Beijing Coma (36 page)

‘I was called up here because the students put my name forward. Isn’t this supposed to be a democratic election?’ It was true that he’d been nominated. His name was on the blackboard. But he didn’t look like a student. He looked more like a professor, or a plain-clothes policeman. He delivered a dry speech about the need for the students to abide by the constitution and remain on guard against conspirators intent on using the movement to overthrow the state.

I scanned the audience, looking for the traitor Mao Da, and spotted him in the row below me. Of the three thousand students sitting in the lecture theatre, I guessed that about two or three hundred were government informers, and that they would vote for this guy called Shang Zhao.

Just as Wang Fei was about to start his speech, a student who’d witnessed the public row between him and Han Dan earlier snatched the microphone and said: ‘So tell us, are you a spy or not?’ The intervention created such an uproar that Sister Gao and Bai Ling had no choice but to ask Wang Fei to leave the stage.

Ke Xi displayed his usual oratory skills. He said that he was prepared to lay down his life for democracy and freedom. He claimed he’d already bid his last farewell to his parents, and was ready to fight to the bitter end. The journalists standing at the front quickly pointed their cameras at him and snapped away.

Liu Gang and Hai Feng’s speeches were well received. Zhuzi had tied a white bandanna around his head. He introduced himself as ‘one of the older graduate law students’ and said that if he were elected onto the committee he’d be able to provide invaluable legal advice.

They began tallying the votes up on the blackboard. Old Fu and Han Dan were doing well. Fortunately about twenty more science students turned up at the last minute, so that after the final batch of slips was counted, Shu Tong came out with almost as many votes as Han Dan.

In the end, Ke Xi, Han Dan, Liu Gang, Yang Tao, Old Fu, Shu Tong, Hai Feng, Zhuzi and Shao Jian all made it onto the committee. Ke Xi came out top, and was appointed chairman. Sister Gao announced that the Organising Committee of Beijing University Independent Student Union had been democratically elected.

Shu Tong climbed off the stage, dripping with sweat, and said, ‘That strange guy, Shang Zhao, was a government agent. He was three votes away from being elected. How did he get so many votes?’

‘At least we managed to get four science students onto the committee,’ I said. ‘That’s not bad.’

‘They’re going to assign the posts now,’ Shu Tong said. ‘I want to be propaganda officer. That way I can make sure that we instigators retain control of the movement. Quickly, go and tell Shao Jian and Liu Gang to nominate me.’

‘Isn’t anyone going to give us something to eat?’ Wang Fei hissed through his gritted teeth. He was livid that he hadn’t made it onto the committee.

‘Just look at your face!’ Chen Di laughed. ‘Did you really expect people were going to vote for a villain like you?’

‘If you hadn’t had that big row with Han Dan, we would have got even more science students onto the committee,’ Shu Tong said, glancing angrily at Wang Fei.

Shao Jian wiped the sweat from his forehead, turned to Wang Fei and me and said, ‘Go back to the dorm and draw up a proposal for a speech unit, a donation collection unit, perhaps even a supervisory office. If they agree to setting them up, we can wangle some jobs for you two.’

‘This class boycott is going to change the history of Beijing University,’ Old Fu said, his face beaming.

‘You should have turned up earlier, Dai Wei,’ Liu Gang said. ‘We could have nominated you instead of Wang Fei.’ He had thick eyebrows and foldless eyelids which, according to the ancient art of face-reading, denote a man who would make an able prime minister.

‘I only like doing the practical stuff,’ I said. ‘I’m no good at giving speeches.’

‘Ke Xi is now chairman of this committee and of the Federation,’ Liu Gang said. ‘He’s got too much power.’

The previous night, thirty student leaders from several universities had met in the grounds of the Old Summer Palace and formed a city-wide coalition called the Beijing Students’ Federation.

‘Well, that’s your fault for giving him the job then, Liu Gang,’ Shu Tong said. The rest of us fell silent as it dawned on us that Liu Gang was the behind-the-scenes orchestrator of that organisation as well.

