Beijing Coma (55 page)

‘How come you weren’t at today’s televised meeting with Li Peng?’

Before he had a chance to reply, Nuwa’s distinctive alto voice poured through the loudspeakers: ‘Everyone’s shoes are drenched. If someone could get a batch of dry shoes and bring them to the broadcast station, we’d be very grateful . . .’

‘Are you thinking of going back to the campus, then?’ Shu Tong asked.

‘I can’t, not as long as Tian Yi is still here.’ We walked down the second flight of steps and pushed our way through the security cordon at the base of the Monument.

‘Beijing University students mustn’t relinquish control of the Square,’ said Shu Tong. ‘Zhuzi has formed a secret action group with second and third echelon commanders who can take over from us in the event of our arrest.’

‘Did you know that Wang Fei has set up a Provincial Students’ Federation? He’s already taken a group of his members to the Zhongnanhai government compound. He says the compound’s a paper tiger, and that they should be able to storm inside quite easily.’ I felt it was my duty to inform Shu Tong about these developments.

‘Provincial students can’t start trying to take control like that. Tell Wang Fei to stop all these dramatics and do something useful for once.’ Then he patted me on the shoulder and walked off.

It was getting dark. I noticed that all the students entering the Voice of the Student Movement tent were wearing white T-shirts with the words
BROADCAST STATION
written in black pen. The sign hanging outside their entrance looked more professional than ours.

One of the three Hong Kong girls was inside the tent delivering a speech in Cantonese. ‘The Hong Kong Student Association sent us here to convey our territory’s support for your movement. We’ve been collecting donations from all over Hong Kong, and we’ve brought this money with us today, hoping that it will assist you. Tonight, as a show of solidarity, the three of us will join your hunger strike!’

The students outside who understood Cantonese shouted their appreciation. The girls’ sharp intonations reminded me of when A-Mei would suddenly break into Cantonese when she was annoyed or excited, knowing I wouldn’t understand much of what she said.

‘Dai Wei, Chen Di needs you to connect the wires in the broadcast minibus,’ said Lin Lu, walking up with a large group of students.

‘Shu Tong’s cleaned up the Monument,’ I said. ‘He wants to set up an office there.’

‘I know, we moved out as soon as he arrived. We don’t want to have to share that place with him.’

‘You sort out the minibus – I’m not up to the job,’ I said, then walked away sullenly. We were in danger of being arrested at any moment, but the student leaders were still caught up in petty, territorial fights.

My room stinks of emulsion paint. Two workmen are sitting on the end of my bed having a fag. They’re smoking the foreign ‘555’ brand of cigarettes. My mother is having the flat redecorated so that it will look at its best for Spring Festival.

The window is open. The cold breeze that drifts in is tinged with the smell of stale gunpowder from the firecrackers that were let off last night.

‘. . . So do you think they’ll get nicked?’

‘Depends what kind of backdoor connections they’ve got. That guy Zhang has a cellphone, so he can’t be short of cash, but he still got flung in jail.’

‘Wang’s got two bank accounts. I’m sure he’ll let us hide our cash in one of them . . .’

The sky outside the window is probably pale grey. The light beyond my eyelids was mauve this morning, but it’s white now, and the room feels less oppressive.

The paint dripping from the ceiling has seeped through the sheets of newspaper the decorators have spread over me, and has soaked into the quilt underneath as well.

‘So is this guy dead or not?’

‘Look at this hand! It’s just skin and bone. Those veins look like worms.’

‘A vegetable – that’s what they call people like this. His brain stopped working years ago. He just lies here like a plank of wood, with his eyes closed. He’s still breathing, though.’

‘I came up here once when I was a kid and asked if he’d let his brother play football with me, but he wouldn’t. He sent him off to the market instead to queue up for winter cabbages.’

I realise who this guy is now. He’s the grandson of Granny Li, the old woman I had to watch being scalded to death by the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. He was in the same class as my brother.

‘He was quite a cool kid, though. He got arrested by the police when he was fifteen. He had a fling with that girl Lulu who runs that chain of bookshops.’

