The Sand Mandala

By Gary Hurlstone

Love, like a sand mandala’s beauty, has to fade. Or does it? Jamie Davidson’s about to find out as he takes the Cotton Road out of Manchester and joins the Silk Road into China in search of a woman he met in Guanzhou, the enigmatic, Autumn. In an exotic journey across the mountains of Yunnan, the Water Towns of Xitang and the riot torn streets of Lhasa, Jamie realises there is a darker side to Autumn. He has become unwittingly mixed up in the Fujian underworld of Snakehead crime.


Drug running, people trafficking and unbridled passion: Jamie Davidson is about to enter the dragon’s mouth.Can love and the spectre of childhood promises keep him alive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291970449

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The Sand Mandala

The Sand

Mandala

Gary Hurlstone

Copyright © 2014, Gary Hurlstone

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-1-291-97044-9

Special Thanks

With special thanks to Vicky Grut and Karen MacKenzie for help, suggestions and encouragement. Also big, big thanks to, Chen Zhuo for taking me on location, and making the impossible, possible.

Dedications

Robert Anton Wilson to Timothy Leary

Somebody asked the Zen Master, What happens after death? He said, I don’t know. And they said, But you’re a Zen Master! He said Yes, but I’m not a dead Zen Master!

Confucius has a similar remark. First we should try to understand the living before we try to understand the dead. I am working on trying to understand the living.

Dedicated to those who dare follow their hearts

1   March: To Wake a Sleeping Tiger…

A thousand people walk past: comrades, crooks, scholars— the curious. I don’t know any of them. There must be at least one murderer in the hall. A woman distracts me with a smile. I’m sure she is looking; wishful thinking? I wave. She ignores me, holds out her arms to greet her friend. Embarrassed, I look down, examine my hand—pretend to study the scar, a line that runs east-west across my life. ‘Stupid, a thousand times stupid,’ I mouth, rubbing palms together, sighing as I feel my past, pass between my fingers.

***

On the night of the ceremony we gather at the ‘secret site’, a small field on the edge of woodlands, a place close to the miners’ estate where we live. Rolling above lines of naked winter hedgerows, the full-moon breaks cloud-cover, lighting up crisp November frost with a benign smile. We wait, sucking and biting on the mantled comfort of cold adolescent-lips’: five dishevelled urchins swallowing fear.

Tattered pages torn from a wind-blown Manchester Evening News are gathered, splintered bars of storm damaged branches placed into a rock circle. A fire lit. Restless youngsters crouch in the shadows of light, flame patterns dancing across their faces.

Tony, the self-proclaimed leader of our gang, sharpens his knife on a stone, honing the blade, brushing soiled stubby fingers along its edge. Satisfied, he looks up from his position next to the fire, mumbles a few words to the assembled mass.

‘Ok, get over here.’

We huddle and hush in compliance. Tony challenges me with a fixed sideways stare, stabbing the air with the blade.  ‘Here, take it Jamie, or are you chicken?’

In the background, delinquent human hens goad with semi-strangulated, ‘bwaaks’, their eyes following the knife. I pause; look down at my upturned palm. The baying group howls, ‘chicken, chicken...’ Through a pall of circling smoke, crackling fire-rubies spit and dart. I guide the blade across my flesh. ‘Shhhhhh…’ A swathe of taut soft tissue draws apart. Clawing talons of pain sear from the furrow of commitment I have carved. Tony has made a first class job of sharpening. A wash of blood unfurls, gathers in a dam across the wound, drips onto the tufted grass beneath my feet.

Scooping in breath, I stare at my audience, my chest rising and falling, filled by the fading bloom of shock and the smell of damp winter-leaves. Schoolmates, Phil, William, Andy and Dave wait their turn. Andy’s hands move in the half-light of fire, fluttering in butterflies of fear. A timid boy—freckle faced, smaller than the rest of us, quiet, always the last to speak. But not tonight, ‘WHAT have you done Jamie? You’re bleeding everywhere.’ He marches towards me, points at my hand. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ I feign, shaking my head, stemming the blood. ‘It doesn't hurt. I’m just making it look good.’ The words trickle from my lips, searching for oxygen to keep them alive.

