by Sheng Keyi
It was said that Juli’s husband was a diplomat, an ambassador, young and personable. Only a few people had seen him. It was also rumoured that he had disappeared during his travels at sea. In Mengliu’s imagination he was himself a criminal, thinking of ways to get away with a crime. After he had slept with Juli, how could he act normal, clean up the scene of the crime, clear all signs, erase all suspicious clues…the feeling of success a criminal had did not come from the crime itself, but from the ability to escape being caught. His mind wandered, and he began to taste the excitement of committing adultery. He wanted to have his way with Su Juli. At the same time, he was thinking of how he would escape from Swan Valley.
21
In Round Square there were no songs and no slogans, no bustle, just a mass of bobbing heads. Black flags waved against the bleak sky. People were losing consciousness from hunger, and many had to be carted away in ambulances. The shrill sound of their sirens, like the buzz of a chainsaw cutting through oppression, solidified time and space, like a hand squeezing the light in a tight grasp. The weak light escaping between its fingers brushed past the faces which had suddenly lost their joy. The bodies reeling left and right were wilting like flowers. The number of supporters had increased. People had come from all over Beiping just to sit in Round Square without eating or drinking. The original plan for a rolling schedule of fasting had been jeopardised. There was chaos, disorder, a loss of control. Someone took a loudspeaker and requested that the crowds follow all the organisational arrangements, so as to avoid injury. A headquarters was established and a commander-in-chief installed. Qizi was dressed for the part, wearing a white headband and white mandarin jacket. She hopped up onto the scaffolding of the small broadcasting station and related the developments of the past few days. When she got emotional, she became teary-eyed and her voice filled with a generous grief.
At night, the street lamps cast their glow over Round Square, creating a dreamy warmth there. The temperatures were much lower after dark than in the daytime, and many of the protestors were turning blue with the cold, their lips grey. They were like baggage unloaded from a long-distance bus, thrown untidily together, covered in dust and mud. Early in the morning the square resembled a battlefield that had fallen silent once the fighting was over, with bodies all over the field and the dilapidated flags shrouded in a smoky mist. The clouds were stained, first grey, then pale orange, golden yellow, then a mix of yellow and red as the sun rose to expose its own grey face, blanketed by the fog.
Sixi’s voice sounded over the radio, reading poems by Pablo Neruda. Another voice, belonging to Fusheng, a professional broadcaster, joined in. They had hit it off the first day they met.
Mengliu was kept extremely busy doing odd jobs in Round Square. Hearing Qizi’s voice, he looked up and noticed she had the word ‘sorrow’ printed in huge letters across her back. He took some comfort from this, but the word also gave him a sense of foreboding. He was not sure when it had happened, but he was no longer angry with Qizi. A familiar joy glowed in him again. His affection and hunger were still alive, telling him of the suffering and pain she had undergone since they had parted. She had lost weight, but at the same time she had been through the forge, and had absorbed the essence and strength of darkness, breaking out of the door finally like a brilliantly shining gold coin.
He needed to speak to her.
He hung his megaphone on a flagpole and went back to the broadcasting station. He bent low and stepped into the tent, planning in his head to wait until the busy period was over to apologise to Qizi. He would accept any punishment from her, and the two would make up and engage in a dizzying embrace. But when he finally found Qizi, she was sitting with her back against a tent post, with a bag of fluid hanging from it. She was on a drip. They were holding a meeting. She was listening, brow furrowed, face pale, chin sharp as an awl. She had grown thin. Mengliu almost didn’t recognise her. She didn’t even look at him, or if she did, she showed no response. He wondered whether she recognised him. What were they involved in – a great cause? a brawl? It was because of their breakup that she had joined the demonstrations in a confused state. Could she be going on a hunger strike now because she had fallen out with him? Mengliu was absorbed in his conjectures when Qizi suddenly pulled the needle out of her arm and stood up.
She uttered something that shocked him – it was about self-immolation. She would use her death in exchange for the lives of the hundreds now on hunger strike.
