The Yellow Papers (44 page)

Edward turned from the alley into Ming Li's street. The feeling in his gut, that sense of foreboding, suddenly became more pronounced. Was Ming Li all right? Of course she was.
Don't
go getting spooked now, Billings
. He hurried. Up ahead he could see her apartment. He crossed the street to see it better. She was standing at the window, still in her silk dressing gown, waiting for him. He relaxed.

He patted the pocket of his jacket to make sure the necklace was still there. How would he give it to her? They would have lunch first. Maybe just come up behind her and slip it around her neck. Or maybe after they'd been to the Consulate. A celebration. He heard chanting and his feeling of foreboding crystallised, his senses more acute.

From a side street a gang of Red Guards appeared and marched towards him, yelling slogans and punching the air with their fists, their guns.
The scum has risen
, he thought. He stopped. They were between him and Ming Li's apartment. Should he turn? Take cover? No. He knew to show the slightest hesitation – the slightest hint of fear – would bring out the vulpine in them.
Rather be a fragment of jade than a complete clay tile
. Chen Mu's old saying surprised him. He hadn't thought of it in years. For an instant his mind jammed trying to work out what to do next – it had been too long; he was too old. But you never really forgot. Stay calm. Show no fear. Don't look at them. Continue walking as if everything was normal. The Red Guards marched on. Cars and buses stopped. The street began emptying of people. Then, with the suddenness of a knife-thrust, the Red Guards dispersed, running to either side of the street, into buildings, smashing shop windows and knocking down people in their way. He saw a group of them enter the block of apartments next to Ming Li's. Within seconds, windows smashed as chairs and household goods were thrown into the street. Ming Li, still at her window. He had to get to her. Keep her safe. He felt suddenly exhausted at the thought of having to deal with violence once more. He squared his shoulders and put one foot in front of the other. Hurry. One step at the time. One second at the time. He knew how it worked. He still had a chance.

Ming Li saw Edward coming home. From his stride she knew he was happy. She saw him look towards her window – he always did this, as soon as he was close enough. She saw Red Guards come from the side street. Heading toward him.
No!
She wanted to warn him. Yell at him to run, go into a shop, hide. Do anything to keep safe. But she knew that from here he wouldn't hear her. She pressed her hands, her body, against the glass, as if doing so would allow her to move through it and float down the street to stand at his side. She saw him stop. He had seen them.

Down with class enemies! Down with Western Imperialists!

Huang Ho could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. Through his legs, his groin, his arms. He realised which street they were in and looked up at his grandmother's apartment. There she was, at the window, watching them. Now she would see how powerful he was! Now she would learn to fear him. The air was tense, electric. He could almost see the swirl of air currents as he swung the butt of his rifle to smash another window.

Vanquish the capitalist dogs! Vanquish the capitalist roaders!

He saw him then, crossing the street. A Western capitalist running dog. Swaggering by as if they didn't exist. How dare he! He should be showing respect. Fear. They were revolutionary generals! They were all powerful!

‘Comrades, look! A capitalist devil! Kill the capitalist dog! Smash the imperialist demon!'

Edward heard the bone crack. His knees gave way. His head crashed on the pavement. There were too many, he couldn't breathe. Kicking his head, his chest, his groin. He felt the tip of a knife slit his side. No pain. Relieved it wasn't his gut. Fists and boots. His hand connected with a face and his fingers automatically searched for the eyes. Dug deep. He heard police sirens. The sound of pounding boots.

The heavy, six inch metal tear gas canister hit the ground across the road from him, skipping like a stone over water as it discharged its acrid cloud. He heard the Red Guards running. People screaming. He had to get up, get somewhere safe, but the gas made his eyes burn, his nose run. He could barely swallow, felt like he was choking. Ming Li!
Go towards the police, Billings. Get behind them
. Grabbing his side, he tried to rise but his legs gave way. He had to open his eyes. Excruciating pain.
Open your eyes, Billings!Now!
There – he saw him. Through the tears and the swirl of blinding smoke the helmeted silhouette of a police officer, gas mask in place, tear gas launcher in hand. Not ten feet away, walking straight towards him. Help at last. The muzzle flashed.

We are Chairman Mao's Red Guards
,

Vanguards of the Cultural Revolution
.

We unite with the masses and together plunge into battle

To wipe out all monsters and demons …

Their song echoed in the distance, becoming fainter and fainter. Police sirens wailing, overriding the song. The smoke cleared.

Doors opened. People came back onto the street, handkerchiefs to their noses. Clustered around the man lying in the street, his face half blown away, his blood running to the gutter to join the waters of Kowloon Bay. Beside him, the exploded remains of a tear gas canister resting on the tangle of a delicate art nouveau necklace.

At an apartment window, a woman in a silk dressing gown, both hands on the glass, slowly sank to the floor.

From across the harbour, on Hong Kong Island, the noonday gun went off.

Dominique Wilson was born in Algiers to French parents. She grew up in a country torn by civil war, until she and her family fled to Australia. Her short stories have been published nationally and read on ABC Radio, and one of her short stories was made into a short film. She was founding co-managing editor of
Wet Ink: the magazine of new writing
, and Chair of the Adelaide branch of International PEN. She holds a Masters and a PhD in Creative Writing.