Beijing Coma (78 page)

‘The lives of the government officials have turned around, though. They’ve made fortunes from all their corrupt profiteering. Do you want to give him a wash?’

‘I cleaned him this morning,’ my mother lies. ‘Does it smell in here? I’ve got used to it over the years.’

‘It smells like a . . . hospital,’ Mimi says tactfully.

They roll me onto my back again then shake my quilt and place it over me as they would a sheet over a corpse.

A news presenter’s voice drones from the television in the sitting room. ‘The family planning authorities’ policy of compelling all women who apply for birth permits to swallow an iodised oil capsule has been a great success. In the four years since the scheme was introduced, 17.7 million married women of childbearing age have taken the capsules . . .’

I suddenly remember how my cousin Dai Dongsheng pinned a Red Flag Watch Factory badge onto his lapel when he came to Beijing, hoping he could pass himself off as a city resident. I presume his mad wife is still pacing around their shack, threatening to take her case to the emperor.

‘He’s so thin now, he barely looks human,’ my mother says.

‘Go on, try some fruit, Auntie.’ Mimi doesn’t seem to be too disturbed by my condition.

The telephone rings. My mother picks up the receiver. ‘. . . Yes, all your old classmates will be here. No problem. Bring her along too. It would be nice to see you.’ She hangs up, cracks her knuckles and goes into the kitchen.

Mimi joins her there. I wonder how she’s managed to squeeze herself in. I hear oil bubbling in the wok, but the fumes haven’t reached me yet.

The late autumn days are turning damper now, but my skin is still dry. Each time a draught blows in from the landing, dead skin cells lift from my body, fly into my nostrils then swirl down through my trachea into my lungs.

My skin is as scaly as the pink, blue and gold angelfish that swam in the tanks of Beijing University’s biology lab. From glands beneath their scales, they’d secrete tiny drops of nourishing microbial slime that would fall straight into the mouths of their young.

I hear crackling and spitting as food is plunged into the hot oil. It smells like they’re making deep-fried carrot meatballs. I used to love eating those. I liked deep-fried aubergine as well, stuffed with ground pork and coriander. But my favourite of all was deep-fried sea bass that was crisp on the outside but still soft and moist inside. Even the leftover scraps of batter that were ladled out at the end were delicious. In fact, almost everything tastes good when it’s deep-fried. I feel a faint pang of hunger, but it remains in my brain and doesn’t travel to my mouth or stomach.

In the sitting room, the news presenter prattles on. ‘. . . China has become infatuated with football. This game is more than just a sport. It can lift the spirit of a nation. But the continual failure of our teams to make any significant mark in the international arena has been a great humiliation to our race . . .’

‘Many retired people go to parks in the morning to practise traditional Yangge fan dancing,’ Mimi says. ‘You should give it a try, Auntie.’ She still has the same husky, wavering voice she did at university. It sounds like an out-of-tune viola.

‘I’m learning Falun Gong,’ my mother says as they return to my room. ‘I’m taking lessons from a teacher called Master Yao. The meditation exercises can cure any illness. It’s much easier than standard qigong, or the traditional Fragrant Qigong school.’

‘Look at this article, Auntie. It’s about a British man who woke up recently after being in a coma for nine years. That’s his photograph. He said that although he couldn’t speak or open his eyes while he was in the coma, he could hear everything that was going on around him. Perhaps Dai Wei can hear our conversation now. You never know . . . I’ll read out the article to him in a minute. Shall we rub some more cream on his legs?’

‘I have to admit, I’ve sworn at him a few times these last years. He’s put me through hell . . .’

‘Not many people could have endured what you’ve been through. I think you’re amazing, looking after him like this for all these years. Have you had any news from his brother?’

‘Yes, he phones me from England quite often. But he doesn’t dare speak for long in case the police have tapped our line.’

‘Do they still come round here?’

‘They take us away now each anniversary of 4 June, but otherwise they usually only visit every two or three months. And they’re less officious than they used to be. They sit down and have a cup of tea, warn me not to speak to foreign journalists, then get up and leave. Look, he’s almost dead now. It’s unlikely he’s going to start a revolution, isn’t it?’

My mother is fifty-eight now. Her voice is warmer and fuzzier than Mimi’s. It sounds like a hammer dulcimer. A-Mei’s voice sounded like a violin, Tian Yi’s like a flute.

