by Xiaolu Guo
The night passed dreadfully, with me worrying that my Chinese boyfriend might break the door down any second, wielding his knife. Paul and I made love again, but our entanglement had become desolate. There was no real tenderness in our embrace, our kisses only brought out my tears. His hutong house was so cold that Paul tried to warm my frozen feet during the night, but there was no warmth left in my body. We got up early the next morning. He started gathering his luggage. ‘Let’s go, please.’ He locked the door. Then he added, ‘You really don’t have to come with me to the airport. Really. I’ll be fine.’
For some reason, I didn’t get into his taxi. I felt so grey and dead. I had lost the love of my life. Not only that, the affair had destroyed me. As Paul’s taxi disappeared in the dawn light, I felt utterly abandoned, and wandered aimlessly through the cold. I wondered if Jiang would be there, waiting at the airport with his knife.
I never heard from Paul again, nor were there any news reports of a murder at Beijing airport. Was there a confrontation that day? Or did they miss each other by luck? I don’t know. Nor do I know what happened to Jiang’s knife, or want to know. Jiang and I barely spoke after that, and I never returned to that house that was always under the cold, military gaze of his father. I never dated another Chinese man again.
The Revisit
One afternoon as I returned to my dormitory from class, our door lady handed me a handwritten note. She said that a man had waited an hour for me before leaving the note. I read it. I recognised his writing, stiff, with long, thin strokes. How could I have forgotten him even after all these years? I began to tremble. It was him, the secretary from my father’s office who had molested me for two years from the age of twelve. The note simply said: It’s me, Hu Wenren. I am in Beijing and I want to see you.
There was a telephone number for me to call.
I couldn’t bring myself to believe this was happening! It was my third year at the Beijing Film Academy and I was twenty-two. Had he followed me here to the capital? What did he want from me? Did he really think he could just take me to a street corner again and rub his hands all over my body? Did he think he could resume all that, unaware that it had been a gross invasion of my body? He had been a poison in my life, staining my body and soul with his pathetic impulses. What made it infinitely more sad was that he appeared not to recognise the pain he had inflicted on me.
I folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket. Silently, I slipped into my room. My room-mates were having lunch, drowning in a sea of patriotic songs being blasted from the loudspeaker attached to the ceiling. Mengmeng was sitting on her bunk bed, eating from a lunch box. Her legs dangling over the bedside above me.
My heart heavy, I climbed into bed without offering any greeting.
‘What are you doing, Xiaolu?’ Mengmeng came down from her bunk and sat beside me: ‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No.’ I was in no mood to chat.
‘What’s wrong?’ She sensed my distress. ‘Are you sick?’
I shook my head, and instead reached for my plastic food container and went to the canteen to buy lunch. On the way back to the dormitory, I felt unable to move my legs. I was scared. Scared that Hu would be waiting for me outside the dormitory, looking for me. Even though I was now much stronger and taller and we were out in public, the old fear returned to haunt me again.
I managed to get back to my room, but the other girls had now gone, only Mengmeng was still sitting on her bed. I decided to tell Mengmeng about Hu’s return, since she knew the story.
I showed her the note. She read it, and jumped up.
‘You mean this is the same man from your father’s office? How dare that piece of shit contact you again after all these years!’ I remained silent. Mengmeng continued: ‘You know we have to punish him!’
‘What do you mean? Tell the police? They’re just going to laugh at us …’ I said weakly.
‘No! We’ll give him a call, and tell him to meet us at the Yellow Pavilion.’ Anger flickered in her eyes. ‘There’ll be someone there we know who can help if we get into trouble.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we meet him and curse him for what he has done to you and we spit on him.’
‘That’s it? What will that do? Why would he care?’
I was not after any sort of revenge. Why couldn’t I just forget about the note and move on, as we all did with the bad things in our life? But Mengmeng insisted. ‘You know, this dirty bastard has to learn a lesson. He probably doesn’t know girls can be tough too! And he asked for it!’
