1
Big feathers of snow fell all night and continued in the muffled daylight, piling on black branches and rooftops and reducing traffic to a crawl. Wally started early, arguing and haggling for a taxi. The drivers were either staying home or out to make a killing. At last he commandeered a minibus that snailed to the journalists’ compound where Clarence was waiting and on to Beijing Station where hordes of quarrelsome travellers were fearing havoc from the snow. Under falling snow all rugged-up bodies looked the same, until Clarence’s photographer’s eye caught a woman swigging wildly from a bottle. It was Dulcia. With hoots and hugs Wally and Clarence joined her huddle, passing the cognac as they shuffled in the snow in greatcoats and walking boots. When Wally had last seen Dulcia, some weeks earlier, she was a jumpy, chain-smoking, slush-grey figure who’d had no sleep for days. She had exhausted her power, done everything at her command, pitted all her faith in individualism, and in herself, against the system, and everyone said the cause was hopeless. Through friends from the aerobics session she led at the United States Embassy she had pushed through to a meeting with the person in charge of scientific and educational exchanges. At Happy Hour she had collared the World Bank representative who monitored educational aid funds. She had even wangled five sympathetic minutes with the Ambassador. Then she locked her case into place with an imminent visit by the President of UCLA at Berkeley, to whom she had a line as former campus charity queen. She used what she had down to the last dime. The President was the key figure in the exchange program. He was the man who could lay his hands on the funds and who understood the technology that the Chinese Academy of Science wanted so badly. The agreements were all but signed, and the President was flying to Beijing to be ushered by the Ambassador into high presences in order finally to set his seal on this expensive, strategic act of friendly cooperation. And the Ambassador, being in a mood to make suggestions on the morning of the signing, was prompted to raise a certain matter during his off-the-record banter with the Chinese Minister. The President of Berkeley would be particularly gratified if a young Chinese artist could visit his school, and he placed the name as if it were an arrowhead. The game was chancy: fifty-fifty. Too much American interest in one suspect painter could have him sent to a labour camp. But two mornings later a valid passport arrived special delivery for Jumbo at Central TV. ‘That guy has all the luck,’ said Dulcia, playing down her own part. She was still laughing as they stepped in the snow in a celebratory hopi dance around the cognac bottle and the stuffed suitcases.
Body to body the masses squeezed through the turnstiles, shoved through the doors, stumbled up the alarming, unfamiliar moving stairways. Burdens of luggage caught, pressed, bashed; sewn sacks, leatherette cases on wheels that came adrift, motors slung from poles, bags, bundles, bedrolls, apples, pears and cartons of cola; old people, businessmen, babies, and others in a range of military and civilian uniforms banged, kicked, spilled forwards into great waiting rooms where giant unruly queues formed against the final barrier. The system that kept Chinese trains more or less on time was cast-iron in its regulation of the never-ending torrent of people. All of China was pressing forward, as if driven by a metaphor, a siren call: progress; the Long March; the Red Guards rampaging during the Cultural Revolution; troops and dissidents on one-way journeys to the border regions, and now the pressure on every crack in the door to the outside world. All of China, and the drive and insistence of Chinese history, moved through Beijing Station.
Dulcia and Jumbo were settled in a soft compartment. The heavy suitcases of books and scrolls—the Chinese culture he carried outside his skin—were stowed, and Dulcia’s backpack. Their friends waited on the platform as they leaned out of the window arm in arm, two heads, differently grinning: Dulcia in triumphant relief, Jumbo with a clown’s black grin as he prepared, disbelieving, for the last shunting out. They were taking the train to Guangzhou. They would walk across the border at the Special Economic Zone of Shenzhen. They would see Hong Kong, multi-faceted glass jewel; then they would fly direct to San Francisco. ‘My Golden Gate,’ Jumbo repeatedly quipped. Dulcia hoped to share the miraculous experience with her lover. But Jumbo’s dreams, and judgements, would be as silent as a child’s, as subtle and mean. Clarence’s camera kept clicking. Face after face: which would bear the true expression of flight, emigration, exile? Beyond the platform snow was blizzarding, the obscurity into which the train would burrow. Hot white steam was rising, swirling with cold white snow. The train began to glide, slowly, as smooth as ice. Kisses, hugs, tears, clicks. It was history.
