by Jack Livings
* * *
Alone in the cell, Anwher had backed his spine tight against the concrete seam of a corner. His face had become a mask of dried blood and sweat. The unrelenting ammoniac stench of urine was thick on the air. Guards’ voices echoed through the corridor. When the prisoners moved, they moved in silence while the guards stamped beside them, shouting, “March, convicts!” Anwher envisioned his own grotesque death, but stripped of the chorus of sympathy usually humming in the background. Allah, mercy, I beg you. Despite the heat, he was freezing, so cold that he felt his hands might snap off like twigs. He knew he was waiting to be retrieved, and that alone kept him awake, his eyes sweeping the dim cell for movement. Finally, the door opened and two guards dragged him to the washroom, where they told him to strip, which he did, as they dumped bucket after bucket of stinging water over his head. He dressed with the deliberation of an eighty-year-old, and they dragged him off to another part of the prison. The barber and his mother were there.
When he came into view, the old woman did a little dance. “That’s the one,” she said. “Hey, there, Uyghur. How’s life?”
“Cut it out,” a guard said. “That’s inappropriate.”
Another guard shook Anwher by the arm. “You stole from these people?” Anwher tried to catch the barber’s eye, but the man wouldn’t comply. He’d made his decision. Anwher let out a low moan.
“Oh, that’s definitely the one,” the old woman said. “Coward.”
The barber lifted his head to say something, but she cut him off. “You had your chance,” she said.
The guard directed himself at Anwher. “You’ve stolen from a Chinese citizen,” he said, “and have damaged the reputation of your minority group.”
The old woman laughed.
From behind them a voice boomed, “Behave, all of you.” A round man filled the doorway and moved slowly into the room. His face was slick with sweat and the top of his coat was unbuttoned to reveal a roll of flesh at the base of his neck. At first the face was only vaguely familiar to Anwher. This was the commanding officer, that much was clear, and when Anwher placed him, he shrank back against the guard, who pushed him away. It was the fat man with the newspaper. “This is a crime against the People’s Republic,” the fat man said, “and it will be dealt with according to proper procedure.”
“They said it was on the house,” Anwher whispered.
“On the house?” the fat man said to the barber. “Is that right? For the record, did you say that?”
“You were sitting right there,” said his mother.
“We need to establish the facts.”
“Do we look like we’re running a charity?” she said, then paused to consider the rules of the game. She had to be sure no traps were being laid for her before proceeding. “Did you hear me say it was on the house?” she asked the fat man.
“I don’t recall,” he said, his face impassive. It was enough to satisfy the woman that she wasn’t going to land in a cell herself. “You understand this kid is connected?” the fat man said.
“Like I care. He walked a tab. And he insulted me.”
“Besmirched your good name, did he?”
“You were there,” she said. “You heard what he said.”
“For the record,” he said.
“A whore. He said I was a whore.”
“Imagine.”
She crossed her arms and gave the fat man the evil eye.
This went on for a while, the fat man extracting his pound of flesh, Anwher attempting invisibility, the old woman needling them both. The barber watched dumbly from the side. Eventually the fat man got bored.
“I’m sure he’ll gladly pay a fine plus what he owes you,” he said to the barber’s mother. “Justice done?”
“He steals from me. He threatens me. He calls me a whore in the open market, and you let him go free?”
“I’m sure you’ve been called worse,” the fat man said. “Don’t push your luck.” He waved at the door. “Take him back to his cell and get this citizen her money.”
* * *
The fat man had been promoted hastily in the wake of the corruption sweep. His ascension to the rank of commanding officer was the result of good timing and the luck enjoyed by those who kept their mouths shut and carried out orders. But his men made farting noises when he walked by, and some still called him Fatty Bo to his face. This bothered him.
He had his orders from the new regime and had been waiting for an excuse to move against the old gangster. One could never be too careful. Things had to look right. He’d told the old woman what to do: make your claim, file a report, allow the process to take hold.
