S U N CR AN E S A N D OT H E R STO RI E S MODERN MONGOLIAN SHORT FICTION
translated by
s imon wick ham s mith
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n the first morning of the lunar new year, I woke my mother and we went outside. The sun rose over Han Uul, offering it a crown of gold, glistening like a ruby through the weave of branches in the willow trees along the river, and a few small birds came to chatter away on the roof ring. We washed our hands in the lake of melted snow in the livestock enclosure and went back inside. “Get dressed quick,” said Mother. While I washed, I was thinking about Ariunaa, and I wondered whether or not my older sister’s husband would be bringing the gray horse. I grabbed the offering scarf, thinking to offer my mother new year’s greetings, and brought out the candies she liked, hidden away in an attractive glass, and my mother kissed me and tears came to her eyes. I wasn’t one to give my mother much to be happy about. She was the peaceful world that propped up my life. Once a year I made her happy, by presenting her with an offering scarf. We drank our tea and put some before the picture of my father, and Mother threw some fat on the fire and brought milk for the ritual sprinkling. Then we went off around the encampment,
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bearing tea and food. All the while I was thinking about Ariunaa; I barely registered what people were saying, but when I was coming in I heard what sounded like my brother-in-law arriving. The locals were also coming by with food and tea. Their pastries had a good color and shape. At our place, my slipshod ones were wrinkled and twisted. But they were not as limp as old Süh’s. I had intended to take out the flour that morning and have them done by midday, but I kneaded the dough half-heartedly, and gave a few to Mother before heading out into the encampment. What was the point, though, since only I would be eating them? Two families will each do their own thing, that’s what they say. My elder sister’s husband was called Bürengerel. I was Dogisüren, the head of this ger that had remained in the family, a man big of heart and small of stature. When my brother-in-law sat at the rear of the ger, he seemed to fill it. He was a dreadful man; he controlled the lives of several families. With so many brothers and sisters, though, perhaps their tribe needed someone to tell them what to do. I took a pot and ladle to Mother and went outside, and I saw my brother-in-law had come with a spare horse. I kissed him in greeting. It felt insipid. I’m hot-tempered: I’ll kiss someone, but I’ll also land a punch on them if they give me cause. But I could barely throw up my hands in frustration at my brother-in-law. But enough of that . . . He got my guileless elder sister. She’s a thick-set woman, with creased eyelids like she’s constantly laughing. He takes care of her, says he’s “fattening her up”; she’s always sticking her fingers into the yogurt and clotted cream and butter and licking them. And these she adds to the pot, and takes a bite. The food still tastes the same. She strips the fat from a sheepskin. Even from a marmot, once she’s skinned it. There have been times when I’ve needed to speak boldly to my elder sister’s husband. For instance:
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“Could you bring me a gray horse from the collective’s herd for the lunar new year? It would mean a lot.” “Of course!” He came over and lectured me. “But you should never ask anyone for something—it’s like a beggar going through the bones. Before you ask someone, you should think wisely: ‘I should stop relying on people. If I do ten tögrögs’ worth of work, I should save two.’ ” I waited quietly, but inside I was fighting him. I threw up my hands when he pushed Ariunaa around too, but I never opened my mouth. Fine, I won’t walk away, I’ll just sit quietly. If I save two tögrögs, how can I not spend them on seeds to plant? No, even if I buy potatoes and onions and plant them, I’ll only be able to grow a couple. I let it go. I saddled up my own gray horse and went off, leading the other gray, and my friend Sharavhüü— I called him Blossom— came alongside on a motorcycle. “Where are you going?” I asked, and he said, “I went to see Amaa’s family, and now I’m off to Buuraijaa’s.” And then, “I’ll be seeing Ariunaa! She says she’s going to the aimag center.” Inside me, thoughts were swirling about, that I should say something to Ariunaa or extract a promise from her. I didn’t think it was a big deal to go see these two local oldtimers. I’m a good sort. I took some cardboard from around the ger, put it inside my coat, and quickly galloped off. I stopped at the signpost for the road leading to the Brigade HQ, wrote an announcement on the cardboard in old Mongolian script, and lodged it there with a broken branch. As I went quickly to the other side of the hill, I seemed to hear behind me the sound of a motorcycle, juddering to a halt beside the signpost. Soon it headed off toward the Brigade HQ. I went back and looked from the north, and saw the brigade chief’s gray IZH motorcycle and green deel disappear around the skirt of the hill. Troublemaker. He had taken my announcement and thrown it away. Again there was the sound of a motorcycle. This time it was Sharavhüü, and I quickly hid.
