Beijing Coma (47 page)

‘I had to buy a ticket for my son tonight, even though he’s a vegetable,’ my mother says to the compère impatiently. ‘I hoped that Master Hu might be able to cure him. I wouldn’t have travelled all this way otherwise.’

‘Please tell me sir, what illness are you suffering from?’ the compère asks, not hearing my mother.

‘Gastritis.’

‘I see. And you?’

‘Hepatitis.’

‘Mmm. And you? What? Can you speak up please?’

‘Bone hyperplasia and enteritis.’

‘So you’re suffering from two illnesses, then, madam.’

‘I’ve got cholecystitis – let me up!’ my mother shrieks in her soprano voice.

‘Yes, you can come up,’ says the compère, finally noticing my mother. ‘And tell me, what is this young man you have brought with you suffering from?’

‘He’s been in a coma for three years. He’s paralysed from head to foot. He suffered a head injury. He’s a vegetable now.’

‘All right, bring him up too. I will now ask Master Hu to banish the illnesses from the members of the audience up here on the stage. Let’s give him a round of applause again to show our support! . . . The rest of you, please return to your seats. We have enough patients now. But don’t worry, comrades, the qigong that Master Hu emits will spread right through the hall. If you close your eyes, you’ll be able to absorb it. If you are ill, it will cure you. If you are well, it will protect you from falling ill. All right, close your eyes now. Master Hu will begin to emit his qi . . . See, this lady here is absorbing the energy. Her legs are shaking . . .’

As I listen to this woman speak, I remember Nuwa’s gentle voice. It always reminded me of the sound of flowing water.

I’ve been lifted onto the stage in my wheelchair. I can sense waves of energy flow through my body, especially around my colon and spleen. Parts of my flesh begin to quiver.

‘Look, that gentleman is smiling. Perhaps the qi has touched his funny bone. Please don’t laugh, comrades. Compose yourselves . . .’

The laughter and chatter in the hall die down. The compère’s high-heeled shoes click down the line of patients on the stage. For a moment I sense her attention focus on me. No doubt put off by my wooden expression, she quickly moves on to my mother. ‘Look at this lady,’ the compère says. ‘She is clearly very sensitive to the waves of qi. See how she’s rocking back and forth now . . .’

It’s hard to imagine my mother, the loyal Communist, being willing to engage in this esoteric practice.

A garlicky smell of hot sour soup wafts from someone’s mouth. A pager goes off. I feel like I’m in a busy restaurant.

‘Master Hu is expelling the illness from her body. This young lady standing next to her, please make an effort. Close your eyes and let your arms fall loosely to your sides. Relax as much as you can. Everyone is reacting to the qi in different ways, depending on their illnesses. This gentleman said that he suffers from arthritis. Can you see how his knee is shaking now?’

I wish I could escape from this stage, and the thousands of eyes staring at me. Half an hour ago my mother was pushing me through the sunny streets. I heard the wind brush against my ear then whistle off into the distance. Now I’m sitting on the stage like an actor. The audience is waiting for me to open my eyes and stand up. But I know that I’m incapable of doing that, because the part of my brain that controls these actions has been irreparably damaged . . . To the north is the Land of Ghosts. The inhabitants have human heads and snake bodies, and only one eye . . .

A fierce wind brushed across my eyes. It filled the Square with blinding dust and dispelled some of the smells of broken medicine bottles, food-stained newspaper and rotting refuse . . .

The huge banner calling for
HONEST DIALOGUE
hung from the roof of the Museum of Chinese History, soaking up the bright sunlight. It was the fourth day of the hunger strike, and the crowd on the Square was larger than ever.

Han Dan and Yang Tao were the only instigators of the hunger strike who had not yet been taken to hospital. The previous night, Bai Ling had been carried out of the Square on a stretcher. A total of six hundred hunger strikers had passed out. Many of them rejoined the hunger strike as soon as they regained consciousness.

‘The hunger is making everyone go crazy,’ Han Dan said softly, tapping his ballpoint pen on a newspaper lying on the ground. His eyes were dark and sunken.

Sister Gao hurried over and said, ‘A group of Beijing University professors have gone up onto the viewing stands and started a hunger strike in solidarity with us. They’ve been joined by thirty young professors from the Central Institute of National Minorities. Han Dan, you must decide how to respond.’