I wasn’t particularly upset about losing my position on the committee, but Wang Fei looked distraught. We headed back to Block 29, still discussing the ramifications of the election.

I remember A-Mei saying to me once, ‘It frightens me how time just seems to go on and on for ever . . .’

I didn’t know what she meant. I turned my gaze away from her black plaits and said, ‘Yes. God knows how long it will take me to travel to all those places mentioned in
The Book of Mountains and Seas
.’

‘You should try listening to some Mozart . . .’ she said, clearly annoyed that I’d got the wrong end of the stick again.

The smell of the mattress I’m lying on takes me back to the Guangzhou hospital I stayed in after my break-up with A-Mei. The smell seeps into my muscles, causing me to re-experience past distress as physical pain. Do all unhappy memories stay etched in our flesh like this, remaining with us until the day we die?

‘Put a sheet over your brother’s stomach, Dai Ru,’ my mother shouts from her bedroom. ‘I don’t want him to catch a cold.’ Whenever the fridge’s motor starts humming, the heat in the flat becomes a little less oppressive.

‘Why have you got so many plastic bags hanging up in the kitchen, Mum? They’re not wall calendars, you know.’ My brother’s holiday is almost over. He’s been back with us for a month. He’s very lazy. He gets up late every morning then spends most of his time listening to music on his earphones.

‘They’re useful,’ my mother says. ‘I washed them this morning. When they’re dry, I’ll fold them up and store them in this sack. They take up very little space.’

The sack she stores the plastic bags in is made of stiff polythene. Whenever someone brushes past it, it makes an irritating crackling noise that sounds like dried beans tumbling onto a sheet of glass. My mother hoards rag cloths as well. There’s always one hidden away in some corner of the flat, letting off a damp and mouldy smell. I’ve grown up surrounded by that odour.

I presume that the ten volumes of
Mysteries of the World
are still lined up on top of the wooden cabinet. They were given to my father after he was rehabilitated, as compensation for the possessions confiscated from our family during the Cultural Revolution. They’d previously belonged to the opera company’s set designer, Old Li. My mother often talked about the valuable objects that were taken from us: the piano, radio and silk bedcovers, as well as the music scores, violin, silver tray and cutlery which my father brought back with him from America.

‘Damn! My train ticket is for tonight, not tomorrow,’ my brother suddenly cries out.

He’s been sleeping in the tiny balcony room since he came back, and has hardly left the flat. Despite his laziness, he’s been quite attentive to me. He’s massaged my clenched feet every day. They’re much less stiff now. He even carried me to the toilet once and gave me a warm shower. Last week, he put a tube down my throat and poured milk and orange juice into it, which improved my bowel movements. My mother has had to clean up so much excrement and urine, her fingers have become raw and infected.

‘Tonight? Then you’d better not carry your brother out to the park today. I must go to the bank and get some money for you. What time is it now?’

‘Dai Wei has pissed again.’ My brother lifts my feet in the air, peers between my thighs and whispers, ‘You’re as good as dead. What are you doing getting a hard-on?’

I have no control over my genitals, and I often get erections. It’s so embarrassing. Sometimes I get one when my mother holds my penis and tries to get me to urinate.

‘Take off the incontinence pad before his skin goes red,’ my mother says, rubbing analgesic cream onto her hands. ‘Then turn him onto his stomach and clean his back with alcohol. When you’re gone, I’ll have no one to help me lift him.’

‘Your hands are so rough, Mum. You should eat more fresh vegetables.’

‘I hardly ever go to the market. I’m afraid to leave him alone in the flat in case he has another convulsion. Last time he had one, the veins bulged out on his forehead and his face went dark blue. Anyway, I don’t have much of an appetite these days. When you’re not here, I never bother to sit down and have a proper meal. I just pour hot water onto a bowl of rice, or boil up some instant noodles.’

‘You must force yourself to eat. Those sores on your hands are a sign you’re not getting enough vitamins.’

My brother has grown up a lot. He’s begun to show concern for my mother. But in my mind, I still picture him as the fifteen-year-old boy he was when I left home to go to Southern University. Although we saw each other regularly after that, it was never for more than a few days at a time.