The four know there is no turning back. It is too late. But they learn from my mistake, make careful, shallow cuts, gripping their wrists to check bleeding, scraping the knife across their flesh. Mouths closed tight, we move to form a circle of five, shared pride radiating in a glow of solidarity.

‘Ok Tony, we’re ready.’ William, the oldest declares.

Tony examines the damage, gives his consent: a small grunt indicating satisfaction with the blood count. Clasping our hands high above our heads, we chant the pledge.

‘All together forever.’

‘Again.’ Tony shouts.

‘All together forever.’

‘LOUDER,’ he orders.

‘ALL TOGETHER…’

The pact is sealed. In triumph, we punch the air. Pandemonium erupts. In the light of the November moon, small savages dance around a blaze, screaming in celebration, caught up in the madness of Tony’s ritual, and the bonds of unthinking commitment, bonds that will tie us for life and beyond.

***

Over thirty years later I am staring hard at the floor, recalling the mistakes of a rebellious past, smiling and grimacing in equal measures at my youthful naivety. It is passing the time. And now?

The large Cantonese exhibition hall in front of me is stuffed with enough Chinese students to invade Europe, every one trying to find a study abroad course. But not, it appears, in England. I do not exist. Word is out. The UK is full of rampaging school-kids, knife-carrying debutantes, implausibly dangerous pensioners. Oh, and it rains all the time, rice is a thousand pounds a kilo and everywhere closes at six o’clock. Well, that is my excuse. My eighth exhibition in two weeks, I know how the day will go. Same old questions, same old answers, same old result.

‘Want lollipop?’ An eastern Lolita, short denim pants, dangerous grin, waves a glossy leaflet and red lolly in my direction. I take them, read the leaflet.

Little Blossoms: Cantonese Red Lantern Bar and Disco

‘No…I don’t think so thanks.’ I say in a pompous, ‘do I look like the type’ way. Clearly, she knows her market. I shake my head; try to give her the flyer back.

She tries again. ‘You handsome man; why you not want fun? Guangzhou exciting city, pretty girls, come relax, dance, have good time.’

She has a persuasive sales pitch but I am not a friend of the disco. Charming grin senses disinterest, starts to move. ‘Call me if you change mind. We open late, you enjoy, I guarantee.’ A smile later, she disappears into the bustle of the afternoon.

‘Handsome man,’ I repeat, turning to catch my reflection in the silver spotlight-holder above. Not as slender as once, but still in good shape, I decide.

Oncoming tides of students melt into one giant, leaflet grabbing mass in front of me. A school party moves locust-like through the exhibition-hall, feeding on every piece of paper they can find. Drawn by my stack of flyers, they sense a feast. Adolescent brochure-bandits change direction, surround my booth.

‘No don’t take… I need… that’s the last.’

Dozens of hands fight to pick up leaflets, stripping my counter almost bare before continuing to forage at the nearby Language Testing Station.

I sigh. Being a degree salesman is not what I want anymore. It is time to get out. I have had enough. I want to find a new challenge; start a new life. I am not good on my own, not any more. Life is a bit lonely, a bit unfamiliar.

Through the glare of a hundred halogen lamps, a young Chinese woman, early thirties, short red coat, Gucci bag slung over her shoulder, ambles towards my booth, rocking her head in time to her footsteps as she approaches. Straightening my tie, I ignore the announcements booming across the public-address system, start the spiel.

‘Interested in coming to England to study?’ I shout. ‘Degree, MBA, PhD, we offer all subjects from performing arts to equine studies? You can even…’ I lower my voice as the announcement finishes, ‘you can even pick and mix.’

The young woman stops, strokes her coat back into neat folds. ‘Performing arts and equine studies? Would that help me find job?’

‘Depends if you want to work in a circus,’ I answer, stifling a cringe.

She smiles, an easy smile, the sort you want to return in a hurry. Her dark-eyes remain calm though, motionless as a gambler's hands. ‘You’re funny, but I not look for study-course. No, not why I’m here,’ she offers, lowering her head, ‘I’m exploring.’

I’m intrigued. ‘Exploring what?’

‘Everything, everyday explore. I never know what I find.’ My new acquaintance spots the Union Jack on the cover of a promotional brochure I have unpacked. ‘Where in England you from?’ she asks, taking my brochure.

‘I’m from Manchester, the wet bit.’

