I didn't mean to do this.
I don't know why, but I changed my usual habit; when I walked along Barkhor Street at dusk, for some reason I decided to walk counter clockwise, againstthe waves of people coming from the other direction.
The gilt roof of the Jokhang Temple was still reflecting the afterglow of the sun which had already sunk into the mountain range to the west. I really didn’t know what was going to happen, but I had the realisation right from the start that something would happen.
At that moment, the whole of the holy city of Lhasa seemed to be packed into Barkhor Street, and everyone seemed to be circling around the Barkhor.
Perhaps everyone thought this was just an evening like any other, no different from any other dusk throughout history.
A normal evening in the holy city of Lhasa.
Except for the fact that this time I walked into the Barkhor counter clockwise. I walked around the Barkhor every day, and like always I wondered why, when I do this every day, I never seem to recognise any familiar faces. I couldn’t work it out, could it be that every day thousands of new strangers come in to replace the strangers that I had slowly been getting used to the day before? Without realising it I had walked into the middle of the road and gotten in the way of the people who were walking around the other way.
I saw several people roll their eyes at me. I started to realise that I really shouldn’t have gone against the flow; but I didn’t regret doing it, this was somehow my fate, that much I knew.
I didn’t turn back. I tried to avoid those not so friendly faces. I don't blame them. If it were me and I saw an outsider, a non-Tibetan, colliding into people as we were performing our sacred ritual of walking around the Barkhor, then I’d be doing a lot more than just rolling my eyes at them, that’s for sure.
Someone swore at me, I can always tell when someone is swearing at me, the language barrier doesn’t really exist when you are being sworn at.
I walked slowly and calmly. I walked around about a dozen times. It was dark, and there were fewer and fewer people on the Barkhor. The whole time I had been walking against the flow of people.
A long line of people entered the Barkhor and were crawling along the street, prostrating themselves with each step they took, until they were right in front of me. They were all young, the first one was very tall and had a shaved head, the other eight also had shaved heads. They moved quickly and their faces were covered in dust. When they were right in front of me, I saw that the tall guy with the shaved head had only one eye and a large hairy mole in the centre of his eyebrows. He was tall, a bit taller than me even.
After that we bumped into each other another three times. So I walked out of the Barkhor, and just like any other time, I forgot about those nine Buddhist pilgrims.
I went back to my room, got out my writing pad, and sat there with my elbows on the desk for about three hours.
After midnight, I felt hungry and came outside again. I was surprised that after sitting for three whole hours I had only managed to write three words. I had recently gone to three encampments of Khampa Buddhist pilgrims on the outskirts of Lhasa and now I wanted to write about them. ‘The Khampa encampment’ – these were the three words I had written.
I avoided the Bakhor this time and headed north toward the old Vajrayana Buddhist temple.
Thankfully a restaurant run by some people from Sichuan was open all night. I walked in, found a seat against the wall, and ordered some food and a bottle of beer. At this time, I saw that the people on the opposite side of the restaurant sitting by the wall were the ones who had just been prostrating themselves in the Barkhor. Nine guys with shaved heads; the tallest of them one-eyed, the mole between his eyebrows conspicuous under the fluorescent lighting.
He did not recognize me. They were all dressed in a typical Lhasa style: black trousers and imported denim jackets. They spoke mandarin with Lhasa accents. None of them spoke Tibetan, but I could tell that they were all Tibetans. We all kept to ourselves and drank our beer and ate.
I can't say why this makes any sense, but I believe that what happened next was directly related to the fact that I walked around the Barkhor counter clockwise.
I was staring at the door not paying much attention when a Khampa man walked in wearing the red cloth tassels they traditionally wear in their hair. He was short, and there was something disconcerting and sly about his expression. Our eyes met and he came over to me. "Want to buy a bike?" he asked me.
I shook my head, my mind was somewhere else.
He saw that I had no intention of starting a conversation, so he turned to the nine guys with shaved heads. I heard one of them ask him how much the bike was, and he replied twenty Yuan. I remember clearly that he immediately added: "It's new, you can come out and have a look. It's at the door."
A new bike for 20 Yuan? This got me interested. I had just lost my bike three days ago, a second-hand Phoenix brand bike. This made me want to get up and go over to the door to take a look at this new 20 Yuan bike.
It was at this moment though that the guy with one eye spoke.
"Do you have a bike license plate?"
"What did you say?"
"I asked if you have a license. I’ll buy it if you have a license."
It happened so suddenly that even as a witness I didn’t see how the Khampa guy pulled out his knife. I saw, as his hand flashed forward, the knife plunge into the left ribs of the young guy with one eye, and I watched him fall to the floor without making a sound.
The other eight guys turned around and ran out, I was completely stunned. I forgot that I should probably run too. It seemed that the Khampa guy had already ruled me out as someone of significance. He glanced at me, then looked at the one-eyed guy who was on the floor; he wiped the blood off the knife on the guy’s face, and then ran after the eight other guys.
I had no intention in staying in this restaurant permeated with the smell of blood, the restaurant owner and his wife were completely terrified. The three of us went out one after the other. I can still remember the blood on the one eyed guy’s face.
There were street lights outside, but they were spaced out quite far apart with large areas of darkness between them. In the light cast from the street lamp out front, I saw the Khampa man chasing the short guy with the shaved head. I had no idea what to do.
Later, two police officers came, some police cars roared along the street, sirens blaring. The guy with one eye was carried into the car and taken to the hospital. I walked back to my place alone.