So she called, instead of me. She was connected to a hotel somewhere in Beijing. Hu was not there. She left a message, saying that I would be meeting him the following day at the Yellow Pavilion cafe near the film school.
The next day, Mengmeng and I dressed in our most non-feminine clothes – black jeans and baggy sweaters and big jackets. I tied my long hair into a bun. Although I was extremely nervous about this weird meeting, I knew I had my best friend with me and nothing could go wrong. So, at the appointed time, we arrived at the cafe.
There he was, the man from those dingy Wenling street corners covered in chicken excrement. I had been twelve, a small, skinny girl. He had been very tall. But now, he suddenly appeared much shorter, older and more feeble than a normal man of his age. He could only have been in his forties, but he was unkempt, weary and grey-haired. I couldn’t believe that the last ten years had turned him into such a wreck of a man. When our eyes met, I shot him a spiteful look and I could tell that he felt my repulsion.
We sat in front of him. The waiters came, but Mengmeng sent them away. The man sensed our hostility and avoided our gaze. I felt a mixture of feelings: anger, disgust and, above all, embarrassment. But Mengmeng took charge.
‘Are you planning to molest some young girls here in Beijing? I thought you only dared abuse local girls,’ she snarled.
Mengmeng set off a nuclear explosion. Everyone in the bar looked over at us. Hu’s face was shocked and stupefied. This provocation seemed to hit him like a blunt instrument. Even I was unprepared for the aggression of her verbal attack. I couldn’t think of anything to say at that moment. All I could do was sit by her side and watch the unfolding scene like I was an outsider to it.
‘We know what you’ve done. And it’s not only you. We know quite a few pathetic men like you and we’re going to teach all of you a lesson. Just be aware that the police know where you are now.’
She then stood up, and tugged my sleeve. Brisk and dignified, we walked out of the cafe, leaving him there.
That was the last time I saw him. Two months later, the Yellow Pavilion was pulled down. The little cafe disappeared overnight, the spot was swallowed up by a brand-new motorway. Every time I walked past the old spot, I paused for a few seconds. But there was nothing left to see, only the endlessly moving traffic, like life itself.
The Quiet American Again
I was working on my second book, Village of Stone, a novel based on Shitang and my Beijing life. Inspired by the idea of applying the montage method from European cinema to novel writing, I began to use a structure of parallel narratives. I was so immersed in writing and my other work that I hadn’t written to my father in months. Finally, a letter arrived, asking me how I was. ‘How are your film studies going? We have not heard from you for so long. I hope you still like Beijing and have made some friends. Your mother wanted me to ask you about your blood pressure. Is it better now? Are you eating enough blood soup and spinach?’
I replied and told him my blood pressure was fine, and yes, I had made some good friends in Beijing. Which was a lie. The reality was, I had made barely any, apart from my dorm-mate Mengmeng. My schoolwork and night-time writing left little time for socialising. Besides, I was busy seeing an American man called Andy. Of course I didn’t tell my parents about my Western boyfriends. In fact, we barely talked about my love life at all.
After the episode with Paul, Jiang and the missing knife, I was more cautious a
bout embarking on any serious relationship. I didn’t know if it was a coincidence that Andy was also an American, but one thing was clear to me: I didn’t want to date another Chinese man ever again. It’s not that I was against Chinese men and couldn’t see that some were attractive, intelligent or interesting. I wasn’t that superficial. It was the culture of masculinity in China that I was revolting against, a fact that was inextricably linked to all my bad experiences with the old traditions. I didn’t formulate my disgust with it so clearly, but my violent ex-boyfriend had been the distillation of it.