‘I can only speak on behalf of the Beijing University students,’ Han Dan said. ‘Tell Mou Sen to write a letter of thanks and get the station to broadcast it. Apparently, the director of the United Front Department is going to visit the Square this afternoon to try to plead with the students to end the hunger strike. I’m in favour of ending the strike, but if Bai Ling and Lin Lu want us to persevere with it, there’s nothing I can do.’ Han Dan’s only post now was head of the Beijing University Hunger Strike Petition Group.

‘There must be at least 100,000 people on the Square,’ Sister Gao said. ‘And tomorrow, the professors want to organise a mass march through the city. With so much support behind us, how can you contemplate withdrawing?’ Sister Gao appeared to have changed her mind again.

Two white ambulances drove into the Square, their sirens wailing, and sped down the lifeline that the marshals had cleared for them.

‘Students from Beijing Medical University have come to discuss setting up a first-aid clinic, Han Dan,’ Chen Di said, walking up. ‘They’re waiting for you at the broadcast station.’ Chen Di had been surviving on milk and glucose solution for the last couple of days, and had broadcast many moving statements from other hunger strikers. Xiao Li was in a much weaker state. He’d passed out twice, and had been put on a drip in the emergency tent.

‘Tell them to talk to Bai Ling. I can’t speak on behalf of the Hunger Strike Headquarters.’ Han Dan’s lips were dry and chapped. He was sweating so much that the black ink on his white bandanna was seeping onto his forehead.

‘I can’t go back to them now,’ Chen Di said with a pained expression. ‘I’ve just shat in my trousers. I’ve probably got colitis. I’m going off to buy myself some shorts.’

‘I should put up a sign here saying: “Beijing University Hunger Strike Petition Group”,’ said Han Dan crossly. ‘I’ll only deal with our hunger strikers. The Beijing Students’ Federation can look after everyone else.’ He seemed perturbed that, by the fourth day of the hunger strike, his position had been usurped by more charismatic and radical students.

A large crowd came marching down Changan Avenue, holding a banner that said BEIJING CITIZENS’ SOLIDARITY GROUP. A guy at the front shouted through a megaphone: ‘We want to assemble a crowd of 10,000 residents and set off on a march. If anyone wants to take part, join the back of our procession!’ They were dressed in blue overalls and red-and-white baseball caps. Some of them were holding spades or brooms, others had children on their shoulders. The colourful procession moved closer and spiralled slowly around the Square, progressing towards the Monument in the centre like fallen leaves and branches being drawn into a muddy hole.

‘Dai Wei, where are your student marshals?’ Old Fu cried out. ‘I need them to protect the broadcast station.’

‘They’re guarding the Monument and the Beijing University hunger strikers,’ I said as he came closer. ‘Can’t Xiao Li help out?’

‘He’s fainted again. The broadcast station is the mouthpiece of the students. If it isn’t properly guarded, the Square will fall into chaos. You must recruit more marshals, then set up subunits, each with its own leader, and give everyone a number. Go and buy some hats and armbands to distribute to your team.’

‘Who are you representing now, Old Fu?’ Sister Gao asked. ‘The Hunger Strike Headquarters, the Beijing Students’ Federation or our Organising Committee?’

‘The hunger strikers, of course! They’re sacrificing their lives for our cause. It’s our duty to help them.’ Old Fu was panting for breath. He sounded as though he’d just run a marathon.

‘I thought you wanted to go back to campus, Old Fu,’ I said.

‘I can’t leave now. Bai Ling has appointed me temporary commander-in-chief, and I’ve also got the broadcast station to look after.’

‘The director of the United Front Department will be here in a couple of hours,’ Han Dan said. ‘Make sure the broadcast station is securely cordoned off by then.’

‘He’ll be wasting his time,’ Old Fu said. ‘The hunger strikers won’t give up until the government agrees to our demands.’ As I walked over to the broadcast station with him, he said, ‘Everyone’s trying to take control of the station. We should get all our guys over there now – Hai Feng, Zhuzi and Shao Jian – and come up with a strategy.’

‘What about Shu Tong?’ I was worried to see that the lifeline we’d cleared for the ambulances was now full of people.

‘He’s gone back to the campus again. He and Liu Gang opposed the hunger strike, so I doubt the students will let him return to the Square.’

