by Sam Meekings
He laughed, and slapped his hand against the table. ‘So, are we going to get any food or what? I’m starving. I’ve got this young trainee who can’t write for shit – but of course he’s the son of one of the big players in the local bureau so what can I do? – and he’s handing me five pages of this long-winded bullshit about local development that I have to dig through to find a two-column story. Talk about a waste of time. Oh, hello, we’ll have some sour potato, some sizzling beef, some fragrant pork and bamboo and two bowls of rice for after. Oh, and another bottle. Quick as you can, all right? Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the intern. You won’t guess what happened next. He’d only got it into his head to …
I nodded as Xiang yabbered on about his day. I smiled and commiserated, topping up his glass and mine, even though I’d stopped listening and was thinking instead about the bodies. I was thinking about all the hands that had ever touched the pale, blueish skin I’d seen. Mothers, wives, children … and then the people who’d pulled them out, who’d loaded them up and taken them to the hospital, who’d undressed them and scrubbed them down and packed them away like frozen plucked chickens. The whole thing gave me the creeps. I interrupted Xiang to see if he had any cigarettes.
‘Sure thing. So, are you going to tell me what you’re so worked up about or do I have to sit here guessing?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Come on. Why were you in such a hurry to find that man this afternoon? I’m happy to help, but I hate being kept in the dark.’
So I told him. We were well into the second bottle and halfway through the lukewarm dishes by the time I had finished.
‘You haven’t heard anything about a mine up there then? Anything at all?’
‘Ha! Now you’re really clutching at straws. As if journalists get told anything. You know as well as me that the moment I start digging around in things that aren’t any of my or my readers’ business I’m likely to get hauled off to jail. The truth is we get drip-fed most of the stories these days. It’s hardly worth leaving the office – the news isn’t formed out there on the streets, it’s composed and configured and printed before it even happens. But I haven’t been warned off printing anything about the landslide, which is interesting. If anyone high up wanted to stop a story getting out, the first thing they would do is call the editor and make sure not a single word about it appears in the press. Yet we haven’t heard a thing. As far as I was aware, there hadn’t been any deaths at all.’
‘That’s what I’d thought till I saw the bodies. You know, that’s one hell of a cover-up.’
‘If you ask me, you ought to leave the whole mess alone. I’m sorry about your colleague, but can’t you just write it off as a careless accident? Does it really make a difference whether a mine somehow helped cause the landslide or whether it was just the rain? Either way, Wei Shan’s still going to be missing. You should see some of the news we get forced to suppress – train crashes with hundreds crushed in the flaming metal, bridges collapsing and sending coach parties hurtling down gorges, floods and explosions and fires and murders that no one ever hears about. You can’t let yourself get worked up about them all, you just have to let them go.’
‘Accidents I can understand. But all these lies, all these bodies? It doesn’t sit well in my gut. Besides, I’ve got to tell Wei Shan’s family something.’
‘Hmm. Well, if you want a bit of help, I could probably find out who this Jing Ren guy was working for. I’ve got a friend at the Agricultural Bank, he should be able to get hold of his account history. If you really want, I can ask him to find out if any unusual payments went into the account recently. You’ll owe me one, though.’
‘Not bad. I should have thought of that myself.’
‘If he was working for a mining company, we ought to be able to dig up a few details.’
‘Ha ha. Very funny.’
‘Who knows what we might unearth?’
‘Yeah, yeah. You’re a real comedian.’
‘Seriously, I’m happy to help – because I know how stubborn you are – but I still suggest keeping your nose out of the whole thing. Someone obviously didn’t want those bodies to be found. And your boss and that police officer as good as warned you away. You keep blustering on and digging up dirt you’ll end up with an ulcer like me, or a bullet in the eye. Look, you’ve got a good job, a respectable wife, a dutiful daughter, a nice flat, enough money and connections, a nice mistress – don’t raise your eyebrows, I know you well enough to know that you have some fancy young lady you visit every so often, my friend – even a car of your own, so why do you want to go and piss it all away on something you can’t do shit about? Do you really think anything you find out now is going to help bring Wei Shan back?’
