The Dark Road

by Ma Jian

  As always after the sun sinks out of view, the sky becomes bathed in reflected light, the lake turns gold and the town shimmers like burnished glass. When they lived in the metal hut on stilts, Nannan would come to this part of the lake, wade in up to her knees and fling things in the water. She flung Kongzi’s straw hat in here, a thermos mug she’d burnt her lips on, a satchel with a broken strap, a pair of shoes that pinched her toes and a battery-operated car that wouldn’t stop beeping. She threw almost everything she disliked into the water, as she felt the water was connected to her unhappy past.

  Kongzi turns back and heads for their shack on the outskirts, which since Nannan’s disappearance feels to him more like a coffin than a home. He feels that he has nothing left now but the wounds on his body. He wishes he could dig a knife into his hand, so that for a moment he could forget his torment. As he walks along, he can remember carrying Nannan to her cot when she was a baby, the sound of her breathing contentedly into his neck, the feeling of her saliva dampening the collar of his shirt. He’d hold her close to his chest, patting her softly on the back until he was certain she was asleep, but as soon as he leaned over the cot to put her down, she’d pat his back with her little hand to let him know she was still awake. He remembers how, when they were living on the boat, Nannan would often shake him awake in the middle of the night and shout, ‘Stop making that horrible noise!’ and he’d quickly roll onto his side because Meili had told him he snores like a pig when he’s on his back. What haunts Kongzi most of all is Nannan’s unfulfilled yearning for Kong Village. He’d presumed that since she was only two when they left, she’d soon forget it. But nine years later, she still had vivid memories not only of his mother, but of the date tree in the yard and the snow that fell in winter. She said the snowflakes were black when they fell from the sky but turned white when they settled on the ground. He’d given her his word that they’d return to the village as soon as Heaven was born. Some memories can’t be blown away: they force their way back, flying against the wind, and hover stubbornly around the mind. But all his memories feel empty now. If Nannan doesn’t return, not even little Heaven will be able to fill the void she’s left. He feels guilty about selling Waterborn, and the pain it caused the family. Meili was so distraught, she ran away from home, and Nannan cried for weeks afterwards, begging him to bring Waterborn back. This is his punishment. For giving away a child he didn’t want, he has lost the child he loves. Why do people who leave their native soil always suffer a miserable fate?

  Kongzi’s phone rings.

  ‘I’ve found Meili,’ Tang tells him. For the last five days, Tang has searched every Custody and Repatriation Centre in the province, and has posted missing-person notices on hundreds of websites. When Meili didn’t come home last night, Kongzi asked Tang to look for her as well.

  ‘Take her back to our shack,’ Kongzi replies. ‘I’m on my way there myself. It’s too dark to see anything now . . .’

  The news wakens Kongzi from his daze. At least Meili has been found. Yesterday, she said she couldn’t bear to stay inside their shack another second because she could feel Nannan’s breath flowing from every object in the room. On the phone just now, Tang said he was going to take Meili to hospital as she seemed disturbed and confused. He’d found her sitting on a pavement, smashing a rock against the locked entrance of a sauna house. He said she was in such a bad way that if she passed Nannan in the street now, she probably wouldn’t recognise her.

  As he proceeds through the dark, Kongzi flares his nostrils like a dog, trying desperately to sniff out the scent of his daughter from the confusion of toxic vapours. The smell he remembers most vividly is the musky scent of Nannan’s neck. Unlike the acrid chemical stench of Heaven’s air, this scent was earthy and natural and made him think of the soil, the seeds and the water that lie beneath the thick layers of electronic waste.

  KEYWORDS: dimpled smile, green and shiny, pear blossoms, Bridge of Helplessness, memory cards, lotuses.

  IN THE SOMBRE dark before dawn, Kongzi holds his torch in one hand and supports Meili with the other as they walk to the far edge of town along a channel choked with waste. This used to be a free-flowing river. The tethering posts once used by ferry boats can still be seen along the banks. The stone path is thickly littered with discarded rubbish. A few green fronds poke out from between smashed printer cartridges and scraps of burnt fibreglass, signalling the arrival of spring. Last night, Meili said she must give birth on a boat because if Heaven were to be born on the land it would share the same sad fate as Happiness. Before they left, she placed a pair of scissors inside the plastic bag that contains baby clothes, towels and muslin cloths and the digital camera she’s been saving for this day.