‘Han Dan and Ke Xi have continued with their hunger strike, but are both calling for a withdrawal. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘We Beijing University students must establish our authority, or we’ll just get caught up in the struggles of rival factions,’ Old Fu said.

‘Those twelve intellectuals who came to the Square yesterday were trying to establish their authority too, but you thought they wanted to take over our movement,’ I said, repeating a view that Mou Sen had expressed.

‘No, they weren’t trying to take control. They just wanted us to leave the Square in time for Gorbachev’s welcoming ceremony so that the government didn’t lose face.’ Old Fu looked distracted. It seemed as though only half his brain was working.

As we walked into the broadcast station’s tent, I said, ‘I don’t agree with you, Old Fu. The intellectuals knew the students had backed themselves into a corner. They were giving us a chance to withdraw from the Square with our dignity intact.’ Mou Sen was lying on the ground writing a news bulletin, sucking deeply on a cigarette. I snatched it from his mouth and stamped it out. His face was like a sheet of grey paper, soaked in sweat. He looked as though he needed to be put on a drip.

‘Some more Nankai University students have arrived from Tianjin,’ Mou Sen whispered, not wanting to disturb the broadcast discussion Mao Da was chairing. ‘They’re stuck outside the Square’s security cordon over there. They’ve got no food or blankets. It’s too much. They’re very angry.’

‘Let them join our student marshal team,’ Wang Fei said, waking from a nap.

Outside the tent, hundreds of students were queuing up, hoping for a chance to broadcast messages or statements.

‘I sent some Nankai University students to guard the water barrels on the Monument’s lower terrace,’ I said, sitting down on a box of paper. It was quite cool inside the tent. I longed to hide in a quiet corner and sneak some food into my mouth. ‘The Beijing University Youth League has come to the Square to support the hunger strikers,’ Old Fu said to me. ‘They’ve brought food and water. We’ve set up a supply station below the Museum of Chinese History. Can you send some student marshals over to guard it?’

‘Ask Mou Sen to sort that out,’ I said. ‘I’ve got enough to deal with.’

‘The Youth League has set up a telephone line,’ said Wang Fei, lighting a cigarette. ‘I think we should appropriate it. Hey, have you heard? The restaurant owners in Qianmen market are handing out free food to the students. If you show them your student card, they’ll give you a box of provisions. It’s just like the mutual aid teams that sprang up during the Cultural Revolution.’

‘Many of the people on the citizens’ march today work for government organisations. And they’re calling for the same things as we are. The protests are ascending to a new level.’ Mou Sen resembled the great writer Lu Xun in the famous photograph taken of him on his deathbed.

Mao Da walked over, grabbed Mou Sen’s metal cup, took two sips from it, then returned to the debate he was chairing behind the stack of equipment. There were eight or nine people squeezed around the microphone.

‘Let us resume the discussion,’ Mao Da said. Now that he’d drunk some water, his voice was twice as loud.

‘I’m an economics student. I’d just like to remind everyone that no communist nation has ever had a successful economy . . .’

‘I’m a second-year sociology student. The government keeps promising to provide universal English language education, but the majority of middle-school students around the country still fail to reach even the most basic level of English. What’s the government doing with all our money?’

‘I’d just like to say –’

‘You must introduce yourself first,’ Mao Da interrupted.

‘Sorry, I’m a third-year geography student. I’d just like to say that I’ve never heard of a case where democracy has been created by a peaceful sit-in and a crowd of onlookers. If we want democracy, we must use more radical tactics. If we need to sweat, we must sweat. If we need to shed blood, we must shed blood!’

I could hear the huge crowd outside break into applause.

‘I’m from Nankai University in Tianjin,’ said a student in a yellow baseball cap. ‘I arrived here two days ago. This morning, workers from Shougang Steel Plant marched to the Square to show their support. They held placards saying: “Don’t worry, your brothers are here at last!” . . . I have a sore throat, so I can’t speak for too long. Thank you, everyone!’

I knew this student. The day before, he’d helped me reorganise the lifeline through the Square.

‘Fellow students, I’m from Shanghai’s Fudan University. I’ve queued up for hours for a chance to speak to you. I wanted to tell you that the students of Shanghai have taken to the streets, and hundreds have gone on hunger strike in solidarity with our fellow students in Beijing!’