In the background, a male newsreader drones: ‘Kim Il-Sung, the General Secretary of the Workers’ Party of Korea and Chairman of the Korean People’s Republic, arrived in China today on a state visit . . .’

‘Turn that radio off!’ my mother says. ‘I’d like to smash it up. I only put it on for Dai Wei. I can’t bear the way they’re always painting such a rosy picture of things.’

Since my mother began to devote her life to caring for me, her view of the world has changed. I often hear her grumbling complaints about the government or the police.

If Bai Ling hadn’t persuaded all those students to join the hunger strike, if moderates like Shu Tong and Liu Gang had managed to retain control of the movement, if the students had evacuated the Square on 30 May, then perhaps I wouldn’t be lying here now . . . There is a place in the mountain called Warm Spring Valley, where the nine suns rise every morning. As soon as one sun returns to the valley, another one rises up. Each one is carried through the sky on the back of a three-legged bird . . .

We all squeezed into Shu Tong’s dorm. The night before, he’d come back from an Organising Committee meeting and reported that he was now propaganda chief.

His first mission was to transform his dorm into a news centre, from which he would publish an independent student newspaper and run a broadcast station. He gave me some money and a list of equipment to go and buy at the Haidian electrical store. I wanted to take Tian Yi with me, so I went to find her. I’d heard she was helping set up the Organising Committee’s administration office.

I walked into the arts students’ dorm block and saw a sign pasted onto the door of a ground-floor dorm that said
BEIJING UNIVERSITY ORGANISING COMMITTEE
:
RECEPTION
. Bai Ling was in charge of this office. When I entered the dorm she was speaking animatedly to a group of businessmen who’d hoped to have a meeting with Ke Xi. They wanted to offer him advice and financial support. One restaurant owner had arrived with a truckload of mineral water he wanted to donate to the movement, and was waiting for Bai Ling to find someone to help unload the crates.

Tian Yi was in the dorm next door. The sign outside said
BEIJING UNIVERSITY ORGANISING COMMITTEE
:
ADMINISTRATION
. She glanced up at me briefly, then returned her attention to the committee meeting minutes she was sorting through. Han Dan, who was now secretary of the Organising Committee, had appointed her his deputy.

Sister Gao had been appointed chairwoman of the security office and spokeswoman for the news centre, but she hadn’t been allocated a room of her own yet, so she’d come to help Tian Yi sort out the freshly printed leaflets which were piled up on the bunk beds.

The occupants of the dorm had moved out, and taken all their belongings and photographs with them. All that remained were four sets of metal bunk beds which were now stacked with piles of white and red paper, and boxes of ink bottles and calligraphy brushes. Now that the room was almost bare, the grime and dust on the large windows was more noticeable.

Two students tore open some boxes and placed a typewriter and a mimeograph machine onto one of the bottom bunks. The room suddenly resembled a black-and-white photograph I’d seen of a rebel faction’s den in the Cultural Revolution. I guessed that those machines had cost over a thousand yuan.

The sheets of white paper on the desk that Tian Yi was sitting at were even more neatly stacked than the ones on her desk in her dorm.

Just as I was about to ask her to accompany me to the Haidian electrical store, she grabbed the hand of a boy who was walking out of the room and said, ‘When I said no, I meant no!’

The boy was holding a box of business cards that had been donated by sympathetic onlookers during the rally at the Square.

‘But you can photocopy them if you want,’ she said, sitting up straight. ‘I’ll get someone to help you.’

I felt obliged to come to Tian Yi’s aid, so I said to the boy, ‘Yes, those cards are for everyone. You can’t take them away.’

‘I collected them myself when I was in the Square,’ the boy said.

‘We’re not asking you to give them to us,’ said Tian Yi. ‘We just need to keep the originals here, so that people can have access to them. They will be vital to the student movement.’ She sounded like a female revolutionary.

‘But I need them for the records office I’m setting up,’ the boy retorted, holding the box tightly in his arms.

‘That’s very presumptuous of you! The administration office is supposed to be in charge of the records.’ Tian Yi’s tone was becoming sterner.