As Clarence and Wally walked down the platform with Jumbo’s Chinese mates, who were suddenly glum, wondering what their odds were, Wally said, ‘He made it by the skin of his teeth. To get off the blacklist and get out. A hundred thousand to one?’
‘A million to one,’ bet Clarence. ‘Anyway, getting out is no solution to the problem.’
‘Save yourself,’ grinned one of the fellow artists in contradiction.
2
Snow fell, and when the sky cleared for a spell the city became magnificent, its blood reds and mortar purples glowing like velvet against the intense white. Yet as the skies cleared, the temperature dropped and the ground froze even harder.
Outside in the snow, as Wally crossed from the administration building to the residential block, the room attendants were pelting each other with snowballs, leaping and landing like ruffled crows. A snowball hit Wally in the back and he whirled like a dervish, grabbed a mitt full of snow, and roared after the boy he knew best, who looked after his room. Usually the room attendant sat sullenly at his post. He was teaching himself English without making much progress. In the blank space left in the textbook for constructing sentences, Wally once saw, he had neatly demonstrated his command of Subject-Verb-Object structure with I am nobody. I am nothing.
A few days late for Christmas, Ralph the Rhino paid a call to drink the Doctor’s health. His red, peaked beanie made him the closest thing to Santa Claus. Like old comrades, they talked through Wally’s time in China, the revelations that had turned into nothing, the nothings that had become revelations. They toasted their minor victory over Director Kang.
Ralph was working through the Chinese part of Hsu’s papers that Wally had brought back from Shaoxing. It was a huge job. Wally had read the English sections and hoped that he and Ralph would collaborate back home in putting together a festschrift. Wally was still chewing over the implications of Hsu’s research. He didn’t plan to let up. There were materials, ideas and hypotheses to be investigated, and he was the only person in a position to do so. His intellectual energies had been recharged, not by the prospect of answers but by new nagging questions. There was a path to be taken that no one but he could take.
‘There’s gold there,’ declared Ralph. ‘The quest continues.’ He yawned heartily. ‘Santa brings you a titbit of news for Christmas.’ He had marched through the snow all night, fifteen kilometres from the Old Summer Palace to Tiananmen Square, from midnight to dawn, with thousands of jubilant students who sang and chanted ‘Freedom! Democracy!’ as their cloth-shod feet defied the cold. The mood had been good, the police restrained. But at Tiananmen Square the police had provided buses to ferry the students back to their residences and warned them not to be silly. A second rally was planned.
‘We’ll meet again,’ declared Ralph as he pulled on his boots in readiness for the snow. ‘Under a spreading avocado tree down under, eh? Ho ho ho!’ That was his parting shot. ‘Be on standby, Doc. New Year’s Day. Ho ho ho!’
3
The authorities acted swiftly. Ten regulations were brought in to prevent unofficial demonstrations. Certain places were expressly forbidden, and of them all Tiananmen Square, the vast space thrown open to the people when the heroic Communists demolished the clutter of the old walled city, the most strictly.
At the turning of the old year, according to the solar calendar, in the small hours of night, the square was flooded with water in the name of hosing away the snow. The water set hard. The square became an ice rink, hard and smooth as stone. No matter how the crowds surged they would never make headway across that stony, glassy ice. Besides, a railing was erected around the perimeter of the square, and along the railing were stationed uniformed members of the Public Security Bureau in numbers almost as great as their plainclothes counterparts who idled on the strip of road and pavement that surrounded the square. From early morning, however, people began to gather, in straggling groups along the edges and congregating a little at the corners of the square.