Mengliu forgot to breathe. He was saying to himself, Qizi, you’re crazy. As if answering him, she said hoarsely, ‘I’m not mad. I am very composed. This is the only way we will awaken the conscience of those indifferent to our plight…’ Her voice quivered and she dropped to the ground.
Each man’s death diminishes me
for I am involved in mankind
therefore do not send to know
for whom the bell tolls
It tolls for me, and for thee
In times of fear and trembling
I want to make my life real
I must make this confession public
exposing my own hypocrisy
and that of my generation
As Sixi recited the poem on the radio, Hei Chun entered and interrupted her. He brought several important announcements and wanted to broadcast them immediately
‘There are no substantive negotiations. They are filibustering, obviously stalling for time.’ Hei Chun sat on the table, a cigarette in his hand.
‘That’s a pain. I heard that many people in the headquarters have fainted and are now in hospital,’ Mengliu said to him. He had been left in the tent with Sixi.
‘I know. Who is in charge of directing in the meantime?’ Hei Chun asked.
‘Fusheng. He’s got experience in organising.’
‘Damn it. Heaven is against us too. A heavy downpour on a sick crowd. I hope it won’t become an epidemic. The Red Cross has donated medicines that we should receive in the morning. There are also a thousand tents, and a transportation company has given us fifty buses at no cost. If it continues to rain, we’ll have places to shelter in.’ Hei Chun ran his hand from his forehead to the back of his neck.
‘How about everything else?’
‘No casualties, but still bad enough.’
‘I heard the hospitals are full.’
‘Quanmu is ferreting out the inside information. The situation is more complex than we ever imagined.’
Hei Chun lit his cigarette. He watched the match burn down almost to his fingertips, then blew it out.
‘Anyway, I believe history will give us our due.’ He took a deep drag of his cigarette, and let his eyes fall on Mengliu. ‘Guess what the bigwig had to say. He said, “As a member of the Plum Party I never conceal my views, but today I’m not going to say anything. In any case, I’ve pretty much stated what I think.”’
Mengliu couldn’t help but laugh.
‘They are so insincere. They said they wanted to visit, and talk to us directly, but then they wouldn’t communicate with us because they couldn’t get to Round Square.’ Hei Chun hopped down from the table, then crushed out the cigarette he had just lit. ‘It’s nothing but nonsense! The really bloody sacrifice is just around the corner. The death bell will begin tolling for this generation.’
‘Hei Chun, I think we should retreat…’
‘Retreat? Why? Are you crazy?’
‘You should understand their attitude better than anyone. Why should we slap ourselves in the face?’
Hei Chun was startled. Just then, there was a pelting sound. Someone was throwing stones at the tent.
Jia Wan burst into the tent with a single stride, dressed in his usual suit. He said, ‘Headquarters has announced an end to the hunger strike.’
Hei Chun was shocked. ‘End the hunger strike? I don’t believe it. Everyone has stuck with the strike for eight days. Why should they stop now before any real progress has been made?’
Outside, a group began a chant of, ‘We wo
n’t eat! We won’t retreat!’
‘Come on, let’s go to HQ.’
The headquarters were located on board one of the buses. The windows had been smashed, and shattered glass covered the ground. Qizi and several others were on the bus discussing strategy.
Hei Chun strode onto the bus and asked, ‘Why did you announce an end to the hunger strike?’
Qizi had already begun to look like a paper doll, and now it seemed like she had been cut even thinner. It was difficult for her to swallow her own saliva. Her hair was messy as a bird’s nest, and she was enveloped in a confusion typical of the homeless. Hei Chun must have remembered how she used to look, pale in the sunlight with dark eyes. He did not dare to look directly at her. ‘Why should we betray the efforts of all those who have suffered through the strike?’
Qizi did not reply.
‘Well, I’ll explain it to you.’ Quanmu stood up. He was dirty too, and there was a trickle of blood on his forehead. ‘I have heard from reliable sources that they will declare martial law soon. Most likely tonight, tomorrow morning, this site will be raided. We held an emergency meeting and decided that it was best to break the hunger strike.’