She furrows her eyebrows, remains silent.

‘It…it rains a lot in Manchester. Bit like living in a shower tray,’ I explain, ‘a shower tray that straddles the M62.’

‘So why you standing on your own?’ She points to the moving lava of people snaking through the hall. ‘Plenty students here, many, many customers. You need to gather harvest before lost.’ Her lips ark in reassurance, ‘in China no wait or you wait forever. You have a chance, take it before gone.’

I point to a jostling group of students filling in application forms at the booth opposite, ‘because everyone seems to be going to Australia, there’s a big promotion: the Ozzies are giving away stuffed kangaroos. And…the weather's warmer and it's cheaper. Tempting eh? I might go myself if I can’t persuade more people to come to England.’

‘I could give you help. You like?’ my acquaintance asks, pulling her hair back into a tail.

When a baited hook dangles, hungry fish make quick decisions. ‘Well that would be great.’ I reply, my heart rate picking up. ‘I need all the help I can get. Can you er, translate for me?’

‘Yes, not problem. My major is English.’ She looks at me, a serious thought turning a page in her mind. ‘Will you do something for me?’

I laugh, ‘anything you like, you name it.’

She steeples her hands in front of her face, lowers her eyes. ‘I want to know about England, the weather, food, Royal Family. England seems very good, like a fairy-tale, good place.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Well maybe not quite a fairy-tale,’ then beckon her forward. ‘Ok, you have a deal. Oh, and I’m Jamie by the way, Jamie from Manchester. And you?’

‘Qui Yue. You can call me Autumn.’

‘Autumn? What an unusual name. I mean that's lovely…’ But I don’t really know what I mean. I am too busy offering her my hand and trying to conceal my excitement.

Autumn removes her red satin coat, folds it—places it beneath the counter of my exhibition-stand before turning to face a passing horde. I take a look at her. Somehow, she has managed to shoehorn herself into a short black dress, a dress that clings to her figure in tight curves. Cupping her hand at the side of her mouth, she reaches to my ear.

‘I wear red to show happiness. It’s Year of the Ox, my year. Red drives away misfortune, gives good luck.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Do you like red, Jamie?’

Chemical synapses in my central nervous system start to short-circuit. All traces of boredom drain from my body as excited neurons perform cart-wheels in their enthusiasm to communicate. I take a deep breath. ‘It’s beautiful just like…’ but never finish the sentence, embarrassed by uncharacteristic words that have popped up from nowhere. Instead, I settle for ‘yes… I like red.’

‘Is this your first visit to Guangzhou?’ Autumn asks, flicking through my brochures.

‘No, no. I’ve been here many times. I’ve never seen the city though, just exhibitions and hotel rooms. I don’t get much time for sandalwood and lotus flowers—maybe one day.’

Fumbling around in her shoulder bag, she removes diaries, mirror, makeup and a small wardrobe of scarves. ‘Ah, here it is. Do you like music?’ she asks, handing me a CD. ‘This is for you.’

‘That’s really kind. Who is it?’

‘A friend, a Beijing musician,’ she explains, stuffing an inordinate amount of belongings into what seems an impossibly small space. ‘I’m helping him, give promotion.’

‘So is that why you are here?’ I ask, stooping to place the CD into my briefcase.

‘I'm… I’m,’ she pauses, looks around, ‘I’m staying with friends for a few days, visiting art exhibitions, helping out. That's why I'm here. When I saw you standing on your own I thought, I thought I would come over, find out why. You looked lost.’

I stand up straight, surprised by her observation. ‘Lost! No, no, no, not really, I was just thinking about something, something that happened to me a long time ago, friends, well not so much now but… It’s not important. But I’m glad you stopped.’

Through the haze of a UK Education Exhibition, I look at Autumn, allowing my eyes to linger on the contours of her face, the details of her mouth, the kindness in her smile. ‘I promised to tell you about England. It’s time I kept my word. Where shall I begin? Manchester, London, the weather, food? You name it.’

Autumn listens to my stories, punctuating her attention with nods and beams of appreciation. Whenever I falter, she feeds me questions.

‘How many times have you been to China? Is England cold? Why are Englishmen so polite? Do you have a family? Will you visit Guangzhou again?