‘Are you still going out with that boy, what’s his name – Yu Jin?’

‘Of course! Boyfriends aren’t shirts – I don’t change them every day. The securities company he was working for in Shanghai has just transferred him to Beijing.’

‘Yes – Yu Jin. What a nice boy. The first time he came to see me, he gave me a thousand yuan. You’re lucky to be young now. You can go out dancing, go to nice restaurants . . .’

‘To be honest, I don’t go out much,’ she says sombrely. ‘I suffer from anxiety. I’m afraid of the dark, I’m afraid of crossing the road. I’ve stopped using a pager because the electronic beeps make me jump.’

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. The others have arrived. The prospect of noise and chatter excites me.

Mimi goes to open the door. ‘Hey! Chen Di!’

A draught blows the clamour into the flat. Everyone is speaking at once.

‘You look like an Italian gangster in that hat, Yu Jin. Where did you buy it?’

‘I didn’t know you wore glasses, Chen Di!’

‘Hey, Yu Jin and Mimi, when are you going to tie the knot? It’s always the same with you two: all thunder and no rain!’

‘This is for you, Auntie,’ Yu Jin says. ‘It’s Jinhua ham. Dai Wei’s still on hunger strike, I presume, so you’d better eat it yourself.’

‘What a beautiful box,’ my mother says. ‘It looks like a Japanese import.’

‘Don’t talk to me about Japanese imports!’ says Yu Jin. ‘Our office was given some Japanese biscuits the other day. Each one came in a plastic wrapper with a sachet of drying agents. The office maid assumed the sachets contained flavourings, so she opened them and sprinkled the tiny granules over the biscuits before she served them to us. We all ended up with swollen mouths and had to be rushed to hospital!’

‘Auntie, I haven’t introduced you yet,’ Chen Di says. ‘This is my girlfriend, Bingbing.’

‘Hello, Auntie,’ the girl says. She has a southern accent.

‘She’s so pretty,’ my mother says. ‘And even taller than Tian Yi.’

‘I came here straight from work. I couldn’t reach Wang Fei on his pager. I heard he’s gone back to Hainan Island. Look, I’ve brought a cake.’

‘I bumped into Yanyan in the Shangri-la Hotel last night. She was very offhand. She didn’t even bother to give me her card. She acted like some hotshot journalist, but she’s still only working for the
Workers’ Daily
, for God’s sake.’

‘Yanyan came here for a meal once,’ my mother says. ‘Come on, give me your jackets and sit down. You can watch the television. The food will be ready in a minute.’

They file into my room. Two, four, six – eight eyes stare down at me. If only I could open mine and look up at them.

‘He looks like Chairman Mao lying in the Mausoleum,’ says Yu Jin. ‘He has that same serene look on his face. “Remain unchanging in changing circumstances.” Do you remember saying that to me once, Dai Wei? I’ll never forget it.’

‘He led our student marshal team in the Square, Bingbing,’ Chen Di says. ‘He was great. So big and tough. He could even scare off our university’s boxing team.’

‘Really? But look how skinny he is now.’

There hasn’t been so much noise here since the police came and drove away the urine drinkers from our flat.

I remember waking Chen Di one afternoon when he was having a nap in the tent and saying, ‘It’s time for your broadcast, my friend.’ He’d stripped down to his Y-fronts. I could see his penis hanging out. He stared up at me blankly and said, ‘I’m so bloody knackered. As soon as this movement’s over, I’m going to cuddle up with a girl and sleep for a week.’ Although Bingbing probably is taller than Tian Yi, I doubt she’s pretty. I imagine she looks similar to the tall girl who drew us a map of Tiananmen Square.

‘He seems to have shrunk. He can’t be more than 1.7 metres now. He used to be 1.83. The tallest guy in the Science Department.’

‘I read that your urine sold for ten yuan a cup, Dai Wei. It’s incredible! A man was cured of chronic arthritis after drinking just one cup.’

‘Who drank urine?’ Bingbing asks.

‘Haven’t you heard the story? There was even an article about it in
Le Monde
. “Urine of Chinese Coma Patient Cures Cancer”. You can look it up on the internet.’

‘Only the urine of infant boys was drunk in the past,’ Chen Di says. ‘So if they’re drinking Dai Wei’s piss now, perhaps that means he’s returned to his infancy!’

