temple.
One was in an ancient monastery of Lingnan; the other among the snow mountains of the Western Regions. Water was still water, yet one was secluded and clear, the other vast and desolate. He was still himself, yet he had moved from a youth at an ancestral ceremony to the beginning of a commercial road.
Ma Chengzhi handed him a piece of naan. “What are you thinking? Are you imagining that after you get rich, you’ll buy a mountain here?”
Ma Yide bit the naan and smiled. “I can’t afford a mountain. When I make money, first I’ll buy a storefront in Canton, then a color television for my mother, and a flower room for my father.”
“What about for yourself?” Ma Chengye asked.
“For myself?” Ma Yide thought for a moment, his eyes shining. “For myself, I’ll buy a bigger map.”
Ma Chengzhi laughed loudly. “Good! That sounds like a businessman. His heart is not on money—it is on the road.”
From Heavenly Lake they went down again and headed to the grasslands.
That afternoon, the clouds hung low and the wind was swift. The grass stretched without end in every direction. Herdsmen invited them into a yurt to drink milk tea. The hot milk tea carried a salty taste; at first it was unfamiliar, but by the third sip it seemed rich and mellow. On the table were milk curds, naan, and hand-grabbed meat. Ma Yide copied the host, tearing off a piece of lamb with his hands and dipping it in a little salt. It was fatty but not greasy, and the aroma seemed to rush straight to the crown of his head.
Seeing him eat awkwardly, Ma Chengzhi laughed until he bent forward and back. “Young master from Canton, where is your refinement?”
Ma Yide wiped his mouth. “I left my refinement in Canton. Once in the ancient Western Regions, one should eat meat like eating meat, and earn money like earning money.”
On the grassland, several Kazakh youths galloped past on horseback. Hooves kicked up grass fragments, and laughter floated far on the wind. Ma Yide’s heart itched at the sight, and he wanted to ride too. Ma Chengye reminded him, “You have not ridden before. Go slowly.”
Ma Yide was stubborn. “When I was little, I rode oxen.”
Ma Chengzhi burst out laughing on the spot. “An ox and a horse are not the same thing.”
Sure enough, as soon as he sat on the horse’s back and the animal moved, he nearly tilted off. Ma Chengzhi led the reins beside him, laughing. “Boss Ma, before you make your fortune, first learn not to fall off a horse.”
Ma Yide’s face reddened, but he refused to concede. “When I have money, I’ll buy the fiercest horse.”
The old herdsman understood a little and smiled, saying in imperfect Chinese, “If the horse is fierce, the heart must be steady.”
This sentence made Ma Yide pause.
That evening, they watched the sunset on the grassland. The clouds at the edge of the sky burned gold and red. Snow mountains floated far behind the sea of clouds. Cattle and sheep returned to their pens, and cooking smoke rose all around. Sitting in the grass, Ma Yide suddenly took out the account book he carried and wrote several characters on a blank page:
Doing business is like riding a horse: courage must be great, but the heart must be steady.
When Ma Chengye saw it, he nodded. “That is a good sentence.”
After returning from the north, Ma Chengzhi asked for several more days of leave and took Ma Yide south.
“Southern Xinjiang is different from the north,” Ma Chengzhi said before they set out. “The north is like a long pastoral song—open and bright. The south is like an ancient scripture. When the wind blows, every grain of dust holds a story.”
They first followed the highway south. The farther south they went, the drier the air became, and the color of the mountains gradually changed from green to ocher. By the roadside were Gobi flats, barren stretches, and sudden oases. Poplars stood in row after row along the road, their trunks straight, their leaves clapping in the wind like countless small hands. Far away, camels passed slowly, their bells deep and unhurried, as though drawing time back into an old dream of the Silk Road.
Looking at the desolation, then at the melon fields, cotton fields, and grape trellises that suddenly emerged from it, Ma Yide was deeply shaken.
“Such a dry place can grow such sweet melons?” he asked.
Ma Chengzhi said, “Precisely because it is bitter, it becomes sweet. Look at this land—the sun is cruel, the wind and sand are hard, but so long as there is water, it can live. People are the same.”
When they reached Nanshan in the south, they saw yet another landscape.
The Nanshan pastures were green and lush. Streams murmured through the valleys. Wildflowers covered the slopes. In the distance, snow peaks were white and pure; nearby, pine forests were deep and quiet. Herdsmen’s yurts were scattered across the grassy hillsides. When the wind bent the grass, the sheep appeared like clouds. Ma Yide took off his shoes and put his feet into the icy stream. The cold made him hiss, yet he could not bear to pull them out.
Ma Chengye sat beside him and smiled. “Does Canton have water like this?”
“The water in Canton is busy,” Ma Yide said. “The water here is idle.”
“Water can be busy or idle?”
“Of course. The water in Canton stays beside the docks and watches people move goods, fight for business, and rush for trains. The water here stays in the mountains, cares for nothing, and only keeps itself clear.”
Ma Chengzhi threw a stone into the stream. “Your foreign trade university was not wasted. You talk like you’re writing poetry.”
Ma Yide smiled. “If I fail at making money, I’ll go write travel essays.”
They stayed one night in Nanshan.