  ‘If we go any further we’ll reach the sea,’ Kongzi says. The large sack swung over his shoulder is stuffed with pillows, blankets and plastic sheets. A passage he read from Nannan’s diary last night flashes into his mind: ‘Daddy slept with a prostitute. I pulled the quilt over my head and cried. After Mummy ran off in a temper, Daddy gave me ten yuan and told me to go and buy him some cigarettes. The horrible beast! I can never love him again . . .’

  ‘No, the sea’s still far away, beyond that distant line of trees,’ Meili says. ‘But look down there, Kongzi! It’s our boat! It must be. I can hear the ducks quacking. I can even smell their rotten eggs.’ The truth is, Meili can’t see the sea. The sky is still too dark, and besides, the unfinished buildings in the mid-distance block out most of the view.

  Rejected scrap from the workshops of Heaven is brought to this stretch of the river and incinerated on the banks, as it’s considered far enough away from the township’s residential area. The camphor and coconut trees along the side of the path are coated in a black ash, and emit a smell that reminds Kongzi of burnt gunpowder. He looks down at the wreck Meili is pointing to, and remembers coming across their boat somewhere else, but can’t remember where.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve gone into labour?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, my belly is definitely tightening,’ Meili replies. ‘Very soon, we’ll be able to meet little Heaven. Let’s go down and climb onto our boat. It may not be sturdy enough to take us out to sea, but at least it can shelter me while I give birth to our child. The boat is on the water, and the water is moving. No family planning officers would dare come to this wretched place. I will give birth to Heaven, for the sake of our lost Happiness. Weiwei couldn’t find his mother. We can’t find Nannan. This is what fate has decreed. But after one child disappears, another will arrive. Oh, Golden Flower Mother, I haven’t exceeded my quota. My only child will be a legal citizen, and will be granted a residence permit when we return home. So I beg you, make sure that it arrives safely into the world today.’

  Kongzi helps Meili descend the garbage-strewn bank and tells her to sit down while he gets the boat ready. The wreck is half in the water and half out, its bow resting on water reeds and a heap of mobile-phone batteries. The planks wobble and creak as he steps aboard. He climbs carefully into the cabin, spreads the plastic sheets over the deck and lays out the pillows and blankets. Then he treads onto a pile of crushed transformers on the bank, pulls a tarpaulin off a mound of ash and wedges it under the bow to stabilise the deck. ‘It’s ready now,’ he says. Meili steps aboard and crawls into the cabin. She pulls off her trousers, lies down on the blankets, places a pillow between her thighs and stares out at the dark blue sky. ‘When it gets a little lighter, I’ll be able to see straight up into Heaven,’ she says with a smile. ‘Will you shift the boat round a little, Kongzi, so that the baby will come out facing north, towards its rightful place of birth? All that’s missing now is the date tree in the yard.’

  ‘The stern is rotten. If I try to move it, the whole boat will fall apart.’ Kongzi’s face is perspiring heavily and his legs are caked in mud and ash. He closes his eyes and sees another page from Nannan’s diary: ‘I have felt happiness a few times, but it has always been tinged with sadness. My parents think I’m just a naughty ch
ild. I don’t think much of myself either. Mum hates me. I hate Dad – I wish I wasn’t his daughter . . .’

  ‘Do you remember the first day we spent on this boat?’ Meili says, kicking off her sandals and brushing the flies from her face.

  ‘Yes, you felt so seasick that night, you vomited all over yourself, and Nannan vomited in her sleep.’

  ‘The first time I stepped aboard, I fell flat on my back.’ Meili rubs the rotting plank beneath her and remembers Nannan kneeling down in the cabin and using the stern deck as a table on which to draw pictures or write stories. ‘That night, you said that now that we had our own boat, I could give birth to a whole brood of little Kongs. Well, it’s time for this one to be born. I drank two bottles of castor oil yesterday to induce labour, so whether Heaven wants to or not, it’s coming out today. Look, my belly’s contracting again.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for a brood. All I wanted was for you to be able to give birth safely to little Happiness.’ Kongzi tramples over broken memory cards to remove some rotten planks from the stern. The floating detritus covering the river is perfectly still. Only a few small patches of water are visible.

