Beijing Coma (105 page)

Authors: Ma Jian

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #History & Criticism, #Regional & Cultural, #Asian, #Contemporary Fiction, #Literary, #Criticism & Theory

BOOK: Beijing Coma

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I stayed where I was. There was no one else around now.

I stepped onto Changan Avenue, and saw the long wall of green soldiers again. Everything was green: the soldiers, the tanks behind them, the buildings on either side. The sky was green, and the sun was greener still . . . Then I saw her: it was A-Mei, in a long white dress, her freshly washed hair floating softly around her shoulders. Why was she standing in the line of fire like that? I pulled the bloodstained letter from my pocket, waved it in the air and ran towards her . . . I remembered going for a stroll with her one day and being irritated at how slowly she walked. I began to imitate her gait, which annoyed her so much, she pushed me off the pavement . . . There was a loud gunshot, flecks of black light, then I saw her fall to her knees.

Did the bullet hit her? As the question came to my mind, my head exploded. My skeleton was shaken by a bolt of pain. I’d been struck too. I was going to die. Hot, sticky blood poured down my face. My hand reached out to touch my head, but couldn’t find it . . .

A-Mei is still living inside me. When my soul detaches from my body, I will have to leave her behind . . . But none of that is important any more. I am ready at last to break out of this fleshy tomb, and let my spirit scatter into the light . . .

There is a species of bird that has only one wing and one eye. It must pair up with its mate if it wants to fly.

I feel a wisp of dawn light fall on my eyelids. My body is like a bird’s nest that’s fallen to the ground. All that remains of me is a cage of ribs propping up a rough sack of skin that allows my organs to retain what little moisture they have left.

The sparrow has rubbed off its last feather. It creeps about like a snail that has lost its shell, trying to return to the spot that it fell from last night. It pauses for a moment, its one remaining wing scratching at my stomach like a claw. Then it crawls up onto my pillow, slips down my neck and squats on my chest. Slowly, it transforms into a red-billed lovebird with dark brown wings and a golden breast. It chirps loudly, as though something has caught its notice. The skin on my stomach that it scratched a few moments ago begins to sting a little. Perhaps my nervous system is about to start functioning properly again . . . I’m not sure whether my eyes are open yet or not. All I can see are splinters of light, like those that scatter across a lake when you try to scoop out the reflection of the moon.

I see a public square. It’s a flattened expanse of broken bricks, shattered tiles, sand, dust and earth. Positioned at its centre is not a memorial, but me and my iron bed, lying inside this building that’s been carved away like a pear eaten to its core. On the ground below, I spot the frog I buried in a glass jar. Its delicate white skeleton has a divine quality, and conveys much more than its skin and flesh ever could.

Through the gaping hole where the covered balcony used to be, you see the bulldozed locust tree slowly begin to rise again. This is a clear sign that from now on you’re going to have to take your life seriously.

You reach for a pillow and tuck it under your shoulders, propping up your head so that the blood in your brain can flow back down into your heart, allowing your thoughts to clear a little. Your mother used to prop you up like that from time to time.

Silvery mornings are always filled with new intentions. But today is the first day of the new millennium, so the dawn is thicker with them than ever.

Although the winter frosts haven’t set in yet, the soft breeze blowing on your face feels very cold.

A smell of urine still hangs in the room. It seeps from your pores when the sunlight falls on your skin.

You gaze outside. The morning air isn’t rising from the ground as it did yesterday. Instead, it’s falling from the sky onto the treetops, then moving slowly through the leaves, brushing past the bloodstained letter caught in the branches, absorbing moisture as it falls.

Before the sparrow arrived, you had almost stopped thinking about flight. Then, last winter, it soared through the sky and landed in front of you, or more precisely on the windowsill of the covered balcony adjoining your bedroom. You knew the grimy windowpanes were caked with dead ants and dust, and smelt as sour as the curtains. But the sparrow wasn’t put off. It jumped inside the covered balcony and ruffled its feathers, releasing a sweet smell of tree bark into the air. Then it flew into your bedroom, landed on your chest and stayed there like a cold egg.

Your blood is getting warmer. The muscles of your eye sockets quiver. Your eyes will soon fill with tears. Saliva drips onto the soft palate at the back of your mouth. A reflex is triggered, and the palate rises, closing off the nasal passage and allowing the saliva to flow into your pharynx. The muscles of the oesophagus, which have been dormant for so many years, contract, projecting the saliva down into your stomach. A bioelectrical signal darts like a spark of light from the neurons in your motor cortex, down the spinal cord to a muscle fibre at the tip of your finger.

You will no longer have to rely on your memories to get through the day. This is not a momentary flash of life before death. This is a new beginning.

But once you’ve climbed out of this fleshy tomb, where is there left for you to go?

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Epub ISBN: 9781407018928

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www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Vintage 2009

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Ma Jian has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs

and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Although based on historical events, this novel is a work of fiction. The names and characters portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Chatto & Windus

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A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099481348