Later, in the bustling refreshments hall, I try to avoid looking at her, afraid she will think I am staring. But I am mesmerised by her eyes, animated and vital, starbursts of energy that flourish in the light. She is unorthodox, intelligent—beautiful. I cannot see beyond her smile, beyond her delicate, ambiguous loveliness. We sip tea, a mix of aromatic sweet top notes and the woody richness of spice. Excitement and attraction, served in moderation into tiny white porcelain bowls.

‘I left Beijing to find better paid job.’ She informs me, refilling my thimble of a cup. ‘I live in Xiamen now; it’s a little island, the garden on the sea.’

‘Did you grow up in Beijing?’ I ask, ‘is that where you were born?’

‘No, I grew up in the Hubei Province, in the mountains. My parents were doctors sent there to work—their contribution to the Cultural Revolution. Chairman Mao thought it a good idea.’

Autumn’s mobile, rings. She reaches into her bag, gets up to take the call, looking around as though trying to spot someone. Her conversation turns into an angry Chinese exchange. The smile disappears. When the call ends, she fastens her bag, straightens her coat—continues to look around.

‘Is everything ok?’ I ask.

‘Yes, but I need to go. I have to meet someone.’ She reaches out, touches my hand. ‘If you ever in Xiamen, you call let me know. I show you around.'

Autumn puts on her coat, turns to face me. ‘I enjoy talking with you, you nice man.’ She stoops to take a brochure. ‘Can I…?’

For a moment I look at her, at a mirror that exudes a subtle contradiction of peace and turmoil, a beautiful weariness that I cannot fathom. It makes me want to hold her. ‘Of course, yes please do,’ I reply, then lower my head to hide disappointment, to fight away my impulse. It is inappropriate. Instead, I offer my hand. ‘It’s been a … It’s been a pleasure Autumn, a lovely afternoon. And who knows, one day?’

She hesitates, turns her head left-right—searches her bag. ‘Here, take this.’ She presses a card into my hand. ‘I start new job next month, Art Gallery, Xiamen. This my new address. Have to go. Hope see you...’ We exchange smiles. I shake her hand again, trying not to look like a forlorn puppy. You know the one: he follows you to the door then sits motionless, staring as you disappear from view.

‘Bye Autumn,’ I call, ‘thanks for the CD. I will be in touch. Oh and my card is inside the…’

Weaving in and out of the crowds, she holds up her hand, waves then dissolves into the jostling mass.

I take a deep breath. ‘Damn you,’ I curse. ‘What are you doing Jamie?’ Too long on my own, I have forgotten the pleasure of attraction, the pull of desire, forces that remind me that I am a man, a man without someone to hold, someone to care for; someone to love.

Five o’clock, I close my last cardboard-box; try to put away the fear that I will never see Autumn again. The thought refuses to budge. I take her card out of my pocket, examine her email address scribbled in ink, head for the door, out into the anarchy of construction and neon, holding the card like a torch.

Rush hour traffic in Guangzhou has a rhythm and pace all of its own. Frenzied, out of control, it is better not to look as taxi-drivers play Russian roulette with passengers’ lives. Arriving at my hotel, The Eastern Swan, I’m feeling down, stroked by melancholia, filled with thoughts of my life alone. ‘Get in touch with her,’ I murmur. ‘Where has your spirit gone?’

My spirit had packed and left. We were no longer on first name terms.

***

That night my dreams are landscapes, landscapes driven reckless by desire, an abyss caressed by longing: disturbed, sensual and unrelenting. I wake several times, stare at the dark—listen to silence as I press my hand against the cold body of the bed. And still her smile, as warm as skin, haunts me.

At breakfast, somewhere between gulps of sweet orange juice, and mouthfuls of bacon, I make a decision. I head for the Business Centre, send an email. ‘Dear Autumn, it was so…’ It bounces back, 'unknown recipient, sorry it didn't work out.' I bang the desk. ‘Yes, I’m sorry it didn’t work out as well. DAMN!’

Pearl-River boats crowd downstream, heading out towards the South-China-Sea. I watch them through my hotel-room window; watch their wake divide the water, folding towards shore in lines of white. Autumn refuses to leave my thoughts. The fuel-tank of attraction has been replenished by a chance meeting—impulsive action seems my only option. I decide to look for her.