‘I don’t know. But I can’t just go back to my desk and pretend nothing has happened. Why do you think I joined the Party in the first place? I wanted to help get rid of all this cloak and dagger crap and make the country a better place for everyone.’
‘Give it a rest. You joined because your father was a member, because it’s the best way to rise up the ladder, because if a Party member and a non-Party member both go for a job it’s always the Party man that gets it. Please don’t insult me with this love-of-the-people shit.’
‘Ok, I get your point. The bill. No, it must be my turn.’
I paid, and Xiang laughed to himself. I think he enjoyed the fact that for once he wasn’t the one moaning about his problems. Is that why we need other people, so we can hand out some of our own misery and walk away a little lighter?
The night was fusty, full of not-quite fog. Despite the drinks and the smokes, the air shredded my lungs and I couldn’t stop myself coughing. Xiang shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended to look the other way till I’d finished. He clambered into my car for a ride home, and was at least polite enough not to mention the mud-stains and the empty bottles littering the seats. Xiang lived out east, with his dumpy little wife in one of the old single-level two-room houses. No child and, rumour had it, no mistress either. He took a lot of shit for both of those, for not being a real man, but he never let it get to him. I guess that’s why we got along. Neither of us had ever really given a damn about acting exactly the way you were supposed to. Which was why both of us were stuck where we were, risen about as far as we could expect to go.
Xiang was probably right. Best to just let it all go. He knew what he was talking about. When he’d been a rookie reporter, just after the Gang of Four had got arrested and everyone was saying that everything was going to change, he’d been asked to write up a piece about a guy in the local police force. This cop was a real vicious piece of work and everyone knew it. It was no secret that he made a good sideline in taking bribes from people with grudges to get their neighbours, colleagues or sons-in-law shipped off for re-education in the provinces, and Xiang was either too young or too idealistic back then to think about how the angle should be played so that no one lost face.
The truth was, that kind of thing happened all the time, and besides, everyone wanted to put the whole Cultural Revolution mess behind them by then. However, the deputy editor of the paper had seen his nephew sent away on a trumped-up charge from this guy, and, once the tide started turning against the Cultural Revolution Committee, he gave Xiang the lead, knowing that he’d be the only one naïve enough to dare to type it up. Once the story ran in the paper, well, the cop had to be made an example of, and the local unit had to make a show and dance of apology and initiate a programme to remove corruption and overhaul police procedure. At the same time, a bunch of the guy’s colleagues would have to go round to Xiang’s flat and beat seven shades of shit out of him. He was in hospital for four days. After that his stories had what the officials call a more measured tone. Bland, inoffensive, neutral. The same thing each week, just dressed up a little differently. No need to put anyone’s nose out of line – it’s only news, after all.
We smoked as we drove, watching the city wind down. Dot
ted lights in high tower blocks slowly blinking off, restaurants being shuttered and locked, karaoke pleasure pens showing the last few drunks the door. We shared the silence between us as I steered on past streetlamps swinging where there were once paper lanterns, and for once I drove slower than I needed to.
‘Xiang.’
‘Hmm. Yeah?’
‘You ever heard of anyone – street gangs, businesses, religious cults, intellectual movements, party committees – going by the name of crows?’
‘Are you yanking my chain? Like the birds, right?’
‘Yeah, the ugly black ones. Or rooks, or ravens. Whatever.’
‘Nothing worse than a warning from a crow’s tongue, eh?’
‘What?’
‘The proverb. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard it before?’
‘Never.’
‘Don’t mess me around. Course you have. Like when someone says, I would invite you round to ours but my wife’s cooking is worse than a warning from a crow’s tongue. Meaning it’s bloody awful.’