Of course, these civilians don’t take orders. She’d crashed into the station like it was 1967, invoking revolutionary slogans and a bunch of stuff she’d heard on the radio. “Seek truth from facts,” she kept yelling. Before he knew it, the entire station was peering around doors and over the tops of their reports to see what was going to happen next. His men didn’t bother to hide their snickering faces. “They’re taking over,” she screamed. “Threatening old women!”
He had bellowed at the corporal to escort the old woman to a room where they could question the prisoner. The man took his time leading her away, and Fatty Bo had to yell at him again. The corporal’s hangdog face hardly registered the abuse, which the other men found hilarious. And the son—there he was, trying to put enough distance between himself and his own mother to signal that their simultaneous arrival had been a coincidence. Fatty Bo motioned him over.
“She’s really got a wire up her ass,” Fatty Bo said.
“It’s the heat,” replied the barber. Fatty Bo waited, but that was all the son had to say on the matter. Why she wanted the Uyghur strung up was a mystery, but it sure wasn’t because the Uyghur had called her a whore. She wanted this kid out the back door in a body bag. So be it. Embarrassing, yes, to be subject to a crazy old woman’s whims, but good luck all the same. Fatty Bo was self-sufficient enough to summon some intellectual appreciation for the situation. It was a blessing, was what it was. Bastards wouldn’t call him Fatty Bo after he burned Uyghurville to the ground.
* * *
Omar went to the PSB station alone, having left the payoff with one of his toughs stationed down the street.
Every cop in the place jammed into booking to eyeball him. It took two hours to fill out the forms because his Chinese was far from perfect and one of the cops dumped tea on the papers just as he was finishing. This was part of the process and Omar dutifully requested new forms, for which he was charged a yuan and a half. Hunched over like a schoolboy, he began again, pausing occasionally to brush their cigarette ash from the backs of his hands. After the forms, they made him strip and open his orifices in front of everyone before handcuffing him to a radiator in a stifling reeducation classroom. None of this was new to him.
After an hour in that swampy air, his skin had the consistency of boiled chicken and his tongue was so swollen he had to hang his mouth open like an imbecile. A young officer came to fetch him. “Here, now, Uncle, take my arm,” the officer said gently, “and we’ll go see the prisoner.” He led Omar through a series of iron doors, until finally, through a forest of bars, Omar spotted Anwher slumped against the wall, lifeless as a coat left on the ground overnight.
Fatty Bo appeared and offered Omar a thermos of water, which the old man guzzled. Anwher watched the men from his corner of the cell. “This can’t be pleasant for you to see,” Fatty Bo said.
“It’s a shame,” Omar said. He had developed a nonchalance when dealing with the authorities that was by this time as automatic as breathing. A man had to wait out the Chinese, figure out their game. Only after carefully considering the options would Omar step forward to engage them.
“Prisoner, hup to,” shouted Fatty Bo. He took the young officer’s baton and dragged it across the bars. “Up! Up! You have a visitor.”
“Go in and get him,” Fatty Bo said to the young officer, handing back his
baton. A few bold prisoners strained to see from their cells, but the majority hung back, out of sight of the officers. A sidelong glance from a PSB, and you’d be carrying rocks for a month.
The young officer nudged Anwher with the baton and said, “Come on, now. Don’t try Fatty Bo’s patience.”
“Use the proper form of address in front of the prisoner,” Fatty Bo shouted.
The young officer shrugged. “Come on, now,” he said. “Quit playing.” When Anwher refused to budge, the officer, embarrassed to find his kindness rejected, jammed the baton into the prisoner’s ribs. “Up,” he demanded. Still, the prisoner refused.
Fatty Bo’s nostrils flared at this display of ineptitude. Bands stood out in his neck. “Get out,” he said, shouldering the young officer aside.
“Boy, don’t be an idiot,” Omar said under his breath. There was nothing he could do. Fatty Bo pinched Anwher’s ears with his thick fingers and wrenched him into a standing position.
“He’s got spirit,” Fatty Bo said, as if holding up a prize piglet.
“He’s an idiot,” Omar said.
“If you say so. We should discuss his case.” Fatty Bo unsnapped the leather holster on his hip and patted his pistol.
“What’s that all about?” Omar said.