The snow was light, drifting in the wind. The day was bitterly cold, and the figures were so wrapped in clothing as not to be easily recognisable. Students could hardly be distinguished from onlookers and tourists, though perhaps the distinction was unimportant because they shared a common, concealed motive. Only the students might be a little more overt than workers who were vulnerable to greater penalties. At the top of the square the great red wall of the Forbidden City was almost luminous. Above the Gate of Heavenly Peace Mao Tse Tung’s rejuvenated, rouged portrait beamed down from beneath a crest of snow. Behind the wall the snow-laden, green-gold tiled pavilions of the Palace lay like moored battleships.
In the square people stood alone. Wally watched, his balaclava pulled down over his brow and his scarf up round his mouth and nose. In his standard-issue greatcoat he could have been anyone. He moved among the crowd, avoiding people. Two joined in conversation would halt as a third came near. The crowd continued to mill slowly around the four sides of the square, round and round, back and forth, as the energy of frustration and expectation grew. The numbers were not large, some thousands excluding the police. Most had sensibly been frightened off by arrests, detentions and ceaseless denunciations from the media, from professors and parents, from friends. The diehards remained, their grievances overflowing, but forbidden to assemble, to speak, to shout, to sing, to hold banners, to step on their square. They paced restlessly. Here and there would be a scuffle. A few kids would link arms and flow forward against the cordon of security, then ebb back as if rebounding from elastic. A knot of voices would grow loud. A lunge, a dash, and a fellow was drawn into concentric circles of police, always just out of eyeshot, and quickly dragged to a van—shouting, mouthing, cheered by the crowd. Doors closed before others could run to see. The arrested ones, officially described as workers, were students. There were foreign press in the crowd. The secret police were thick with video cameras from which there was no point ducking. Two, three hours passed edgily, and no one succeeded in trespassing on the ice.
Wally was an observer, but as he moved among them he was drawn closer into their midst. The crowd was tightening, and their suppressed passion became palpable. Their bravery stirred him, all helpless, naive and hopeless, but at the core fearless and full of hope. He was on their side but, recalling his own neglected revolutionary ardour, feared that power and history were not. Was he ashamed of his sceptical apostasy? His eyes prickled under the woollen overhang of his balaclava. If they were powerless to change things, nothing would ever be changed if the powerless did not try.
Then it happened. Some friends linked arms, others pushed against them, girls held tight to boys, waists, belts, arms were grabbed, and they became, like cells metastasising, a concentration of force. There was a direction in the crowd that pulled people from all sides of the square. They shoved forward, and the police, who had been waiting for the inevitable moment, followed their strategy to force the crowd back. And then, as if in an act of collective intelligence, the organism turned tail on itself. The unguarded rear became the point of advance and the demonstrators turned away from the ice rink to swarm in apparent retreat along the Avenue of Eternal Peace, and as they did so, no longer straggling and gaggling but racing in a fluid parade, they had their target. They were singing in unison. Banners unfolded to stretch over their heads. Democracy! they shouted. Freedom! Down with the Secret Darkness of Our Society! They were charging towards the headquarters of the Public Security Bureau, spilling out onto the road where limousines slewed sideways and lurching buses stalled while hydra heads of passengers popped out in awe. The little police vans screaming to the fore got snarled in the chaos. For this brief moment, playing cat and mouse with the security forces, the demonstrators were calling the tune, and the mob shouted angrily at the Public Security Bureau that provided the foundation of their society’s control through fear. But they knew better than to linger. As the police rushed to the head of this most slippery and dangerous organism, its tail became its head again. The crowd sprinted. Everyone ran together across the slushy ground, oblivious of crackling megaphones or isolated policemen. They were across the barrier. They were inside the forbidden space. They had made their way onto the ice.