‘Why do they say that?’
‘That crows bring bad news, that they’re unlucky? Hmm. Because of all the old stories, I guess. You know that crows were used by shamans making auguries for the emperor, right? They’d tell the future by observing what the crows were doing. You know, divination and all that. Crows feed on death, and this gives them dark knowledge. Supposedly once you eat death, you understand how everything will die. And I guess because the crows kept giving the shamans news about wars or earthquakes or other tragedies, people got pretty pissed off with them. No one wants to hear bad news. And there’s another story about them, isn’t there? My grandmother used to tell us these old tales when we couldn’t sleep … but I can’t remember half of them now. I’m sure one of them was about crows. Do you know the one I mean?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Well, never mind … Wait a minute, you’re thinking about the tattoo on the dead guy, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just … No, it’s not important.’
‘You sure? I could look into it. Wouldn’t be too difficult …’
‘Forget it,’ I said as forcefully as I could. I was beginning to think I shouldn’t have told him. Not that I didn’t want his help. Far from it. Getting him to find out a little information was one thing, but dragging him too deep into this sorry state of affairs was another altogether. Something wasn’t right about this whole mess, and there was no point both of us putting our jobs on the line.
Xiang took the hint. He nodded and leaned back in the passenger seat. I dropped him outside his house and saw his wife peer out from behind the blinds before she opened the door – he didn’t even have his own key. I drove around the block for a bit, past the new rows of scaffolding and half-finished office towers, uncertain where to go next. I could find a payphone and try Li Yang again. I could go back to work, or to the records office. But I had to go home some time.
I flicked the radio on as I drove back across town but turned it off again a few seconds later. The music bothered me. I hated the way it took my thoughts to places I didn’t want them to go. Old songs, new songs, zheng and zither or guitar and synth, they’re all the same. They all have that power to tug me into their current, to carry me away from myself. And when they finish I feel like I’ve been shown something vitally important that’s been snatched away. Music unsettles me, exhausts me. And that might have been all right, if only I hadn’t already had one of the strangest days of my life.
The flat was dark, and when I dropped my keys into the bowl by the door they clattered onto the floor. Someone had moved the bowl. And the little table it stood on. When had that happened? I crept across the creaky floorboards to the kitchen cupboards, only to remember when I got there that I had emptied them of drink that morning. It seemed like weeks since I’d last been home. I tiptoed past the fold-out kitchen table and opened the bedroom door.
‘Don’t even think about it, I can smell you from here,’ my wife hissed through the darkness. ‘I’ve had a busy day and I need some rest, all right? I left a blanket on the sofa.’
A busy day? I was tempted to tell her about my crazy boss, my missing colleague, my trip to see the police officer, my chat with some old nut in a history professor’s abandoned luxury apartment or the four dead bodies I’d seen in the army hospital. But it wasn’t worth the effort. I closed the door and collapsed on the sofa. I pulled the blanket up until it covered my head, until I had swapped places with Fatty, Spotty, Horseface and Jing Ren. Until the world receded and blackness swallowed the buzzing between my ears.
My mouth was full of bees, vindictive little shits stinging the crap out of me. Morning again. I knew because of the machines hammering behind my eyes, the dull aches pulsing in my sides. I knew because of my daughter making breakfast, because of the frightening growls coming from my gut. I knew because of the fur on my tongue that had sprung up in the night like dew. The world was skewed, and it didn’t seem able to keep still. When I opened my eyes the whole room was circling the sofa. I managed to lift my head to see my daughter over by the stove.
Was she seriously cooking millet again? Or had I already lived this day a thousand times before?
‘Sweetheart, do me a favour.’
She sighed, but she was obviously in an alright mood, because after only a few minutes she skulked towards where I was lying on the sofa.
‘Dad, you smell even worse than yesterday. I mean, you really reek. You ought to take care of yourself.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You shouldn’t sleep in your suit.’