“Just watch yourself, okay?”
“Let’s discuss the boy’s case,” Omar said. A gun wasn’t necessary for these negotiations and it surprised him that the officer had put it into play. But the Chinese were good at psychology. They had hundreds of clever tricks to knock their detainees off balance.
“His file was called up for a minor charge,” said Fatty Bo, “but some research turned up unpaid license fees.” He graced the young guard with a wry smile. “What is he? A raisin salesman?”
“A furniture importer,” Omar said. “We can take care of this quickly.”
“I haven’t even told you how much he owes. How much do you think he owes?”
“In range of three thousand,” Omar said quickly. He didn’t care what the officer was claiming the boy had done. The officer would have the money and Omar wasn’t going to stand in his way.
Fatty Bo chewed on it for a moment. “Damn close. It’s good that you’re on top of his business.”
“Four,” Omar said.
“Look, it’s a symbolic act. A measure of good faith.” Fatty Bo focused intently on Omar, his eyes narrowing.
“I wouldn’t call it symbolic,” Omar said.
“Can I tell you something about myself?” Fatty Bo said. “I’m an unlikely success, you know? The odds were staggering. I was very sick as a child. As scrawny as him.” He tipped his chin at Anwher. “Unable to defend myself. Can you believe it, looking at me now? Things change.”
“Things change,” Omar said.
“And listen to this: My father was taken by the Red Guard, strapped to a log, and pushed over a waterfall,” Fatty Bo said. “My mother and I lived like a couple of rats in a hole. If someone had told me I’d be here today…”
“You’d never have believed it,” Omar said.
“Yes! Exactly.” Fatty Bo looked at Omar appreciatively. “You haven’t had an easy life, either, but look at you—you’ve done well for yourself. That’s why I feel I can talk to you. So what’s money between two men like us? My men tell me you didn’t even raise your voice to them. You spoke without speaking, right? It impressed them, I’ll tell you that much. Between you and me, you scared them stiff. When was the last time you woke up bloody in a jail cell? Not in my lifetime, am I right? That’s a mistake you only make once. But this poor boy. This generation worries me. They’re soft. None of this ‘eat bitter’ bullshit for them. He’ll never be able to hold your empire together by himself, that’s what you’re thinking. Not that there haven’t been dangerous homosexuals—remember Queen Li? That guy and his fucking wooden knives!”
Omar kept his eyes level and his hands by his sides.
“You’re worried,” Fatty Bo said. “Let me put your mind at rest.” But that was all he said. He expelled a weary sigh.
“He’s been saying he wants to move back to Ürümqi,” Omar ventured.
“Is that a fact?” Fatty Bo said.
“It is. He’s had it almost as bad as you and I, so it’s understandable.”
“I very seriously doubt that.”
“When he was a child in Ürümqi. Both of his parents. My daughter—” Omar brought his finger across his neck.
“No,” Fatty Bo said.
“Yes. Truly. Killed in the street.”
“By Chinese?”
“Yes,” Omar said.
“That’s no surprise. They used to send the top-notch psychos out there. All this bad blood is their fault. Everyone got off to a terrible start.”
“And still, the boy wants to go home.”
“If only things could have been different early on,” Fatty Bo said.
“I’ve told him to stay here, but he’s a grown man. He can do what he wants.”
“It’s too late to change the course of history. Isn’t that what they say?”
“He’s a grown man, but I’m responsible for him.” Omar brought his hands up, as if to apologize for this insoluble family bond. “I can have the money here very quickly,” he said.
“That’s a good idea. You should pay the fine and I’ll let the boy go.” Fatty Bo leaned toward Omar and put his mouth close to his ear. “You understand I’ll have to interrogate him. To appease the men. They’re animals. No ability to recognize the nuances of the situation. Our history creates expectations.”
Only the four of them—Omar, Fatty Bo, the young officer, and Anwher—were there.
“You’ll do what’s expected,” Omar said.
Fatty Bo sighed and held his gun out to the young officer. “Give me your stick. And don’t let this old man get the drop on you. He’s got a trick or two up his sleeve.” The young officer nodded gravely.