The next day I heard that the one-eyed guy died. The knife went straight into his heart. Another guy was stabbed in the shoulder and was admitted to the hospital. I also heard that the murderer was caught by the police.
Why did I decide to walk around the Barkhor the wrong way around?
I have not been back to the Khampa encampment again since then.
我绝对不是有意的。
我也不知道,我为什么一反习惯,居然迎着泛滥的人流,逆时针走近黄昏的八角街。
大昭寺的金顶尖尖仍然在反射落照的一点余晖,太阳却已经没入西边的丛山峻岭。我的确不知道要发生什么事,然而我从一开始就已经意识到,有什么好戏就要开场了。
这个时刻,八角街几乎集中了整个圣城拉萨的人们,环行的同时也巨大的八角街被转经的人群挤得满满的时刻。也许每个人都以为,这只是个平常又平常的时间,像前无始后无终的所有黄昏一样平常。
这是圣城拉萨的一个平常的黄昏。
只有我不平常地逆时针进入八角街。我像平时一样难于理解,为什么我每天都来转街,而每天都很少看到熟识的面孔。我想不出,莫非每天都有数以万计的陌生人替换前一天那些已经不太陌生的人们?我不自觉地走到道路中间,我不自觉,我成了转经的人们的障碍了。
我看到许多人的白眼。给我的白眼。我开始意识到我不该逆着人流;可是我不后悔绝不后悔。这是我的命数,我都知道。
我没有向后转。我尽量躲开那些不太友好的面孔。我不怪他们。如果是我,我看到一个异族人在我们的神圣行列中搅扰冲撞,我给他的就不仅仅是白眼了。
有人用粗话骂我,骂人的话我凭直觉就能感受到。语言在这个领域里没有障碍。
我走得很慢,且心平气和,我大约走了十几圈。天已经黑透了,八角街上的人越来越少了。我一直逆着人流转街。
有长长的一队人进了八角街,是磕着长头进来的。他们一步一个等身长头,正好和我正面相遇。他们都很年轻。为首的一个剃光头,个子很高,其他八个人也都剃光头。他们动作麻利,满脸的尘土。到了跟前时我看到为首的大个子是个独眼,眉心正中有一颗带毛的大痦痣。他很高,比我还高出一截。
这之后,我们有三次相遇,三次交臂面过——我就从八角街走出去了。我像过去一样,就此把这九个年轻的朝佛人忘掉。
我回到自己房间里,摊开稿纸,双肘支在写字台上坐了大约三个小时。
零点以后,我觉得肚子饿,又一次来到外面。我奇怪,坐了三小时,我除了写下一个五字题目外,竟再没写出一点东西。我最近跑了拉萨城郊的三个康巴人朝佛营地,我要写一写他们。康巴人营地——就是这五个字。
我绕开八角街,向北转到老密宗院附近。
感谢勤快的四川人,他们的小酒馆几乎是通宵敞着店门。我走进去,找一个靠墙的位置坐下,要了两个小炒一瓶啤酒。我这时才看到另一面靠墙的小伙子们就是刚才在八角街磕长头的那一群。九个光头;其中最高大的那个正是独眼,他的眉心痣在荧光灯下非常显眼。
他没有认出我。他们穿着打扮是地道的拉萨时装;黑色长筒裤,进口牛仔服。满口拉萨普通话。他们都不说藏话,可我还是看得出他们都是藏族。我们各喝各的。
我说不出道理,可我认定接下来发生的事与我逆时针转八角街有直接关系。
那个头戴红缨的康巴人进来的时候,我正盯着门口发呆。他个子矮小,一双小眼睛透出傲慢和狡黠。他和我的目光相遇了,他先来到我跟前。“买自行车吗?”他问我。
我摇了摇头。我在想别的。
他看我没心思搭讪,就又转到九个光头小伙子跟前。我听到其中一个问他多少钱,他回答说二十元。我清楚记得他马上补充了一句:“是新的呢,你可以出来看看。在门口。”
新自行车他只卖二十元,这一点引起我的兴趣。我三天前刚刚丢了自行车,半新的凤凰男车。我甚至想马上站起来,到门口去看一下这台要卖二十元的新车。
就在这时,我看大个子独眼说话了。
“你有自行车牌照吗?”
“你说什么?”
“我问你有没有牌照。你有牌照我买。”
事情发生的那么突然,连我这个目击者都没看清康巴汉子是怎么拔出刀子的。我看到他手一挥,刀子插进了独眼青年的左肋,我眼瞅着他一声没吭就倒下了。
另外八个小伙子转身就往外跑,我完全呆住了。我忘了我也该跑。看来那个康巴人已经把我排除在外,他看了我一眼,又看了倒下去的独眼一阵,把刀子在那个独眼脸上蹭了蹭,转身去追那八个光头。
我不敢留在这个血腥的小酒馆里,我看酒馆主人夫妇也都吓坏了。我们三个人依次出了门。我来得及记住独眼小伙子脸上的鲜血。
外面有路灯,但每个路灯间的距离都非常大。我借助前面的路灯可以看到康巴汉子在追逐一个矮个光头。我不知道该怎么办。
后来来了两个警察,又有一些警车在街上轰鸣,警笛也尖叫起来。那个独眼小伙子被抬到汽车上送往医院。我一个人走回我的住处。
第二天我听说那独眼青年死了。刀子直插入心脏。另一个小伙子被刺伤肩膀,住了院。我还听说杀人的人被抓住了。
我为什么要逆时针转八角街呢?
那以后,我再没去过康巴营地。