At the end of 2010, after returning to China from Nepal, I passed through a village at the foot of Mount Karjen, where I had rested for a week. I brought back a large number of antique-style ornaments with characteristics of Tibetan Buddhism from Nepal, intending to use them as display samples. In a place called Motuo, I organized all the ornaments into three large packages and sent them to three different addresses in Hangzhou to lighten my load for the journey ahead.
There are two types of “post offices” in Motuo, as it is quite a special place. The mountains are closed year-round, making entry and exit difficult. Initially, the local post office could only receive letters and could not send them out. It wasn’t until recent years that a small path for mail delivery was established, but the postal vehicle only operates once a week.
As a result, there is also a local courier service, which is essentially finding someone who is traveling that way to carry mail packages. Among the people coming in and out of Motuo, helping others carry mail packages is a common occurrence; some people act as intermediaries to earn a bit of money. The so-called “post office” I found was run by such individuals. Although it wasn’t particularly safe, it at least guaranteed some timeliness. As long as someone was leaving Motuo, they could generally know when the packages would arrive at the outside post office, making subsequent forwarding more reliable.
There are three ways to leave Motuo: by vehicle, by horse caravan, or by foot porter. The vehicle route is not open year-round, and when I arrived, it happened to be the season when no vehicles could pass. The horse caravans were nearly extinct, so we sought out so-called trekkers or foot porters.
All mail must be carried out of the mountains by “postmen,” so the weight of the mail cannot be too heavy. I spent nearly three hours averaging the weight of the three large packages.
It was during this time that I saw the painting, which was hanging on the “post office counter”—essentially a desk with a piece of tempered glass on top—on the wall behind it.
The wall was painted a light green, and several items were hanging on it: a Chinese ink painting with the phrase “Wings to Soar” featuring an eagle and four large characters; three bilingual banners with commendatory phrases like “Honesty in Finding Lost Items” and “Safety Insurance”; and, in addition, there was an oil painting.
The oil painting was not the kind of work one would immediately recognize as being created by a professional artist. It was a very ordinary painting, even somewhat clumsily done. It depicted a profile of a young man, and judging by the degree of paint flaking and the colors, it seemed to have been hanging there for a long time.
The main subject of the painting was a young man. I do not understand Western painting, but the principles of painting are generally the same to a certain extent. Although it was a poorly executed piece, it possessed a unique flavor.
I couldn’t pinpoint where this feeling came from. The person in the painting wore a lama’s upper garment and a Tibetan robe on the lower half, standing in the mountains, with the peaks of Mount Karjen visible behind him. Whether it was the setting sun or the light of dawn, the overall tone of the oil painting shifted from white to a grayish-yellow.
This painting, though poorly executed, made a bold use of color, serving as a remarkable example of directly conveying artistic intent.
Of course, even so, this does not imply that the painting holds significant value. I was surprised because I recognized the person in the painting.
It is recognition, not just a feeling of familiarity, because the features and expressions of this person leave me with absolutely no doubt. It must be him.
I am completely at a loss as to why he would appear here, as there is no reason for him to be in Motuo, especially in a poorly painted oil painting of Motuo. The name of this person might be known only to me; he is an old friend, a very good brother. He is quite an extraordinary figure, and too many stories between us have been documented in another one of my books. I originally thought that his story would only continue five years later. I never expected to see him again in Motuo.
Speaking of his uniqueness, it has become less mysterious now. This person is a tomb raider. Or, perhaps I should use a more neutral term: an explorer. When I first got to know him, he was secretly excavating ancient tombs across the country, but he didn’t take possession of the artifacts. Later, I gradually discovered that he seemed to be searching for some secrets, some information that might be hidden in the ruins of several ancient civilizations in China. A few years ago, I tried to investigate his background and what he was trying to understand, and I had some results, but later I found that my investigation was superficial.
He had also had a working relationship, or rather, a small-scale collaboration with an international salvage company. That international salvage company is a rather large consortium, and they place considerable importance on this person, indicating the value of what he is searching for. Five years ago, he disappeared from our sight. Of course, I know the truth about his disappearance. I could say a lot about him, but that is not the main focus of this story. What he did before is not important here; my primary thought upon seeing this painting is: Is Motuo a part of his investigation? Does his appearance here mean that what he was investigating at that time is connected to this place?
However, when I tried to find the author of this painting, I discovered that it wasn’t entirely the case. Or rather, although the events that took place in Motuo are indeed closely related to my past experiences with him, they are not absolutely connected. The matters here seem to be more closely related to his own experiences.
This is not trivial; for me, his own experiences are quite compelling. At that time, I asked a postal worker, and I remember he was an old man with a typical Tibetan face. I asked him who painted this picture. The old man pointed across the street to the “post office” and told me in broken Chinese that the author of this painting is named Chen Xuehan.
I turned my gaze over and saw a middle-aged man in his forties pouring boiling water in a boiler room by the roadside. He should be the gatekeeper responsible for overseeing the boiler room, which had hot water available for nearby residents, charging three cents for a pot. Compared to the heavy snow outside, the boiler room was warm enough to make one sweat, so many people were gathered around the boiler to warm up. These people were dressed similarly, and it was difficult to see their faces clearly among the crowd.
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