Beijing Coma (42 page)

I breathe in and smell the scent of her freshly washed hair mingled with the strange smells wafting from under the bed. Somewhere beneath me is a bag containing her journals and photograph albums. Inside one album is the photo of Tian Yi and me in the rainforest of Yunnan – the one where she’s leaning against me, exhausted after our walk, her mouth half open.

‘I’ve come today because it’s the third anniversary of 4 June. The streets are filled with police cars and the Square has been cordoned off.’

After she leaves, her image lingers inside my head for a while, then slowly breaks up and disappears.

‘I was never able to develop my talents in the opera company,’ my mother says. ‘The other singers would laugh at me when I went off to do voice exercises. They spent all their time playing Mahjong, or sucking up to the leaders, trying to wangle a trip abroad or a new flat. Everyone was so corrupt. I had to leave . . .’ She’s talking to An Qi in the sitting room. Fan Jing is also with them. Last time she came, she said that after her son was killed in the crackdown, her cat died of heartbreak.

On the afternoon of 12 May, Han Dan and Ke Xi posted a notice in the Triangle calling for students to sign up for a hunger strike due to start in Tiananmen Square at 2 p.m. the following day.

In Old Fu’s
Democracy Forum
show that evening, Bai Ling and Han Dan gave impassioned speeches, urging everyone to join the strike. Ke Xi, who’d gone into hiding for three days after hearing rumours of an imminent police clampdown, turned up again in the Triangle to welcome a delegation of Shanghai students who’d travelled to Beijing to submit a petition to the government.

Sensing the new mood of excitement in the campus, the Organising Committee realised it would be futile to oppose the strike. Hai Feng suggested we set up a support group and a first-aid team to assist the hunger strikers during their occupation of the Square. By now, nearly forty students had signed up.

Shu Tong climbed onto the windowsill, gazed down at the crowd in the Triangle and said morosely, ‘They stir the masses into a frenzy, then say, “Listen to the voice of the people!” Everyone from Hitler to Mao has done it. The movement we’ve worked so hard to build up is being destroyed by these bloody upstarts.’

‘You’ve had many chances to seize the leadership,’ I said, ‘but you’ve always let them slip. You prevaricate.’

‘No, my belief has always been that if we push things too far, we’ll be crushed. The Communist Party was catapulted to power through student uprisings, so it understands the threat we pose to the status quo.’

Only when the Shanghai students were taken off to the dorms at two in the morning did the Triangle finally quieten down. I told Mou Sen he could sleep on my bunk, then went to find an empty bed in Tian Yi’s dorm.

Mou Sen had been appointed the new chairman of the Beijing Students’ Federation. His university was tightly guarded, so he’d based his headquarters at our campus. Sister Gao was his secretary general. They’d organised a meeting the night before, but no one had turned up. A few members sent messages saying they’d returned to classes or were being monitored by the authorities. The Federation seemed to exist in name only.

When I reached the Triangle, I saw Bai Ling and Tian Yi signing up to join the hunger strike.

I wasn’t happy about this. Pointing to the front page of the
News Herald
, I said, ‘Look, this article says that the 27 April march was a victory for the students, but warns that if we take things any further, China will revert to the chaos of the Cultural Revolution. It’s written by a professor in the Politics Department.’

‘I wrote that article, you fool!’ Tian Yi said.

‘Just because you haven’t the courage to sign up, there’s no need to sneer at us,’ Bai Ling said.

‘He’s so stiff these days.’ Tian Yi gripped Bai Ling’s hand.

‘Have you gone out of your minds?’ I said.

‘We’re psychology students, so watch what you say,’ Bai Ling smirked. ‘You’re afraid to join the strike because it will make you conspicuous.’

‘So Mimi’s signed up too,’ I said, spotting her signature. ‘People will accuse her of doing it to lose weight.’

‘Why are you so scathing? No one’s forcing you to join the strike, so keep your mouth shut.’ Tian Yi was angry.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘If you go on a hunger strike, I’ll give up meat.’ Tian Yi glanced derisively at me then marched off to Shu Tong’s dorm. Bai Ling and I followed behind her.