Moored along ramshackle jetties, giant red and gold floating restaurants bob up-and-down like crazed water clowns. Humidity, in the eighties and climbing, coats my skin with a film of perspiration. A dancing tail of dragon-flies hovers in formation above a nest of yellow and orange flowers. Tilting and swaying, the blooms nod towards the mayhem of Guangzhou’s eternal rush-hour.

Crossing the bridge from tranquil Shamian-Island, I hurry towards the clamour of the city, past a blind musician sitting on a tiny wooden stool. The old man saws out a tune on his ancient instrument: a two-stringed, python-skin erhu, He stops playing as I approach, holds out his hand, twists his head upwards. Waxy eggshell eyes fix me with a stare. The scent of calm calla lilies, the mask of death, mixes with the warm diesel fumes of idling vehicles. Shuddering in the heat, I wipe my brow. The musician continues his lament. I drop a few coins, hurry on.

From the shadows of a concrete stanchion, a young boy, maybe eight or nine year’s old, barefoot, unwashed, crosses my path. Unable to get out of the way, I trip. Before I have time to recover, the boy pushes a pack of dog-eared cards towards me. ‘Postcards?’

‘No thanks,’ I reply, teeth gritted.

‘Postcards?’

‘No. I’ve told you once. I don’t want postcards.’

‘Good gifts, cheap as chips,’ the boy urges.

I look at him. ‘Who taught you to say that?’

The boy grins, repeats his sales mantra. ‘Good gifts, cheap gifts.’ He points to a shop on the opposite side of the traffic-packed road. Outside, there are trestle tables laden with boxes of postcards, bric-a-brac, paintings and a display of silk cushions. Above the doorway is a sign: Guangdong/Fujian Export Emporium. The lad urges me to follow him, cars swerving around his small frame as he pretends they don’t exist. A minute later I’m rummaging through boxes stuffed with old style sunglasses, tarnished jewellery and post war photographs of Guangdong.

‘Plenty gifts. For lady?’ The boy asks.

A thin Chinese man, indeterminate age, appears at the door, long silver cigarette holder in hand, embroidered grey and red silk pyjamas hanging sail-like from his shrunken frame. He points at the boy who is now holding out his hand. Frowning, he orders him away. They exchange words. The boy swings his fist.

The Chinaman blocks it, grips the boy’s shoulder, pushes him back towards the cars, spiting and cursing as drivers skid to avoid his skinny frame.

‘Boy no good, he always wan money. Him pickpocket you when you no look. Bad for business.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I reply, checking my wallet.

‘You like buy something?’

On the floor, next to the shop doorway, two pink plastic washing up bowls rest. In one there are brown scorpions, in the other, black. Fifty or sixty of the small assassins, bristling with pent up aggression, armed and ready to strike. ‘You sell those?’ I ask.

The thin-man smiles ‘fight poison with poison, dried scorpions, powerful medicine.’

‘Aren’t they dangerous?’

‘You put hand in, you see.’ The Chinaman laughs, raising his arms as though about to start an orchestra. ‘Why you in Guangzhou? On business?’

‘Yes. Well sort of, I’ve decided I want a change though. I want to do something new. I think I need to look for a new job.’

‘Where you from?’

‘England.’

‘Englan.’

‘Yes, I’m from Manchester.’

‘Manchester? You know Davee Beckhaa.’

‘Not personally no, but I’m probably the only person in Manchester who doesn’t.’ The thin-man looks disappointed. ‘You like football?’ I ask.

‘No so much. Davee Beckhaa, he good, sell many strips, good business. We sell lots to China Towns, very good. You live Manchester?

‘Yes, I live there. Why?’

‘I work Manchester, many years. Not so much anymore.’

‘You know the City?’ I ask, surprised.

‘Sure, sure, lots friends. We spend Christmas in Arndale Centre.’

I smile at the thought. ‘So what work takes you to Manchester?’

‘Exports, paintings, silk, Chinese medicine, pottery, we very flexible, everything possible—many business buy. Here, you take ma card. You need work, you get in touch.’

I receive the card—follow the protocol by holding it in both hands before reading it.

Mr Foo, President, Guangdong/Fujian Chinese Art Export Emporium

‘What could I possibly do to help you?’ I ask.

‘Always need contacts in Englan.’