Wally ran with them. His walking boots gripped the ice. He was running with arms open to grasp something that he knew must be there because its absence hurt so much. Charging forward to grab at its hem before it vanished, Wally was like all the crowd who had the conviction stronger than any dream that what they demanded was real and necessary and kept from them by a curtain only. He cried tears of rage. He no more wanted an illusion than the students did. As the students rushed across the ice, the alien wintry shade of their protest was transformed into a hot human mass.
Then the forces came from behind in a pincer movement and had them in their net.
People skidded and turned. Wally slipped. Two sets of hands pinioned him from behind and dragged him to his feet. Squirming, he twisted to face his assailants, two smooth-skinned boy policemen whose grip slackened as soon as they saw his long nose and tear-filled round eyes. It was an internal matter only; it did not concern foreigners. Wally, who had fancied himself a participant, was left with his two long arms free and flailing against thin air.
Lenses chased the police who chased the students. A kid with glasses jumped from the crowd and stood his ground defiantly on a patch of ice, yelling out as his arms circled in an invocation of the breathing power. He was Philosopher Horse, instigator. As he was surrounded, thumped and rough-handled out of sight, Clarence, from the sidelines, got the shot.
4
Wally’s friends met in a small privately run restaurant to farewell him. The doorway was hung with black matting to keep out the cold; inside it was hot and noisy, and ‘Wind of My Homeland, Clouds of My Homeland’ blared from the tape-recorder. At the next table a slick chap in a Western suit presided over a lavish banquet while a chubby waitress from the countryside teetered back and forth with piles of plates.
Eagle proposed a toast to Wally, his brother.
‘We’re all mates,’ replied Wally, ‘and we’ll meet again soon.’ They laughed.
It was up to Wally to return to their world.
‘Ganbei!’
A man at the next table had his back rubbing against Jin Juan’s. He turned to excuse himself, checking the group with a sharp grin. ‘How about it? What’s her price?’ he whispered to Eagle. His weight pressed against Jin Juan’s shoulder.
‘Cut it out,’ said Eagle.
Neither old nor young, the man had a pockmarked face and lank receding hair. He had a flat bony chest and his eyes were swimming with drunkenness. Putting his cigarette butt to his lips, he arched his body across the table of dishes to his companion in the Western suit and declared, ‘That pimp’s selling our Chinese women!’
Eagle leapt up and glowered, ‘Say that again!’
‘Be careful of your leg,’ said Jin Juan, tugging him to sit down.
The insults continued. Why wouldn’t the pimp sell his woman to real Chinese men if he was prepared to sell her to the foreigner? Because the Chinese had no US dollars, that was why the pimp had come to like the foreigner’s smell.
By now Wally had understood enough to be offended on everyone’s behalf and rose to his feet. He was the tallest man in the restaurant and began to tell them off in comical elementary Chinese. The man in the Western suit stood and jeered in the foreigner’s face, his own face red with affront and hostility. Through sleazy business in the provinces he had made stacks of money and was vain of his sophisticated ways. To be undermined while throwing his cash around in a cosy restaurant made him explode.
‘Throw the foreigner out,’ he ordered the boss. ‘We don’t want foreigners with our women. We are China. My father was skewered to death trying to keep the little Japanese out of our town. My uncle joined the Red Army to throw off foreign oppression. My grandfather was a Boxer for the Emperor. Am I not a Chinese man? Kill the foreigners!’
He had a babyish, well-fed face and nothing would stop him. People gaped nervously, their sympathies washing back and forth in confusion. A crowd was gathering. Eagle insisted on a fight and Mother Lin hissed at him. David tried to make Song leave. Everyone was laying down the law, and punchy arguments sparked around the room. Wally made fists with his hands as the big mouth continued to rave.
Then the wily boss calmly ushered the waitress forward to the man’s table. At its centre was a huge fish in a sea of sauce, ancient symbol of fortune and prosperity and the meal’s crowning piece of ostentation. The diners had been too full of drink and of themselves to touch it. The waitress picked up the dish and, from a height, overturned it and dropped it onto the table. Steadily she took the other dishes and smashed them down one by one, with whatever food remained, against the upside-down fishplate, until the table was a mess of shards and slops. In the awed silence the boss led the man outside, the crowd mildly making way. When the boss returned the place was tidy again.