Andy was from Massachusetts and had come to China to study Chinese, before trying to start a business in Asia. I don’t remember how Andy and I really met or got together, but I do recall I was drawn to his quietness – something atypical for a young American man, at least in my experience. Quietness suggested a kind of interiority that I found attractive. I couldn’t help but associate him with a film I had watched in our screenwriting class – an old black-and-white classic called The Quiet American. Although the main character, Pyle, was not a good man, there was still something about his innocence, the foreigner in Asia, that intrigued me. As for Andy, he was totally apolitical. He never thought about it. I remember him making only one statement on the matter: ‘I think Communism did so much for China, it’s amazing.’ This remark of course interested me greatly. It sounded nearly like something my father would say. So we found ourselves starting a relationship.
During my summer break from school, Andy and I decided to travel around China together to the north-east seaports of Qingdao and Dalian.
Qingdao was bathed in a light rain when we arrived. The red-roofed German-style buildings – relics from a long-gone colonial time – were quiet. The port reached out into the green-grey water of China’s Yellow Sea. It was a beautiful city. In the early nineteenth century, the Qing imperial court decided to make it into a naval base, and built fortifications around the natural harbour. But at some point during the Opium Wars, German troops seized the town and occupied the surrounding area. The city was under German administration until the Japanese took over during the First World War. As we walked around, we saw little signs of Japanese influence. Yet the parks, the shore, and houses were more European in their elegance. We stayed for two nights before travelling on to Dalian.
The city of Dalian used to have a Russian name – Port Arthur – and a Japanese name – Ryojun City. One hundred years earlier, it had been nothing more than a fishing village, and now it had a population of six million. There were very few people out in the streets. It was unusual for a Chinese city to have such a sombre feel. As Andy and I were taking some photos by the sea, a police jeep suddenly stopped beside us. A policeman jumped out and started yelling.
‘You two! Get into the car!’
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked fearfully.
‘Get into the car! You’re going to tell me what’s wrong when we arrive at the station.’
The station! He obviously meant the police station. Andy was worried. He tried to argue that he was just a tourist. But his Chinese was no use here. His efforts to speak only added to their suspicions.
We were forced into the back of the jeep and they locked the door. They drove us for some time before we finally found ourselves at the gate to the police station. The jeep stopped just inside. The two police officers jumped out and covered our eyes with blindfolds. Then they drove us another ten minutes, making repeated turns and reversals. I was growing ever more frightened. What would happen to us? a beating? imprisonment? labour camp confinement? In China one could be imprisoned without being officially charged. Then the vehicle stopped and we were dragged out. Still unable to see, we were led into a room, and told to sit down on a bench. Only then were the blindfolds removed.
The sight that greeted us was a bare room with a desk and two chairs. A telephone and a pile of papers sat on the desk. A map of China had been glued to the wall. As I glanced at Andy, I saw his legs shaking. I felt awful. This was the first time I had been in such a serious and dreadful situation, but we had done nothing wrong. We had to see what the policemen really wanted.
After taking down our details, including Andy’s American address, the police began to ask me to report everything we had done in Dalian, including the names of every street we had walked along and which restaurants we had eaten in, etc. Unfortunately, Andy was being too honest: he mentioned the Navy Museum we had visited that morning.
‘The Navy Museum? What did you see there?’ The policemen were now very grim, looking from me to Andy and back again.
‘Oh, we walked about, looked at old photos of Dalian from about one hundred years ago,’ I said, trying to make light of everything.
‘Did you take any notes? Photos?’ One of the policemen turned to Andy.
We shook our heads. Then we watched them search our bags. We weren’t carrying much: a tour guide in English, a bottle of mineral water and Andy’s camera. Instantly, they snatched Andy’s camera. In no time, the interrogation was over, and one of the policemen announced:
‘You will be under arrest for three to five days for entering a Chinese military zone, until our investigation proves you are not here as spies or have stolen information from the navy base and communicated findings with anyone outside China. Until then, you will have to stay here.’
We began to argue, trying to explain we really were just tourists. But apparently, we were told, no foreigners were allowed in Chinese naval bases without permission.