Bai Ling and Tian Yi began drafting a hunger strike declaration. I sat beside them smoking cigarettes. A few hours later, Mou Sen wandered in to have a look at the draft, and said, ‘That won’t do. It’s got no style. I’ll have to rewrite it.’

Mou Sen had had a change of heart. A few minutes before, he’d announced that he’d resigned from the Beijing Students’ Federation in order to join the Beijing Normal’s hunger strike team.

‘We entreat all honourable citizens of China – every worker, peasant, soldier, urban resident, intellectual, celebrity, government official, police officer, and all those who have branded us criminals – to put your hands on your hearts and examine your consciences. What crime have we committed? Have we created turmoil? Why are we holding class boycotts, marches, hunger strikes? For what cause are we sacrificing ourselves? . . .’

At eight the next morning, Bai Ling was broadcasting the hunger strike declaration that Mou Sen had rewritten. ‘We endured cold and hunger in pursuit of the truth,’ she continued, ‘but the armed police beat us back. On bended knees we begged for democracy, but the government ignored us. As our student leaders press for a dialogue, they find their lives are now in danger . . . We don’t want to die. We want to live. We’re young, and we want to enjoy our youth and study hard. There is still much poverty in China, and we want to work hard to eradicate it. We don’t seek death. But if one person’s death can allow many people to live better lives, then . . .’ By the time she reached the end of the speech, she was sobbing out the words.

I looked out of the window and saw a large crowd of students standing in the rain. They’d come out of the canteen to listen to the broadcast. Many of the girls were crying. After the speech, they drifted over to the noticeboard in the Triangle where the students were signing up to join the hunger strike.

I too had been moved by Mou Sen’s words. I went to a street stall outside the campus and bought three bowls of wonton soup which I emptied into an enamel washbasin and carried back to Tian Yi’s dorm. By the time I returned, Tian Yi was already awake.

‘What time did you go to sleep last night?’ I asked her. I felt guilty that I hadn’t stayed up with her. She was still copying out Mou Sen’s draft when I left. ‘I’ve decided I’ll go on the hunger strike with you,’ I said, sitting on a stool beside her.

The girls in the top bunks climbed down and went to wash their faces. Other girls were already looking into the mirror, pencilling in their eyebrows.

‘You keep changing your mind. How can I trust you? There are more than 10,000 students in Beijing University, but only fifty have signed up for the hunger strike so far. It’s pathetic.’ She took the bowl of soup that I ladled out for her and pushed her quilt back against the wall. I noticed the cracks in the dry skin of her heels.

‘A crowd of people have gone to sign up. They’ve just broadcast the hunger strike declaration you worked on last night. It was very moving.’ I went to sit by her feet. ‘Wang Fei wants to join the hunger strike as well, but is reluctant to align himself with Han Dan, so he’s in a quandary.’

‘They broadcast it? That’s great! Mmm, this soup is delicious. Lots of coriander.’ She crossed her legs and blew the steam away from the soup, then cried out, ‘Mimi, wake up! There’s some wonton soup for you.’ She looked up at her and laughed, ‘It’s the last breakfast we’ll be having for some time!’

‘Yes, you’d better fill up before you go to the Square,’ I said. ‘You won’t be getting any food this evening.’

Tian Yi slurped the soup from her spoon, then smacked her lips and said, ‘You should stick to sorting out logistics. Don’t join the hunger strike.’

‘The Organising Committee held a meeting just now to discuss how we’re going to help you. I’ll ask my student marshals to escort you all to the Square. The strikers will need a lot of backup support. Old Fu’s gone to the university’s clinic to ask for first-aid supplies.’

Tian Yi put down her spoon and picked up a small black flag on which she’d written the words HUNGER STRIKE. For a moment her eyes looked grey and lifeless. The night before, I’d begged her not to join the strike, but she accused me of being a coward. I wanted her to continue working for the
News Herald
. She was interested in literature and current affairs, and I thought that after she graduated she could go into journalism. The previous day’s edition of the
News Herald
included some editorials she’d selected from the Anti-Rightist Campaign which shared the same dictatorial tone as the 26 April editorial. She’d spent two days in the library searching them out. Everyone congratulated her on the job she’d done.