Standing over Anwher, Fatty Bo slapped the baton into his meaty hand. “Now, young man. Whenever you’re ready to apologize for your crime, let me know.” Anwher scrambled into a corner, but Fatty Bo was all over him. With a great sweeping arc he raised the stick above his head, then brought it smashing down on Anwher’s back. “This is unnecessary,” Fatty Bo said to no one in particular. Beatings no longer interested him the way they once had. But a man did his duty.
He hit Anwher until the Uyghur stopped struggling, and by that time his own back was starting to seize up. It took all of his concentration to ignore the pain. He tried to swing from the hips to minimize the cramps.
He directed some shots to Anwher’s head, the baton reverberating sharply in his hand. Then he stopped and looked at Omar. Omar met his gaze but said nothing.
Anwher was making noises. It could have been an apology, but Fatty Bo’s back was killing him, the muscles yanking like someone snapping out a wet cloth, and he couldn’t think about anything but the cramps. He tore open his jacket to reveal a sweat-stained T-shirt underneath and attacked with a dull furor, the blows momentous, every one a raging earthquake. Anwher’s hands crept over the floor, as if he were trying to drag his ravaged body out of the cell, out of the station, away from Beijing entirely. In his homeland, a man could walk in a deep valley for days without encountering another soul.
“Why?” Anwher cried, his voice suddenly clear.
Fatty Bo stopped long enough for Omar to respond to his grandson. When the old man said nothing, Fatty Bo looked up. “This can go on indefinitely,” he said.
Omar knew it could.
“So be it,” Omar said. “Show us what you’re made of.”
MOUNTAIN OF SWORDS, SEA OF FIRE
Someone had hung an enormous red banner across the back of the newsroom that read “Farewell and Long Life, Li Pai!” The man of the hour had positioned himself at a metal folding table directly beneath it. Young reporters came with his memoirs open to the title page, then solemnly presented letters of recommendation they had written for themselves. Li
Pai signed them all. Ning had spent the morning watching from his cubicle as they filed by, so worshipful, so eager to drink from the font of the great one’s knowledge. The whole damn thing turned his stomach. Had anyone asked, Ning had no quarrel with him: Li Pai was a treasure. But Ning wasn’t one for celebrations.
There was to be a party that night at the Green Room. Just thinking about it made Ning cringe. He knew how it would play out. Fang, the economics editor, would kick things off by delivering a speech listing her own accomplishments and thanking Li Pai for his contributions to her stratospheric rise, and old Bang Wen would stutter his way through a selection of Du Fu’s poetry. The chief would grunt out whatever he’d written on his BlackBerry on the way over, while everyone, arms crossed, stared at the floor and listened for their cues to laugh. The toasts would go on so long Ning would begin to fantasize, like a man crawling across the Gobi, about a single drop of lukewarm beer. And by the time every editor in the place had said his piece, the drunks from the copydesk and production would feel compelled to chime in. But, much as he wanted to, Ning couldn’t escape it. He was the only one old enough to have known Li Pai from the beginning, and the chief’s assistant had been hounding him for weeks about his speech.
Like Li Pai, Ning was in his sixties, and for longer than he could remember, he had marked time by the various injustices the thoughtless world visited upon him, the speech being one. Another prime example occurred just after lunch, when one of Li Pai’s acolytes called across the newsroom, “Hey, Ning! Great news! You just got scooped by the Baby Reds!”
Ah, perfection, he thought. He’d taken some extra time to do some deep research, and here was his reward. If he’d been younger, he’d have hopped a bus over to the China Youth Daily’s dotcom operation and taken it out of the kid’s hide—he didn’t have to be told who’d stolen this story from him. He already knew. But he had a bigger problem, which was how to explain himself to the chief.
“Hey, no shame, no shame,” said the chipper young reporter in the cube next to Ning. He was wearing a necktie and had a pencil tucked behind one ear. He’d been on the job exactly one week, and he’d been a constant annoyance to Ning for the full length of his tenure. “I’m sure this happens to everyone from time to time,” the reporter said, his voice expectant.