Boom. A brick pelted the bus.
‘How will that convince them? The people who have suffered and worked over the past eight days don’t have the right to cast their sacred vote?’ Hei Chun’s tone relaxed a bit as he continued, ‘If we undermine democratic procedures, we damage the reputation of everyone at headquarters. Do you want the people to look down on us?
Quanmu did not reply, but stood there like a shabby beggar unable to squeeze a coin out of anyone.
‘We need to vote on the issue again immediately.’ Hei Chun took the microphone, ready to use the broadcasting equipment to convene a meeting of all the representatives.
Qizi snatched the mike back, like a hungry tiger pouncing on a lamb. ‘You aren’t authorised! I’m the commander-in-chief, and I am responsible for everyone.’
Hei Chun was stunned. He looked at Qizi like he had never seen her before. Her face was lit up, flickering like a candle before it finally goes out.
He turned around, got out of the bus, and disappeared into the crowd which had gathered around it.
Mengliu looked into the vehicle, weighing the situation. He raised a stiff leg, held onto the door, and pulled himself into the bus.
‘Hei Chun is trying to maintain democratic procedures. As far as I know, the majority still insists on the hunger strike, but I think you’re doing the right thing.’
Qizi didn’t speak, but her mouth trembled. Mengliu could see her inner turmoil.
‘Any further delay will be life-threatening. I have to look after them,’ she said.
‘You should probably discuss a more comprehensive approach.’ Mengliu wanted to persuade her to retreat, but couldn’t make himself say the words.
‘Actually, we have already resigned ourselves to death, if need be.’
‘Qizi, you’re a good…leader. You’re responsible. I think you should retreat. Withdraw.’ Mengliu finally said it, surprising even himself. ‘You don’t need to sacrifice everything here in vain. Qizi, I also want to say, I’m sorry about all that nonsense that day. I’m sorry for what I said. Can you forgive me?’
Qizi looked at him blankly. ‘I forgot about that a long time ago.’
‘These last few days, I keep thinking about you. Let’s go. Don’t be angry. Let’s get out of here, just like we planned before. Let’s leave.’
‘‘Liu, I’ll admit I was a little angry with you at first, but after that, I wasn’t anymore. Now even less so. I can’t leave. Even if we decide to leave Round Square, I should be the last one to go.’
‘There are some things we would prefer to believe, even if they are unbelievable.’ Mengliu felt a sense of foreboding.
‘No. Everyone is watching us. If no one is willing to make the sacrifice, how can we face that? I’m ready to die, just like I said in the speech I wrote.’ She had already thought the issue through.
‘Qizi, what about your parents? You’ve got to think of them. They were already forty when they had you. You are their life. If you die…they…’
‘They will hear the words I wrote. “I can’t be loyal and filial to both country and parents.”’
‘Have you really forgotten how we felt for each other?’
‘My feelings for you haven’t changed.’ Her face and tone were very calm.
‘Then as soon as all this is over, we…’
‘I don’t have time now to talk about trivial personal issues.’
‘I believe this will all be over soon. Let’s…’
‘You should go. If you think this is all meaningless, then just leave now. I don’t want to pull you down with me.’
‘I want to be with you. Qizi…’
‘I’m not lonely. There are plenty of people with me.’ She spoke in a rush.
For a flickering moment, Mengliu caught sight of the spirit of love. She was a nimble, dark spirit, and she was running in the moonlight, emitting a varicoloured light. She fled to the flag and hid herself behind it.
He felt that he was walking further and further away in Qizi’s view. Like a lonely figure in a landscape painting, he was now nothing more than an ant-sized inkblot.
He left the bus in silence, like a passenger reaching his destination at the end of a long journey.
‘Your poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls” was very well-written. I hope you’ll stay and continue writing.’
Though he seemed to hear Qizi’s comment he did not look back. He may have paused momentarily, but maybe not. An early half moon hung in the sky. He felt a little cold, like a man lost in the wilderness.
