chapter 1
Karamay
The first time Jiang Wanju met Chen Zhuren was during a road trip around northern Xinjiang.
When Jiang’s father turned forty, he became obsessed with self-driving tours — researching off-road vehicles, buying gear, studying routes, and chatting enthusiastically with fellow travelers on forums. After nearly a year of preparation, he finally set off, just as July was ending, on his first great journey to “conquer the Northwest,” taking along his wife and daughter.
Jiang Wanju was the unfortunate “daughter.”
People without prior experience in long road trips always run into some kind of trouble in the beginning — especially in the vast northwest — from getting lost, carsickness, and detours to sudden mechanical breakdowns.
The unluckiest of all was Jiang Wanju, who suffered terribly from motion sickness. She vomited nonstop, couldn’t stomach mutton, and spent most of the trip lying weakly in the backseat, feeling as if the whole journey were a form of torture.
She would rather stay home and write ten mock exams a day than keep “freely wandering the Northwest.”
She had just finished her high school entrance exams and was about to begin a new chapter of her life. Her peers were busy celebrating — some as if they’d been liberated, others being sent early by their parents to various prep classes. Following the principle of “winning at the starting line,” they had already bought high school textbooks and were studying ahead at cram schools, hoping that when the time came for the great competition, they could take one step further than the rest.
Jiang’s parents disagreed on this. Her father preferred a “free-range” approach — once he learned she didn’t like tutoring, he never brought it up again. Her mother disagreed. Seeing her colleagues send their kids to extra classes, she felt Jiang couldn’t be left behind. Her father accused her of being vain. They argued — and somehow, the quarrel expanded into old grievances from years past. They had barely left Ürümqi before they were bickering again, the noise giving Jiang such a headache that she ended up pressing a pillow over her ears.
Jiang Wanju truly felt this trip was a mistake.
Especially in the beginning — with nothing but straight roads cutting through barren, monotonous desert. From the car window, the landscape looked endlessly repetitive and devoid of beauty.
She unfolded the map and traced her finger along National Highway G217. According to her father’s plan, they would keep heading north into Altay Prefecture — relying on names like Ghost City, Kanas, Koktokay, Rainbow City, and Heavenly Lake to sustain their spirits.
Following the Wukui Expressway westward, then turning north onto the Kuia Expressway, they eventually reached Karamay. By then, Jiang’s carsickness had eased, and she finally began to feel a little like a traveler.
The plateau sun was harsh. Her mother chased her around with sunscreen. Thinking of the military training that awaited her in high school, Jiang felt weak all over again.
At least they didn’t have to eat mutton for lunch. They ordered pigeon noodles instead — minced and fried pigeon meat, fragrant and crispy enough that even the bones could be chewed through. The hand-pulled noodles soaked up the rich broth, served with steamed mixed grains and vegetables dipped in oil and vinegar. Plates of translucent “glass crisp,” millet pomegranate, Xizhou honey melon, and white figs filled the table.
For the first time in days, Jiang’s stomach felt at peace.
Her father was in high spirits and bought a heap of fruit before they left, loading the car to the brim. Back on the Junggar road heading east, they reentered G217. At a fork, Jiang noticed a sign pointing to Baijiantan.
The road here was in poor condition — just two lanes, riddled with potholes left by heavy trucks.
Perhaps the vastness of Baijiantan stirred some lingering poetic impulse in him, because her father suddenly called out,
“Wanju, what was that poem again — the one by Ai Qing?”
“Karamay,” she replied drowsily from the back seat, “the beauty in the desert.”
Her father frowned. “No, no — not the ending! The front part — ‘the most desolate place contains the greatest energy, the deepest strata—’”
His poetic enthusiasm ended abruptly when the car jolted violently — the tire had sunk deep into a pothole. Jiang was thrown forward, almost vomiting again. Her mother’s voice rang out:
“That’s what you get! Reciting poetry instead of watching the road!”
Rubbing her sore forehead, Jiang watched as her father tried repeatedly to get the car out, but it wouldn’t budge. He still looked confident, ignoring his wife’s scolding — until he realized there was no cell signal. Then he began to panic.
It was now noon, and the sun was merciless. Jiang stepped out for a look but was quickly shooed back into the car by her mother, who was afraid her face would get sunburned. Through the window, Jiang watched her parents start yet another argument — something that had become routine at home.
When she was little, their fighting used to scare her. But as she grew older, she came to understand: quarreling was simply part of their way of life. Not every family was happy, and not every couple stayed loving and respectful.
Wearing her headphones, Jiang turned a few pages of her book. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father walking into the middle of the road, trying to wave down passing cars for help.
No one stopped. Ahead lay Ghost City, eroded by wind and sand — who knew if the person flagging cars here was even human or “a ghost”?
Finally, Jiang couldn’t stand it anymore. She pulled off her headphones, opened the car door, and went to tell her father,
“Don’t bother — no one’s going to stop here—”
And perhaps fate simply enjoyed contradicting her.
Right after she said that, a large off-road vehicle slowed and came to a steady stop by the roadside.
A tall man stepped out — black T-shirt, black pants. His skin wasn’t fair, but not dark either. His tone was relaxed as he asked her father,
“Having some trouble?”
His voice was low and pleasant. Jiang raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and squinted up. Against the backlight, her gaze met a pair of deep, dark eyes framed by thick brows.
It seemed like he smiled — or maybe he didn’t.
That was the first time Jiang Wanju met Chen Zhuren.
She had just turned fifteen. He was twenty-four.
Back then, Chen Zhuren could still be called a good man.