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He seemed to have stopped beside the signpost. I came out but didn’t dismount. The other man had come out from behind the hill. If I hadn’t come out ahead of Sharavhüü, I could have been riding pillion with him, off to greet Buuraijaa with Ariunaa. When Amaa came out, Sharavhüü had already arrived. It would definitely have been faster to come on the motorcycle. He and Ariunaa came outside. She pushed Sharavhüü so that he almost fell. Sharavhüü said, “Did you see the announcement left on the road? “You mean the cardboard on the signpost?” I said, nonchalantly. “Yes, what did it say? ‘They’re selling blockades and yellow sick in the previous plaice at the Brigade HQ, and boobs and Tobago in the western plaice.’ There’s no way someone could be selling such things—who are they trying to fool?” I looked at Ariunaa, and my face was saying, “Right, well . . .” because it should have said ‘brocade and yellow silk in the previous place, and booze and tobacco in the western place,’ and I looked at the dimples in her cheeks (I really liked looking at those dimples), and that sweet goddess of mine looked at us both and laughed. “Thank you, Sharavhüü. You should go. I’m going to ride with Dogisüren.” She went into the ger. I started to mouth “I won” to Sharavhüü, but stopped short. I wasn’t a kid. Today, with its clear light and its prayers for good meetings, was a really good day. I greeted Ariunaa’s mother. When I greeted Ariunaa, she whispered, “You wouldn’t take advantage of Sharavhüü just to stick your beak in, would you?” and I felt shamefaced when I said, and loudly, “Not at all!” We said we’d go and greet Buuraijaa, and the old lady said, “Fine, fine, but come back early.” When I had gone to Buuraijaa’s place in autumn, she had looked at my trousers and said, “Wow, is this blue-gray stuff some kind of tarpaulin? Where did you get them? This is what children wear.”
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“No, no. These are stylish trousers, they’re called jeans, they cost the price of three horses. They’re really a horseman’s trousers. Horsemen in Mexico have begun to wear trousers like these, and I wanted to try them for myself. Now I’m thinking to get hold of a wide oval hat and wear it low down on my forehead.” Buuraijaa continued, “In the old days, the nobles used to have precious stones called jins on the top of their hats, and nowadays this is the name of the trousers with labels that you all are covering your behinds with. You children are certainly the nobles of today!” She was really a spiteful old hag! Out on the road I helped Ariunaa from her horse and held her, and kissed the dimples on her cheeks. The horse didn’t shy. I made to tie the reins back behind the saddlebow. That horse was a smart one. We looked good with these similar horses, gray like the color of birds. “If we gave a couple of horses to the collective,” I said to Ariunaa with a chuckle, “we could take these ones.” “That would be a bad deal. But we know how good they are.” “Are they not as good as other horses like them?” “They’d be horses of different colors.” “It’s easy to adjust to a horse’s color. But you should like its character. Now, why don’t you talk with my brother-in-law?” “Tell him everything?” “Yes. Ask your mother as well as Mr. Bürengerel. He’s forgotten that you’re home from the army.” As we went along, talking about things, and sizzling with the electricity of love, a dark shape rose up at the side of the road. That damned Sharavhüü stopped his juddering machine, set it on the center stand, and stood in front of it. He got my girlfriend riding pillion. “Six thousand,” he said. “That’s the price of how many horses? And it’s fast. To feed a fine horse, it’s about the same as spare parts and benzine. It doesn’t get stuck in the mud. It doesn’t stumble in the snow.”
But no way was it better than my gray, who was the color of birds. In any case, when we came that night to Ariunaa’s, we didn’t wake her mother up.
Late 1960s
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“Wickhamsmith’s masterful translations provide a unique window on how Mongolian writers have responded to events shaping the country over the last century—ranging from extreme communism to extreme capitalism—while also retaining a strong sense for enduring Mongolian traditions shaped by pastoral nomadism and a magnificent countryside.” jonathan s. addleton, former U.S. ambassador to Mongolia “Suncranes and Other Stories is an important collection of modern Mongolian writing. Deftly translated, it opens a door on a body of literature that reflects the lives and realities of Mongolia in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.” mark bender, editor of The Borderlands of Asia: Culture, Place, Poetry
si m o n wi ckhamsm ith teaches in the writing and Asian studies programs at Rutgers University. He is the translator of Tseveendorjin Oidov’s The End of the Dark Era (2015). P R I N T E D I N T H E U. S . A .
COLUMBIA UNIVERSIT Y PRESS N E W YO R K c u p.c o lu m b i a . e d u
COVER DESIGN: CHANG JAE LEE
“This excellent first collection of modern Mongolian stories offers a view of traditional concerns of nature and herding, as well as the dramatic changes wrought by communism, the pure market economy, and urbanization. Wickhamsmith’s translations provide readers with wondrous fiction as well as exposure to Mongolian customs and landscapes.” morris rossabi, author of Modern Mongolia: From Khans to Commissars to Capitalists
COVER IMAGE: DAE SUNG LEE, FROM THE SERIES FUTURISTIC ARCHAEOLOGY , ERDEN, MONG OLIA, 2015
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panning the years following the socialist revolution of 1921 through the early twenty-first century, Suncranes and Other Stories showcases a range of powerful Mongolian literary voices and their rich portrayals of the natural and social worlds. This anthology presents stories by the country’s most highly regarded prose writers, who employ a range of styles, from Aesopian fables through socialist realism to more experimental forms, to offer vivid portraits of nomads, revolution, and the endless steppe. Simon Wickhamsmith’s translations make this literary tradition accessible to all English-speaking readers curious about Mongolia’s people and culture.