Beijing Coma (87 page)

‘I wrote to a neuroscience research centre, but never heard back,’ my brother says, then coughs into his sleeve. ‘Mum, you’ll have to reinsert the needle. Look, the skin’s inflamed.’ Someone knocked the IV tube attached to my right arm and the needle has become dislodged.

‘Both his arms are covered in needle pricks. I’ve had to insert so many drips, his veins must be like sieves now.’ My mother walks over and pulls out the needle. ‘I won’t bother putting it back in. He’s already had half a bottle.’

They turn off the light and carry the electric fan with them into the sitting room. My mother has cooked braised pork and bought a bottle of Erguotou distilled wine especially for my brother. Master Yao has given up alcohol and meat.

Since my mother has been having private Falun Gong lessons from Master Yao, she has become much more conscientious. She plays the exercise tapes all the time, and spends hours sitting on her bed meditating. She has also taken to calling him Old Yao now, instead of Master Yao.

‘Eat up, Old Yao. Whatever you may say about this government, at least there’s enough food to go around now. Back in the famine years, the wind musicians of our opera company’s orchestra were classified as “heavy labourers”, but we chorus members, who worked just as hard, were classified as “normal workers” and got eight jin less rice a month. And I had to send twenty jin’s worth of my monthly ration coupons to my husband, otherwise he would have starved to death in the labour camp.’

‘The food we were served in our staff canteen during those years was watery and tasteless,’ says Master Yao. ‘Occasionally, when I couldn’t stomach it any longer, I’d sneak off to a restaurant. But I’d choose one that was a half-hour walk away, to make sure no one from work saw me. I’d sit with the other nervous customers and gorge myself. I’d take a few pieces of duck back home, so that my family could have a taste. But I always felt guilty afterwards. One meal cost half my month’s wages . . . A few years later, after my unit was restructured, I was sent to work in the countryside. Life was so hard there, I lost all interest in food.’

‘My husband and I never once went out to a restaurant together,’ my mother sighs. Before Liberation, her family often dined at expensive restaurants. I’m sure she’s thinking back to those days now.

‘The Communist Party is more callous than any of the Chinese emperors of the past,’ Dai Ru says. ‘Dai Wei can’t move or talk, but the government still keeps him under constant surveillance.’ I remember how my brother jumped to his feet after reading a few pages of my father’s journal and vowed to avenge the injustices done to him.

‘You’re right. They even made me turn my back on my ancestors . . . Go on, eat up, Old Yao.’ This is the first time I’ve heard my mother mention her ancestors.

‘So do you see now, Mum? Your beloved Party destroyed your husband and then your son. They have torn our family apart.’ My brother sounds just like I used to.

‘Perhaps I was too leftist in my young days, but I stuck by your father. I never once considered divorcing him. If you were married to a rightist back then, you were treated like dirt. Most women in my situation would have abandoned him. Huh, if Dai Wei hadn’t got into this state, I could have pulled myself up again after your father died. I might have made a career for myself as a duettist.’

‘You’re so lucky to have been born with a beautiful voice,’ Master Yao says,

‘What’s all this “huh, huh”, Mum? Whenever I sighed as a child, you’d clip me round the ear. You said it was unlucky. But now you seem to sigh all the time.’

‘I’m frustrated, I suppose. I used to be a professional singer. I should start practising again. Perhaps that would raise my spirits a little. Huh. Before Liberation, my family owned a three-storey house. My father had many American friends, and would hold dance parties for them in our home. We owned a camera, and had albums filled with photographs . . . Eat up, Old Yao!’

‘You’ve been living in the free world for several years, Dai Ru,’ Master Yao says. ‘You must remember to take care what you say now you’re back.’

‘Helen and I went to the Square yesterday and laid a bouquet at the foot of the Monument to the People’s Heroes. It had six red roses and four white roses to commemorate the students who were killed on 6/4.’ I keep hearing my brother putting his tumbler of Erguotou back down on the table. It appears he’s become quite a hard drinker.

‘You could have got yourself arrested! A woman called Wang Xing went to the Square a while ago and unfurled a banner that said “Reverse the verdict on the Tiananmen Movement”. She was arrested, declared “criminally insane” and sent to one of those Ankang mental hospitals that are run by the police. They only release you from those places once they’ve tortured you so badly that you really have gone insane.’