‘I know. I’ll shower in a minute. But I need you to run out to the stall downstairs and buy a couple of bottles of beer. Any kind’ll do. The cheap stuff is fine.’
‘You drink too much.’
‘My own father drank baiju with every meal, and he made it to his sixties. And he would have beaten any of his children black and blue if we’d dared answer back to him the way you’re doing now.’
‘Hey, don’t have a go at me! I’m just repeating what Mum said. It’s not my fault you’re grumpy and hung over.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I fished around in my pockets and dug out a couple of banknotes. ‘Look, you can keep the change. Buy anything you want with it, I don’t care. Ok?’
She sighed again. It seemed to be her chief method of communication. But she finally gave in and took the cash, then headed for the door.
‘Two bottles, remember!’
I lay back and tried to stop the spinning by closing my eyes. It didn’t work. There had to be a mine. That was the only explanation. And whoever the owner was, he had to be someone important. Someone who had the clout, the money and the connections to get the debris dug out and the bodies carted off to the private hospital all without anyone kicking up a fuss. Someone powerful enough to persuade Officer Wuya to lie through his teeth. But that was as far as I could get. My thoughts were toppling away from me, and my gut was squeezing itself inside out. I clutched at the blanket, at the sofa. Where was my daughter? My stomach lurched and cramped and I tried to struggle up. What was taking her so long? I rolled over and began to retch. Thick, slimy bile chugged out from my lips. Grey and brown, like pond water mixed with mucus. My stomach started to settle, and I spat and wiped my mouth.
The door creaked open so I threw the blanket down to cover the little puddle. There was no need for my daughter to see that. I could only hope she wouldn’t notice the smell.
‘Here.’
She chucked the beers down onto the other end of the sofa before wandering to her bedroom, taking her bowl of millet with her. I drank them both, popping them with my teeth and gulping down the rank, bubbly fizz until the room steadied and I was able to move my head without stars crashing through my senses.
My wife had already left for work by the time I stumbled out of the shower. There was a note on the table telling me not to forget our daughter’s school’s thirtieth anniversary celebration the fo
llowing evening. And there was even a postscript scribbled at the bottom: Wei Shan’s wife had called. Shit. What was I supposed to tell her? I supposed I ought to drop round after work and show the family a bit of support.
It was a bitch of a morning. Back at the office, I noticed that Wei Shan’s desk had been cleared, all his files dispersed. Fishlips obviously didn’t have much confidence in him turning up unscathed. A flask full of tea I couldn’t face drinking sat between the folders. A notepad, pens, an old photo of an unrecognisably happy family. I shuffled through a pile of papers marked Top Priority, still thinking about the bodies I’d seen in the morgue and trying not to glance over at Wei Shan’s empty desk. All of the new investigations were mundane. None of them involved more than a quick study of blueprints and putting my red stamp on plans for a few new bridges and tower blocks. I did my best to pretend I didn’t give a shit. Back to normal, you could say.
No, that’s not quite right. I’m giving the impression that time rolled on unobstructed, that minute flowed on to minute, hour to hour, with nothing to divert or dam the current. It didn’t. Though the time before I got to my desk dragged me kicking and struggling downstream as fast as it could, once I sat down and fingered the paperclips on the pages of the first file, it almost ground to a halt. The second-hand on the clock on the wall even threatened to stop moving altogether. I spent most of the morning rifling dejectedly through brain-numbing files, slipping to the bogs to take a few swigs of booze every few hours, and contemplating phoning Li Yang.
I managed to put it off till lunch – a plate of sloppy pork and onion dumplings oozing fatty juices, eaten alone in a tiny restaurant near the office. There was a newspaper stand with a payphone outside, and if I hunched enough under the rickety shelter the rain only soaked my left side.
‘Oh. Hello?’
Li Yang’s voice had a hint of laughter in it. Was there someone else there?
‘It’s me.’