‘You mean the girl who was sent to the re-education-through-labour camp for having an affair with a foreigner?’

‘Yeah. She knows a top official in a publishing house and has managed to wangle a printing licence from him. She’ll make a fortune from that. She’s married to a Hong Kong property developer. They’ve got a villa in Shenzhen. I bet they’re millionaires!’

‘He smells disgusting. Let’s put this blanket over him. Once we’ve finished touching up that bit behind the wardrobe we can get out of here.’

So Lulu is now the wife of a Hong Kong property developer. I didn’t know she was sent for re-education through labour. It must have been when I was at Southern University. Her name card is probably still in my wallet. After I met her in the Square, I called her up and arranged to have a meal with her at her restaurant, but a power struggle broke out in the broadcast station that night, and I was unable to go.

I opened my eyes and stared into the empty night sky. I’d asked permission to go back to the campus for a rest, but when the time had come for me to leave I’d been too tired to move, so I’d lain down on the ground and fallen asleep. It was probably the announcement that woke me up. A voice blared through the loudspeaker: ‘At noon on 20 May, the workers of Beijing will launch a twenty-four-hour, city-wide strike . . .’

Nuwa had left the Square for a few hours, and a student from the Broadcasting Institute was filling in for her. She was sitting on the brown rug in the corner of the tent. Her skirt was quite short. She kept pulling its hem, trying to cover as much of her bare thighs as she could. After every couple of sentences she’d pause to wipe the sweat from her nose. Mr Zhao, the Central Television newsreader, had turned up to help out as well.

Han Dan’s voice suddenly came over the Voice of the Student Movement’s loudspeakers. ‘This is Han Dan speaking. Please can the Beijing University students stop broadcasting, otherwise . . .’

‘What?’ Old Fu said, jumping to his feet. ‘Whose side is he on now?’

‘Go and talk to him,’ Bai Ling said. ‘We can’t allow the Square to have two separate power centres.’ She was sitting in the other corner of the tent with a drip attached to her arm.

‘If they can broadcast then so can we,’ I said, trying to force myself awake.

‘Make an announcement telling our Organising Committee, the Hunger Strike Headquarters and the Beijing Students’ Federation to come to our broadcast station immediately,’ Old Fu said.

‘Dai Wei, your mother’s here!’ Wang Fei shouted, walking in.

‘What new organisation are you setting up now, Wang Fei?’ Old Fu asked angrily.

‘No, no, it’s Ke Xi who’s setting up all the secret groups,’ Wang Fei lied. ‘I’m just going around telling people about the camp meeting tomorrow morning.’

‘Still arguing at this time of night!’ Bai Ling grumbled.

‘Where’s Nuwa?’ Wang Fei asked, having noticed the girl behind the microphone.

‘She’s gone back to the campus to get some sleep,’ Chen Di said. He was writing numbers on the baseball caps we’d bought for our student marshal team.

I stepped outside and spotted my mother’s permed hair. She looked very staid and conventional standing in the crowd of skinny young students. She was the first parent to dare venture over to the broadcast station.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said curtly.

‘Do you realise what crime you’re committing?’ she said. ‘You’re attacking the Party and the socialist system.’

‘Who told you that? Even Premier Li Peng himself said that we’re not creating turmoil.’

‘A handful of people are stirring up unrest in order to overthrow the government,’ she said, glancing from left to right. ‘You’re being manipulated by a small band of evil conspirators!’

‘There are no evil conspirators here. The government’s spreading false rumours. Please go home.’

‘Listen, I’ve come here to tell you something. Our opera company was sent a transcript of a government leader’s speech. They’re going to impose martial law in the next couple of days. You must come home with me. I’ve been punished once already for being the relative of a counter-revolutionary. I can’t go through that hell again.’

‘Look around you, Mum. It’s not just me here. The whole of China has risen up. The law can’t punish a crowd.’

‘Your father used to say exactly the same thing. Why are you so like him?’ My mother’s eyes were red. I could tell that she hadn’t been sleeping well.

Wang Fei and Old Fu peeped out of the tent to see what was going on. I felt embarrassed.