  ‘The contractions are getting stronger. Can you find something to wedge under my back?’ Meili turns onto her side and moves her legs about, trying to find a comfortable position. The two metal rings of the scissor handles poke out from the plastic bag beside her. ‘I can feel the head pressing against my cervix. I must start pushing.’ Remembering the yoga she learned in the prenatal classes, she breathes deeply into the base of her lungs and exhales softly through pursed lips. Sweat seeps from her skin. She unbuttons her white shirt, gets onto her hands and knees and lets out a strange gravelly moan: ‘Oh, Mother, Mother . . .’ Kongzi has never heard such a noise before. It sounds like a funeral lament flowing out from the depths of her womb. ‘Oh, Mother, Mother . . . Silkworms that produce silk in spring die before summer arrives. A candle’s flame extinguishes when the wick shrivels to ash. Pear blossoms are washed to the ground by rain, and form rivers of tears. Oh, Mother, you have moved into the darkness and left me in the light. Death lies between us. You stand on the Bridge of Helplessness and stare out into the emptiness beyond . . .’

  ‘Why are you singing a funeral song? Aren’t there any birth songs you could sing?’ Kongzi says. He sits down on a dusty patch of grass further up the bank and takes out his phone to check the time.

  ‘The songs give me strength,’ Meili shouts, panting loudly. ‘Oh, Mother . . . !’ Her rippling howl makes the wreck, the water and the riverbed shake. ‘You toiled so hard, caring for your children, with never a thought for yourself . . . Happiness, Waterborn, Heaven: you can come out now! Don’t be afraid. I will protect you, and make sure none of you go missing. Once you’re born, we can all sail home. Help me push, Kongzi. Let’s get all these little Kongs out of me. Oh, Mother, you have vanished now, never to return. How I wish I could follow you into the Dark Realm, and care for you as a dutiful daughter should . . .’

  Kongzi crouches outside the cabin and stares at the black hole between Meili’s legs. Flies crawling over her pale thighs kick their hind legs and take flight.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Kongzi says, ‘someone might hear you.’ He has left his glasses in the shack, so his vision is blurred. He turns and squints at the mounds of rubbish behind him, unwilling to return his gaze to the black hole that for ten years gave him so much pleasure.

  ‘Don’t worry, Kongzi. All the discarded machines around here are foreign. They can’t understand what I’m saying.’ Meili’s sweat has soaked her hair and her shirt. A faint scent of diesel moves through the air, reminding her of their years on the boat, and of the rape and fire she never dared tell Kongzi about . . . ‘Mother, you tread the path towards the Yellow Springs. Whose shoulder can I cry on now? . . . How could you leave me alone? Hold my hand again, I beg you . . .’ Tears stream down Meili’s face. As another wave of pain comes over her, she tugs at her hair with her right hand and shoves her maimed left hand into her vagina. Immediately, the stump of her index finger sends images to her brain, giving her an interior view of the mysterious dark channel that she has never visited before. She moves her hand deeper inside and sees on the wet and creased walls the marks left by male intrusions. She spots the fungal infections and Confucian quotes left by Kongzi, the fingerprints of the nightclub boss, Weiwei’s departing silhouette, and various clots of her thoughts and memories. Then the stump sees Tang, which puzzles Meili as he’s never entered this place. The only moment of intimacy they shared was when she took him and some colleagues to the Princess Karaoke Bar to celebrate his birthday, and he persuaded her, after much pleading, to sing some funeral laments and Anita Mui songs. If little Heaven hadn’t kicked her so hard, she would have gone on singing for hours, not from a sense of gratitude, but because of the intense joy it gave her. She’d experienced moments of happiness before: on the honeymoon train journey to Beijing, for example, when she lay on the upper bunk chewing preserved plums and marvelled at the unfamiliar landscape unfolding outside, or when Nannan waddled across the yard as a toddler bringing her a bamboo stool to sit on, or when Waterborn lay asleep in her arms and she watched her mouth spread into an angelic dimpled smile as breast milk dripped onto her cheeks. Meili laughed with joy on every one of these occasions, but not with the same abandon as she did in the Princess Karaoke Bar. That night, after their colleagues had left, she held Tang’s hand, closed her eyes and sang about times past and future with such a sense of release that she lost herself. When she woke up later, Tang was fast asleep with his head on her lap.