At night, the three lay inside a yurt. Outside, the wind lightly passed over the grassy slopes, and now and then a dog barked far away. A small skylight opened at the top of the yurt, and starlight poured in from there. The stars of the ancient Western Regions seemed lower than those of the South, and brighter too, as though one could pluck one down by reaching out a hand.
Ma Yide rested his head on his arm and suddenly said, “Brother Chengye, Brother Chengzhi, do you think this trip of mine will succeed?”
Ma Chengzhi turned over. “Are you afraid?”
“Not afraid.” Ma Yide stared at the skylight. “Only, the money is too large, and the road is too far. When I was calculating in Canton, I only saw the profit. Now that I have reached the ancient Western Regions and seen these mountains, this road, this wind, I realize that behind every half a kilo of melon there is such a vast Heaven and Earth.”
Ma Chengye was silent for a moment, then said, “If you can think to this level, you are steadier than when you first arrived.”
Ma Chengzhi also said, “In a businessman, great courage is not frightening. What is frightening is only great courage. Now that you know fear, that is a good thing.”
Ma Yide laughed softly. “Third Uncle said something similar. He said: when making money, don’t act like a nouveau riche; when losing money, don’t act like a dead man.”
Ma Chengzhi laughed loudly. “This Third Uncle—I like him.”
After traveling through both north and south, they had eaten whole roasted lamb and hot pulled noodles from roadside stalls; they had drunk milk tea and sour kumis that made them squint. They had seen markets where raisins, almonds, and dried figs were piled like hills, and Uyghur elders sitting in the shade playing the dutar, their songs low and winding like echoes from an ancient well. Ma Yide found everything fresh. He asked prices, kept accounts, inquired about transportation, asked about origins and seasons, and learned whose goods were good and whose word could be trusted.
Ma Chengzhi laughed at him. “Other people travel to look at girls and scenery. You, on the other hand, see everything and first ask whether it can be sold in Canton.”
Ma Yide laughed too. “That is the skill of a foreign trade man. Scenery disappears after one looks at it, but remembering a source of goods can turn into money.”
Though he spoke this way, he understood in his heart that this journey through the ancient Western Regions was no longer merely for Hami melons. The snow of Tianshan, the wind of the grasslands, the streams of Nanshan, the dusk over the Gobi, and the songs in the market were all like invisible hands pulling him out of the narrow, sweltering dream of wealth in Canton. They showed him the vastness of China, the distance of commercial roads, and something deeper beyond his own ambition.
At last, they arrived in Hami.
It was a place lit bright by sunlight.
In the distance lay vast mountain shadows; nearby, oasis fields spread green. The melon fields in May had not yet reached their busiest season, but the vines had already spread out. Tender green leaves lay close to the earth, like little palms reaching toward the fierce sun to ask for sweetness. In the farm, irrigation water drawn from the direction of the snow mountains flowed noisily along the ridges. Several workers from the Construction Corps were inspecting melon seedlings at the field edge, their skin darkened by sun, their eyes bright.
Ma Chengzhi took him to meet a farm cadre surnamed Liu. The man was in his forties, wearing an old army-green jacket. His trouser legs were stained with mud, and he held a straw hat in his hand.
“So this is the brother from Lingnan?” Cadre Liu looked Ma Yide up and down. “I hear you want to ship melons to Lingnan?”
Ma Yide immediately extended his hand. “Uncle Liu, hello. I would like to look at the melons first, then discuss price. The price can follow the market, but the quality must be stable.”
Cadre Liu shook his hand and smiled. “That is no small tone. Do you know that Hami melons are not stones? They must be tended on the road. Picking, loading, shipping, selling—if any step is rough, sweet melons become rotten water.”
Ma Yide nodded. “I know. That is why I came early. I want to see each step clearly.”
Cadre Liu looked at him, then at Ma Chengzhi, and suddenly smiled. “All right. A young man with courage who is also willing to step into the fields still has some hope. Come. I will take you to see the melon fields first.”
Ma Yide followed them into the field.
The earth beneath his feet was dry and hot. Sunlight fell upon his back like an invisible layer of fire. In the distance, the wind passed over the melon leaves, making a fine, broken sound. He crouched and gently touched one melon leaf. His palm picked up a little soil and the clean scent of green leaves.
Suddenly he thought of the human tide at Canton Railway Station, his father’s old iron abacus, the herbal medicines his mother had tucked into his bag, the fifty thousand dollars his third uncle had lent him, and the snow mountains, grasslands, Gobi, and starry skies he had seen along the way.
This field of not-yet-ripened melons before him was like an enormous gamble, and also like a magnificent promise.
Standing on the ridge, Ma Chengzhi called to him, “Yide, have you gone stupid looking at them? These are only melon seedlings. They are not money yet.”
Ma Yide lifted his head. Sunlight made his eyes shine.
“They are not money now,” he said. “But in another month, they will be.”
Standing nearby, Ma Chengye looked at this spirited cousin and could not help smiling. “I hope that by then, you will not only see money, but also see how these melons grew.”
Ma Yide stood, patted the soil from his hands, and looked up toward the vast clear sky above Hami.
“I see it,” he said. “These are not melons worth twenty cents half a kilo.”
He paused. His voice lowered, yet became firmer.
“This is Ma Yide’s first kingdom.”