‘But there was no noticeboard telling us that we weren’t allowed to enter the street. We were only walking around,’ I argued again, my legs trembling and my voice beginning to quaver.
‘Don’t you feel ashamed, as a Chinese citizen, to be ignorant of the fact that foreigners are not permitted in military zones? Where is your patriotism? Hmm?’ One of the policemen stood up and, pointing to the map of China on the wall, gave us a brief lecture. ‘The coastline is our defensive border against all foreign nations. Every seaport has a naval base to ensure we will never again be attacked by foreign forces. How can you not know this? Huh? You are a university student? What a joke!’ He choked on the smoke of his cigarette – he had been chain-smoking through the whole interview.
Since we had left our passports and ID cards in the hotel, the police dialled the hotel number and told the receptionist to get our details. While they did this, Andy and I fell into a deeper panic. My future was ruined. I would probably end up in prison, and Andy would be thrown out of the country. I tried to think who, in this cursed city, might be able to help me. Suddenly, I recalled a wealthy Dalian tycoon I had met at the Beijing Film Academy. His name was Lu Something. He had been looking for a screenwriter in Beijing two months previously in order to make a film about his rise to the top as a real estate developer and head of an instant noodle company. He had made that year’s ‘Top 100 Chinese Entrepreneurs’ list, we had been told. I had saved his number on my pager when he had invited me for dinner. My hand reached into my pocket. But wait, I thought. Once the police left the room, locking the door behind them, I fished it out, found his number and sent a quick message.
‘I’m in trouble, locked in Dalian police station.’
In no time, he replied: ‘Will call the boss. Wait.’
About ten minutes later, the same police officer who had interrogated us came back into the room. This time his attitude was completely different, and he gave us two cups of steaming green tea. What a mistake, we shouldn’t have been brought here, he said. He would drive us all the way back to our hotel. Apologies followed. Andy’s camera was returned, and his hand was shaken, with profuse apologies.
We were surprised by this sharp turn of events, but I realised just how effective my tycoon friend’s phone call had been. He must have been a real big name in Dalian. Not even the police dared offend him.
We were back into the same jeep and being driven by the policeman back to our hotel. Now he was cracking jokes. Andy was obviously still in shock.
<
br /> ‘That’s my first experience of the power of corruption in China,’ he whispered, knowing that our companions didn’t understand English.
‘Corruption. Yes, but on this occasion we have to say thank heavens for corruption!’ I replied, as we stepped into the lobby.
We turned and waved goodbye to the jeep and the smiling officers. I too had to obey the unspoken laws of corruption, I realised, and repay the tycoon by helping him with his film ambitions. I would now have to call him properly, and make a date to express my formal gratitude. After all these years of film-school training, I had finally found some use for my knowledge. In an interrogation room, rather than some fancy Hollywood studio, admittedly. Well, nothing ever goes to waste.
Truffaut Legacy
I always thought Mengmeng was a much stronger-willed person than me. She seemed not to get caught up in emotional entanglements. She had advised me not to get too involved with Andy, and she was right. The relationship ended when Andy left China for Taiwan. But I had noticed some changes in her recently. She had grown sullen and withdrawn. At night, she spent her time reading on her bed, and writing in her diary. She wanted to be left alone. I observed, but didn’t want to pester her with my questions.
The news that Mengmeng had ‘fallen’ from our dormitory windows shocked everyone at the film school. The night she ‘fell’ from a third-floor balcony we were all back in our room. It was around eight, and I had just returned from the canteen after finishing my dinner. I didn’t see Mengmeng. Her table lamp was on and her lunch box lay on her desk, but there was no food in it. I thought she might be having a shower or was downstairs making telephone calls. Then, all of sudden, I heard some students screaming outside. It was always loud around the dormitory building at night, so I didn’t pay much attention to it at first. But the cries were growing louder. I opened the window and peered out, only to see a body splayed on the pavement. People were crying and shouting. Students rushed up to our dorm.