‘Dai Wei, is Bai Ling here?’ Shao Jian said, walking up.

‘She’s inside the tent.’

‘Can you call your marshals over? We’re going to have a meeting.’

Then Zhuzi came out and said, ‘If you want to express your views, Auntie, go and speak to the students at the reception desk. We need to prepare for our meeting now.’

‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ my mother shouted. ‘This is my son!’ Her face looked as worn as an old grey flannel.

‘I can’t go home with you, Mum. Tian Yi has been on hunger strike . . .’

‘What?’

‘Don’t worry, she’s stopped now. But she’s still very weak. If she feels better tomorrow, I promise we’ll come and visit you.’ I knew that if I told her Tian Yi was still fasting, she’d insist on seeing her.

‘Do you know how much damage a hunger strike can do to the body? She probably won’t be able to have children after this.’

The remark sent a wave of panic through me. ‘I know, I know, I keep meaning to send Dai Ru a telegram telling him to stop . . .’ I mumbled, and immediately regretted it.

‘What? He’s joined the hunger strike too? My God! Why didn’t you tell me? What kind of brother are you? How could you let him do that? Do you want to see him die?’ She grabbed my arm. ‘You’re coming home with me now. It’s not enough for you to bring shame on this country, after all the Party has done for you. You want to drive your mother to an early grave as well!’

I peeled her hand away from my arm and said coldly, ‘This is Tiananmen Square. There are hundreds of thousands of students and residents here, fighting for democracy. It’s reckless of you to speak like this. Not even Premier Li Peng would dare turn up here and say what you just said.’

In the distance I could hear a huge crowd bellow, ‘Sell the imperial crown, and the people will have food to eat. Get rid of official corruption, and the people will have beds to sleep on!’ It was so dark now that it was hard to tell which part of the Square the noise was coming from.

‘We’ll come here every day until Deng Xiaoping resigns!’ a group of factory workers shouted as they marched towards us. Behind them followed two buses, each one equipped with two loudspeakers. The crowd roared. It seemed as though everyone in the Square was crying out in unison. I’d become so accustomed to the noise and commotion that I often forgot what a vast multitude of people I was standing among.

Zhuzi pulled me away. My mother looked frightened. She muttered under her breath, ‘You’re not my son any more. If you’re killed, don’t expect me to come and collect your corpse.’ Then she turned and left.

Her visit put me in a bad mood. It reminded me of all the times she’d scolded and hectored me when I was a child.

I sent my student marshals back to the campus to rest and replaced them with a new batch of volunteers. Then I returned to the broadcast tent, drenched in sweat, hoping to crash out for a few hours. I’d been on my feet all night guarding the lifeline and felt I couldn’t stand up a moment longer. I lay down and shut my eyes, but the bright light bulb hanging from the tent’s ceiling and the constant screaming of ambulance sirens made it impossible for me to sleep.

‘So you’ve been to the emergency tent again?’ Mou Sen said to Old Fu, noticing the needle prick on his arm. Mou Sen had just woken up. His head was resting on my folded coat. He turned to me and whispered, ‘I can’t carry on any longer, Dai Wei. I’m going to have to concede defeat. I’m not as brave as your father was.’

‘I don’t think you’ve reached your limit yet,’ I whispered back. I remembered the night he read my father’s journal at Southern University. The stories had disgusted him so much, he was unable to touch his supper. He’d sworn that, from then on, he’d give up student politics and do whatever the Party asked. What horrified him the most was that, in order to stay alive, the starving prisoners had had to resort to eating the flesh of people they’d known.

‘I went for a quick transfusion,’ Old Fu said. He was very pale. Although it was four in the morning and the broadcasts had stopped, the tent was still busy. People were streaming in and out all the time, delivering news reports and passing on information.

‘Go and see what’s happening on the Monument,’ I said. ‘There was a coup in the Beijing Students’ Federation a couple of hours ago. They tried to sack Fan Yuan, but he refused to step down. He has re-appointed himself chairman and is going to give a speech setting out his plan of action.’