‘Someone from out of town,’ he said to Wally. ‘Please accept my apologies.’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Wally weightily.
‘What an idiot!’ people began to murmur, ‘What a jumped-up fool!’
Yet they were viscerally impressed.
‘I’m lucky to be alive,’ said Wally to Jin Juan when they were alone at the end of the night. ‘That same craziness. You understand that’s why I want to give you a way out.’
‘That’s why I’m staying. Do you understand?’
‘Because you’re Chinese?’ At this last moment he could no longer maintain his philosophical acceptance. ‘No, I don’t understand. Is it me you reject, or my culture, my shape—what is it?’ He held her and kissed her closed eyes, and she responded soothingly, with tenderness born of affection.
When she was asleep, he lay thinking in the darkness. He would take the plane alone and fly to the other hemisphere. He was always restless and perplexed before long-distance flights, as if part of him had already lifted off. He thought of his dead wife and wondered how her existence in any other world might compare with the life she had led with him. He had come grieving to China, and through all its layers—his searching for a treatment, a past, a lost old man, a lover—had been his quest for Bets, for a body to wear her shadow. What Jin Juan had done was to refuse his offer. She had profited from his kindness only so far as suited her independence and dignity. He felt cold and lonely, and tossed over onto his stomach in a spasm of rage. The woman sleeping beside him did not stir. There were political struggles and human struggles and a compulsive groping for sense. People were running forward with their arms open. But like the supernatural visitor of old legend, Jin Juan was gone. He screwed up his eyes. It was Bets who had gone, and all of China could not take her place. Jin Juan was there, outside his personal equation, and China was there, part of the great world in and for which he must continue to work and strive. And slowly his grief would be turned to loving memory. How he looked forward to landing back on the solid routine of work and science, as the plane pointed for home.
At the airport Director Kang and Mrs Gu, Jin Juan and Eagle managed a united front. The Doctor promised to return, shook all their hands and passed through the barrier. Later, when the plane was flying, he put the headset on. You must dance for two instead of one. The music surprised him. It was no longer ghostly, just a song. He would go on dancing for two, with China’s bony arm hooked round his.
Director Kang and Mrs Gu had use of an official car for the ride back from the airport. With her new position and her new flat at the Medical College, Jin Juan was also entitled to the privilege. She chose, instead, to accompany Eagle in a taxi they would have to pay for. He had to be careful of his leg, deprived of the Doctor’s protection. He was no one’s responsibility but his own now. Jin Juan helped Eagle into the car, and held his hand on the long ride into town, for miles, approaching the capital down the straight bare avenue of flashing trees.
5
The world’s feathers were scarcely ruffled when, two weeks later, in the wake of the demonstrations, a foreign news photographer, Clarence Codrington, was deported at twenty-four hours’ notice on a trumped-up charge of ‘activities incompatible with his status as a journalist’. He was found to be in possession of a proscribed cultural relic, a Han dynasty vase. In the wake of the incident a young and over-rich trader in fake Tang horses was investigated for corruption, along with the management of the New Age Bar. Egregious Party Greenhorn was commended for doing his duty in drawing the matter to the authorities’ attention and the bar was demolished. The world was also unaware that an impassioned young man called Philosopher Horse, who had been detained without trial until the fun died down, was branded a counter-revolutionary and locked up for fifteen years, along with his democratic dreams. But it was not over. In Tiananmen Square the crowds continued to tramp across the frozen moat, under the red arch and the dead leader’s portrait, and the surveillance cameras installed by the security forces, to visit the Forbidden City. And in a few years’ time their numbers would surge again down the Avenue of Eternal Peace, a million or more, as the citizens massed together to demand change. Terrible would be the sacrifice as fire filled the night, and great would be the future.