It makes me happy to hear them joke and laugh like this. Chen Di has visited several times before, but this is the first time he’s stayed for a meal. His girlfriend is wearing expensive perfume. She probably works for a foreign company.

Someone switches off the radio. Someone else bumps their knee against the bed. I feel everyone’s gaze move up and down my body.

‘Dai Wei, your old classmates have come to celebrate your birthday,’ my mother says, coming in to collect my urine bottle. ‘You’re very lucky to have so many good friends.’

The room falls silent. All I hear is the sound of people breathing. Then Chen Di says, ‘Dai Wei, if you can hear me, you’ll know who I am. You’ve been lying here for six years – no, seven. It’s your thirtieth birthday today. Confucius said that a man of thirty must take his stand in life. We all hope you’ll be able to stand up again one day. I want to hear you explain all those strange theories you had about plant respiration. I want to see you awarded your PhD.’

‘Don’t make fun of him,’ Bingbing says, turning her back to him.

‘I’m not making fun of him. He was researching plant cell biology.’

‘I hope the government will have reversed its verdict on the student movement by the time you wake up,’ Yu Jin says. ‘We’ll appoint you commander-in-chief of the Square.’

‘Let’s not talk about the past,’ Mimi says, leaning against Yu Jin. ‘We should all just wish him a happy birthday.’

I find it hard to believe that Mimi is going out with Yu Jin. They hardly spoke to each other in the Square. I bet she’ll tell Yu Jin that she saw my penis. How humiliating. My mother has gone back to the kitchen to chop up bean sprouts. Her life has improved a lot since she met Master Yao. He visits her once a week now.

‘Can he hear us?’ Bingbing asks.

‘I’m sure he can,’ Chen Di says. ‘He’s particularly sensitive to women’s voices. When you spoke just now, his eyelids trembled.’ Chen Di is wearing a prosthetic foot. I can hear it squeak when he walks about.

‘He’s probably just excited to have us all here,’ Mimi says. ‘Dai Wei, Yu Jin has bought you a special qigong waist belt. It’s stuffed with more than thirty different medicinal herbs. Apparently it can cure many afflictions. We’ll put it on you in a minute.’

‘Since when did you start believing in Chinese medicine, Yu Jin?’ Chen Di asks.

‘The factory sent marketing agents round to our office. They wouldn’t leave until we bought some.’

‘I bet they were pretty girls,’ Chen Di says. ‘You probably sat them down and gave them cups of tea. How many belts did you buy?’

‘Stop teasing him! Yu Jin may be guilty of many things, but one thing I’m sure of is that he’s no philanderer.’

‘Supper’s ready!’ my mother shouts, laying the chopsticks on the table in the sitting room. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘Let’s give old Chairman Mao here a rest, and go and celebrate his birthday for him,’ Chen Di says.

There’s another knock on the door.

It’s Mao Da and Zhang Jie. They sit at the table without bothering to come in and see me. Wafts of alcohol blow into my room.

‘The Tiananmen Mothers group has made a big impact,’ Mao Da says to my mother. ‘I heard that your leader has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.’

‘The whole world knows about your group now, Auntie. You should be proud of yourselves.’ As soon as Zhang Jie finishes speaking, his pager rings. He gets up and makes a call on my mother’s telephone.

‘Poor Professor Ding has been persecuted relentlessly for her activities,’ my mother says. ‘She’s been sacked from her job, arrested, detained. She’s under constant surveillance now. There’s always a police car parked outside her home.’

‘When my colleagues find out I was involved in the Tiananmen Square movement, they treat me like a leper. No one wants to talk about those events.’

Zhang Jie says into the phone, ‘All right, we know the pros and cons . . . We’ll need a certificate from the Ministry of Information before we can apply for an internet service licence. We must find someone with high-level connections or we’ll never get anywhere.’ There’s a new tone of confidence in his voice.

‘None of his old professors have ever visited him.’

‘They’d lose their jobs if they did. That Granny Pang downstairs would report them to the police.’

‘Granny Pang’s taken up Falun Gong. It’s completely changed her. She wouldn’t dream of reporting anyone to the police now.’

My mother takes her cassette player out to the yard every day and practises Falun Gong exercises with a few other women in the compound. Granny Pang often comes up for a chat now. She told my mother that she realises it was wrong to pass information to the police, and that from now on she will cultivate truth, compassion and tolerance to ensure she doesn’t come back as an animal in the next life.