22
When Mengliu left Round Square, Sixi and Fusheng were going through a wedding ceremony. Their marriage certificate had been prepared by Hei Chun. He printed both names and birth dates on a sheet of paper, covered it with the red Unity Party stamp, and gave it to the couple. The broadcast had declared the protestors’ refusal to retreat, and the people brought with them a passion for victory when they gathered to witness the wedding ceremony. They were rowdy, surrounding the group of hungry protestors who were staring out of vacant eyes at them as they danced, turned somersaults or performed martial arts. Hawkers sold melon seeds and peanuts and smoked mutton kebabs. Pickpockets blended into the crowd, couples cuddled together. Mengliu stepped over the obstacles and wove his way through the lively atmosphere, filled with the smell of beer and urine, and finally disappeared like a bubble into the air.
All he could do was walk back to the Wisdom Bureau. There were sounds of fighting as he walked the streets, and he occasionally encountered injured, bloodied people. One young man was refusing treatment, unbuttoning his clothing to expose the wound and declaring his own willingness to shed every last drop of his blood. Mengliu lowered his head and quickened his steps. Sweat soon covered his face. He ran into an old professor from the Department of Medicine, and was about to hail him, but the professor just glanced in his direction, then walked away suspiciously. He suddenly felt desolate, like he was falling to pieces. When he got to the Wisdom Bureau he sat under a tree for a long time. He finally came to a conclusion – he would leave the country, never to return. Wherever he went, he would find a girl and marry her, and would raise a brood of foreign citizens there, where he and they could live freely. He stood up decisively, smoothed his trousers and his collar, then said to himself, Finally you understand, Yuan Mengliu. This will be the right life for you. You are no hero, and you weren’t cut out for earth-shattering deeds. And as for love, that’s just an illusion too.
He looked around at the old grey office building. It was silent, and the countless empty windows looked back at him with a profoundly solemn light.
Jia Wan came by, wearing a grey suit with his shirt buttoned all the way up to his Adam’s apple, defying the heat. His shoes were covered in dirt, making him look quite shabby. He was surprised to see Mengliu and asked why he w
asn’t at Round Square. His voice was thick with accusation. Mengliu answered patiently, ‘None of that is my business.’
Jia Wan was surprised. ‘You’re just being modest. Your poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls” is very good. It’s a particularly powerful call to action.’
Mengliu replied, ‘I didn’t write that.’
‘The poetic styles of the Three Musketeers are distinct,’ Jia Wan said. ‘Hei Chun’s poetry is direct, while Bai Qiu’s is romantic and graceful. No one but you could have written that kind of poem.’
Mengliu admitted to himself that Jia Wan’s analysis was accurate enough, but he didn’t want to change his position simply because of flattery. He knew he hadn’t signed the poem, and he didn’t want to be associated with it.
He said instead, ‘Professor Jia, aren’t you a member of the Unity Party? Why aren’t you there?’
He noticed that a lanky fellow with a sharp profile stood behind Jia Wan. He was lighting a cigarette, and Mengliu though there was something very familiar about him.
Jia Wan said, ‘The Unity Party is suffering from internal chaos. I’ve resigned from my post. I don’t want to struggle for fame and fortune, and all this politicking has made me lose confidence in the organisation. Just look at Qizi. The international media has really taken to her, and she’s always in the headlines. Her reputation is skyrocketing above everyone else’s. She is envied by everyone, there was even the staging of a fake kidnapping. Her infatuation with the mike in her hand is an infatuation with power. She doesn’t even realise it herself…’
Mengliu saw that the lanky man behind Jia Wan was growing impatient as he smoked his cigarette. Jia Wan looked around, then whispered, ‘It’s best not to go out at night.’
‘Why?’ Mengliu asked.
He answered mysteriously, ‘There’s no harm in staying home.’
‘They’re going to be cleared out?’
Jia Wan patted his shoulder. ‘Just listen to what I’m telling you and you’ll be all right.’