  Her hand continues up through this fleshy corridor that is owned and governed by men, and approaches the entrance of the Communist Party’s residence. It occurs to her that, nine years ago, she would never have dared bang on this state-owned gate. She feels brave enough to bang on it now, but doesn’t know if she dares enter. Trespassing government property is a crime. She pauses to think things through. Only the Party can decide which child can be born and which child must die, but as long as she pays the necessary fine, little Heaven will be allowed to live. The Party will have its money, and she will have her child. Surely that is just the kind of win–win situation that Premier Jiang Zemin has been advocating? With her legs parted like splayed duck wings, she wipes the flies from her wet face and says, ‘No one is here to register the birth, so we must take our fate into our own hands, Kongzi!’ Without waiting for him to reply, she pounds on the fleshy gate. ‘Mummy has come to collect you, my child.’ With the four fingers of her hand she pushes through the cervix, pierces the amniotic sac, gropes around and finds a foot. ‘One life departs and another arrives! You’re coming out now. Enough prevarication! There’s nothing to be afraid of . . .’ Meili pulls and pulls but the baby refuses to budge. Bursting into tears of frustration, she cries, ‘Please, help me out, little one. I’ve done as much as I can.’ She rips off her white shirt and shouts, ‘Kongzi, take off my bra! I’m sweltering.’ Then she pushes one more time and collapses in agony, her splayed legs shaking.

  ‘If it won’t come out, let me phone 999 and pay for you to have a Caesarean,’ Kongzi says. ‘The police will certify that Nannan has gone missing, so Heaven will be our only child, and his birth will be legal.’ He looks down nervously at the black mounds of burnt plastic by his feet, then stares at the bulbous interiors of televisions discarded on the opposite bank.

  ‘Shut up, Kongzi! The police were clear: missing isn’t the same as dead. We’ll have to wait ten years before we can apply for a death certificate. That bag! Open it. Take the string and tie back my hair. Oh God, the pain is unbearable! Don’t grasp my flesh so tightly, little one . . .’

  As she pushes again with all her strength, her contorted face turns scarlet and milk spurts from her nipples. The crumbling wreck rocks from side to side. With her eyes squeezed shut, she wails: ‘Darling child, I call out to you from my sleep . . . Dearest Mother, I repeat your name, and kneel before you filled with remorse . . .�
� The lament fills every part of her body then bursts into the air. A rancid, yeasty smell starts to escape from her. After another intense push, blood drips out from her vagina onto the damp deck, forming blossom-like stains, then gushes out with greater force. ‘Little Heaven, come down to earth now,’ Meili cries. ‘Mummy’s waiting for you . . .’ She thrusts her left hand inside again, grabs hold of a leg and, with one final tug, rips the child from her womb and lets it flop down onto the deck.

  Desperate for a first glimpse of her child, she cranes her neck down between her legs and sees it lying in a pool of blood, its body as green and shiny as an apple, its eyes and mouth wide open. Kongzi steps aboard again and hurriedly opens its legs. He hears another plank crack underfoot. ‘My God, you shook this boat about so much, it’s falling apart,’ he says. He lifts the umbilical cord still connecting Meili to their child. ‘Look how long it is! Where shall I cut it?’ Meili points to a place in the middle. He takes the scissors from the bag, severs the cord and ties a tight knot.

  ‘My hands and feet are numb,’ Meili says, the colour draining from her face. ‘Everything is going black. Can you see me? I’m standing at the wheel now, the wind blowing through my dress and through the clouds in the sky . . . Tear off some toilet paper, Kongzi, and wipe me clean. I’m sorry that our child is a girl. But how sweet she smells. Just like osmanthus.’

  ‘But Heaven’s a little boy, can’t you see? The pain must have disturbed your mind. Anyway, we knew years ago from the scan that he was a boy. Look, feel here, between his legs. You think he could have changed sex in the womb? Poor child, I don’t think he realises he’s born yet.’ Kongzi leans down and picks his son up in his arms. ‘So, my life has not been in vain. We have produced a seventy-seventh generation male descendant of Confucius. I give my solemn pledge that I will earn enough money to ensure he has a birth certificate inscribed with the name Kong Heaven.’