‘You’ve got a weak stomach,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid you might collapse after a couple of days without food.’ I poured the remaining soup into a bowl and handed it to Mimi, saying, ‘Careful, it’s hot.’ Mimi thanked me and produced a jar of fermented tofu. When she unscrewed the lid a pungent stench filled the room.

‘Give me some,’ Tian Yi said. The pitch of her voice always rose when she spoke to girls. ‘You might be afraid, Dai Wei, but I’m not.’

‘We’ll surround you with a cordon of student marshals to prevent you getting crushed if the police attack.’ I watched them pick up small cubes of the pink fermented tofu with their chopsticks.

Mimi left the room, sipping from her bowl of soup as she went and using her foot to close the door behind her.

‘Do you promise you’ll look after me?’ Tian Yi said.

‘I’ll sit down next to you. If you collapse you can fall on my lap.’ I gripped her shoulders and breathed the smell of her hair and the fresh coriander she’d eaten. She pushed me away and stared blankly at the remaining soup in her bowl. Her nose was pinker and shinier than the rest of her face.

It was still raining outside. The dorm blocks looked like rows of featureless wooden boxes.

She sat on the edge of her bunk. Her right hand was resting on a table, almost touching a pile of books. She rubbed a coriander leaf between the ink-stained fingers of her left hand.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You can give up the hunger strike if it gets too much. It’s only for show, after all.’

‘What if I die?’

‘Adults can go without food for several weeks,’ I said. ‘You’ll be fine so long as you keep drinking lots of water.’

‘But what if I die?’ she repeated, and closed her mouth.

‘You won’t die. If you pass out, we’ll rush you to hospital.’

I seldom saw Tian Yi smile. I once asked her why she was always so serious. She said happiness felt unnatural to her.

‘I must go and brush my teeth,’ she said, standing up.

I went to my dorm to wake Mou Sen and ask him to help me draft an announcement ordering my student marshal team to assemble. He scribbled a few lines then hurried back to Beijing Normal on his bike.

As soon as Chen Di had broadcast the announcement, the campus became as busy as it had been in the lead-up to the last march on 4 May. Everyone began to walk faster and speak with greater urgency.

I was repairing the megaphones when Tian Yi came in and said, ‘I’m going to head off to the Square. I don’t want to walk with the others. If I don’t make it back, you can open this bag.’

I guessed that it contained her journals or photograph albums. I touched her hand. It felt cold with fear.

‘What if your stomach plays up? You must take your medication with you.’

‘I’ve got it. Look inside my satchel. I’ve packed
Selected Essays on Modern Western Fiction
and Kafka’s
Metamorphosis
, stomach pills, my camera and a torch.’

On the ground next to her satchel was also a travel bag containing a plastic soapbox, a roll of toilet paper and a blue plastic visor stuffed between some shirts and trousers.

Next door, Chen Di was broadcasting the rules of the hunger strike: ‘. . . Three: You can take water and soft drinks into the Square, but no food or sweets, unless you’re not planning to join the . . .’

‘I wish you’d change your mind,’ I said, staring into her eyes.

‘I should set off now. Take care.’ She was always telling me to take care. I pulled her close to me. She bowed her head and said, ‘No,’ but didn’t push me away. Her body was stiff.

‘Don’t worry. The strike will probably only last a day or so – that should be enough to scare Premier Li Peng.’ I stared at the darkness between her rows of neat white teeth and inhaled the scent of toothpaste that flowed out. Then I took her hand and led her upstairs. When I found an empty room, I pulled her inside, shut the door and put my arms around her.

‘You haven’t locked the door . . .’ she mumbled as I leaned down to kiss her.

We made love on the floor. As I lay on top of her after it was over, I felt her stomach rumble.

‘It’s raining now, so don’t cycle to the Square,’ I said as we quickly stood up again. ‘You’re better off walking. We’ll bring the quilts out for you later. We’ve got two tricycle carts to transport things to and from the Square.’ My voice cracked, as it always did when I became excited about something.

She combed the fingers of one hand through my hair, while tightening her belt with her other.