Dai Ru sighs and says quietly, ‘If I hadn’t left the intersection to take a message back to the Square, I would probably have got caught in the crossfire too. Four students from my college were shot that night . . . I met up with some old classmates the other day. None of them wanted to talk about Tiananmen. All they’re interested in is doing business and making money.’

‘You haven’t got any cleverer since you’ve been abroad. I’ve warned you countless times to stay away from politics, but you never listen to me . . . How much are you paying for your hotel room?’

‘Don’t ask, Mum. I’m going to give you £800 before I go, so you can buy what you need. This flat is like a scrapyard. No normal person would dare set foot in here.’

‘What time does your hotel lock its front door? Your girlfriend will be waiting up for you. You’d better go back.’

‘Don’t worry. I bought her a ticket for a Beijing opera performance. It doesn’t end until eleven. It’s so hot in this flat, Mum. I’d like to get some air conditioning installed for you.’ My brother bought a microwave oven for my mother yesterday, so that she can have hot food whenever she likes. But she discovered that it’s a 100-watt machine, so I know she’ll never use it.

After my brother leaves, Master Yao performs a few Falun Gong routines with my mother, then takes a quick shower.

‘You pick things up so quickly,’ Master Yao says, sitting down on the sofa. ‘I suppose artists must have a natural aptitude for spiritual cultivation . . . I have a ceramic figurine of Bodhisattva Guanyin at home. I’ll give it to you next time I come. The only thing I keep on my walls now is a photograph of Master Li Hongzhi.’

‘This flat is so cramped. I wouldn’t want the figurine to get knocked over. Where could I display it?’

‘On that side wall of the covered balcony. I’ll put up a wooden shelf for you, and give you a photograph of Master Li Hongzhi to hang above it. That way, when you burn the incense, both Guanyin and Master Li will be able to enjoy the sacred smoke while they meditate in the Falun paradise.’

‘Tell me, what does the Falun paradise look like?’

‘Once Master Li has installed a wheel of law inside you, you will see it for yourself. It’s a beautiful, golden realm. There are pavilions made of gold and agate, and emerald ponds covered with lotus flowers. You never have to worry about material concerns. You can pluck whatever food or clothes you need from the trees. It’s even better than the Buddhist realm of Utmost Bliss.’

‘And what happens when you achieve enlightenment?’

‘The soul escapes its fleshy prison. Some enlightened beings are able to climb onto the backs of white cranes and fly into the clouds.’

‘Yes, the body
is
a prison. As soon as it falls sick, you have to visit doctors and buy expensive medication.’

‘If you continue with the exercises, you will never need to see a doctor again.’

‘I understand the medical benefits of Falun Gong, but I have to admit, I still find the mystical elements a little confusing.’ My mother has also taken a shower. She’s sitting on the sofa now next to Old Yao. The electric fan is purring away beside them.

‘Some people believe that Master Li is the reincarnation of Buddha Sakyamuni. While I was meditating one day, he appeared to me as an old man with a long white beard. He looked just like the Taoist sage, Zhuangzi . . .’

‘Is Master Li on a higher plane than Buddha Sakyamuni?’ My mother puts down her cup. There’s water on the glass top of the table. The cup squeaks as it slips across it.

‘Master Li exists in many different forms. Sometimes he appears to me as a luminous golden Buddha. When I reach higher states of consciousness, his expression becomes cold and stony.’

‘So, you’ve managed to open your Third Eye,’ my mother whispers.

‘My Falun wheel rotates constantly, even when I’m asleep. If you stand close to me, you can feel it moving.’

‘I used to take sleeping pills, but I haven’t needed to since I started the exercises. Even when I get up in the middle of the night to empty Dai Wei’s bedpan, I’m able to go straight back to sleep again afterwards. Come on, let me put my ear on your stomach and see if I can hear your Falun wheel turning.’ My mother rests her head on Master Yao’s stomach. Smells of male and female perspiration mingle in the air.

‘I wish I wasn’t so uncultured. I know nothing about music or opera . . .’

‘Let’s climb onto the back of a white crane and fly into the clouds! We don’t have to wait until we’re immortals . . .’

My mother is on the phone again. ‘She’s invested a million yuan in it. It’s called the Paris Wedding Photo Studio, I think. Lots of people have copied her idea. There are at least five other studios on the street now. They’re very stylish. The managers redecorate every two or three months, trying to outdo each other . . . Most of the customers are from the provinces. They come up to Beijing on honeymoon and have their photos done while they’re here. You can choose whatever backdrop you want: a shot of Sydney Harbour, the Eiffel Tower or a traditional Chinese courtyard, and you’re allowed six changes of costume. If you choose the 10,000-yuan package you can have exterior shots taken in front of Tiananmen Gate or outside the church on Wangfujing Street.’

Earlier this morning, Wen Niao phoned up to wish my mother happy Chinese New Year. She said she has a four-month-old son now, and has moved to Guangzhou. She doesn’t like it down there. It’s too hot for her. Our television was on very loud, so that was about all I could gather.

I was shocked to hear she’s had a son. Could it be possible that I am the father?

‘There’s so much infidelity about. All the men seem to be having affairs with those girls from the provinces who work in hair salons and nightclubs . . . Their wives? They just stay at home playing Mahjong and pretend not to know. What else can they do? . . . I’ve taken up Falun Gong. I do the meditation exercises every day, trying to rectify my heart and cultivate my character.’ I don’t know who my mother is speaking to. She’s been on the phone with this person for half an hour.

Wen Niao promised that next time she comes to Beijing she’ll visit us and show us her son. I can still feel her presence ticking away inside me.

I hear a bicycle being hauled up the stairwell, and people on the ground floor stamping the snow off their shoes. The government has forbidden people to let off fireworks tonight. But occasionally I hear one exploding then whizzing through the sky.

‘. . . No, I won’t be making dumplings tonight. The municipal propaganda bureau has told us to celebrate Spring Festival in a “modern, civilised style” this year. So I’m going to have lunch in a restaurant tomorrow, with my younger son and my daughter-in-law. It will make a nice change.’

The truth is, Dai Ru and his girlfriend aren’t in Beijing. They returned to England in September. My mother doesn’t want to admit that she’ll be spending Spring Festival alone.

She dials another number. ‘. . . I know, isn’t it ridiculous? The bureau said, “Let a thousand shops hang red lanterns and a thousand restaurants serve Spring Festival feasts! Everyone must celebrate Chinese New Year in a modern style this year!” What a joke! I’ll be spending it alone in the flat, staring at my comatose son . . . Huh, the chairman of the neighbourhood committee told me the mayor would visit our district over the holiday to hand out bags of American rice to families who are in difficulty. He said I was bound to get a bag. But in the end, the Tuanjiehu committee managed to persuade the mayor to visit their district instead. They told him there’s a building in Tuanjiehu which houses five disadvantaged families, including two elderly couples, a widow and an orphaned child. So if he visited it, he’d be able to distribute all the rice in one go, which would save him a lot of trouble.’ My mother doesn’t put on a front when she’s speaking to An Qi.

The windows on each landing of the stairwell are broken. Gusts of wind blow straight through, carrying smells of gunpowder and cigarette-lighter fumes straight into my nose. When the wind is strong, I can hear the rustling of plastic bags or plastic sheeting.

I feel at once tender towards my mother and repelled by her. We live together in this small flat, both discarded by society, trying to ignore each other’s presence. We’re like scraps of paper lying in a dark corner of the street, being tossed back and forth by the wind.

My mother sits on her bed, puts on a Falun Gong instruction tape and mutters to herself, ‘The fortune teller told me I’d travel abroad soon, but I don’t believe him, because I keep dreaming of packing my bags and boarding a plane, and everyone knows that dreams always mean the opposite of what they suggest. In my dreams, I often see the Falun wheel rotating inside me, but as soon as I wake up, it vanishes . . . Oh Master Li Hongzhi, I beg you to install one inside my abdomen. When someone gains the Falun wheel, the energy it emits can heal their entire family . . .’

I remember how A-Mei liked to fiddle with her hair, examining the ends of each strand. She often did this before she went to sleep. As she fiddled away, she’d mutter to herself inconsequentially, just like my mother is doing now. Tian Yi also liked to talk to herself while scrutinising a lock of her hair. I think I heard Wen Niao playing with her hair as well a few times. Perhaps it’s just something that women like to do. But Lulu never had that habit. She braided her hair into a neat plait which she’d let dangle over her shoulder for a minute before flicking it back with a toss of her head.