28

The thick wad of paper, one hundred and sixty pages, slid into the envelope. Thirteen months later, and this was the last hope Anna held of finding him. Her story, his story, it had begun as a desperate sort of release, but when she put it all together…could she dare call it a novel?

Anna had returned to Australia at the end of May 1989. A few days later, on June 4th, she turned on the news to see that tanks had rolled through the People’s Square in China’s capital, Beijing, to disperse a collection of students protesting peacefully for democracy. She watched, horrified, at images of the army moving into the square from several directions, firing randomly on the unarmed protesters. The newsreader announced that hundreds of people were killed in the massacre, many of them innocent bystanders. In the days that followed, as Anna scanned the newspapers, her stomach churning, reports emerged of troops searching university campuses for ringleaders, beating and killing those they suspected of coordinating the protests. Art colleges, known to cultivate rebellious thought, were singled out. Many students fled the country.

Anna rang the college repeatedly over the first few days, desperate for news of Chenxi, but the phone was never answered. Even her father was unable to explain to Anna what was happening in China as the only news coverage he was able to access was CNN. The local Chinese media had been banned from covering the event. Like most of the foreigners in Shanghai and Beijing, he fled on the emergency airlines arranged by the Australian consulate back to Melbourne until it was safe to return to China. They had been terrifying weeks for Anna but, like all tragedies, the troubles in China were soon forgotten by most people and replaced by other newsworthy events.

Now Anna hesitated before licking the stamp and fixing it to the top right corner. If her book was published, if it sold well, if it was translated, Chenxi might read it. If. It was a wild idea, but it was all she had left. She had to know. Nothing was worse than not knowing.

From the little silver snuffbox sitting on her desk, Anna pulled out a worn note. She unfolded the paper and read the words again, even though she knew them by heart. Each time she studied the note she searched for clues as if they might suddenly appear, but it remained as cryptic as when she had first received it over a year ago.

HeLLo ANNA,
I seeN oLd WoLF.
He TeLL Me I TeLL You do NoT WRiTe aGaiN. PLease.
OuR FRieND is FRee now.
YouR FRieND,
Lao Li.

Anna folded the paper and placed it back in the snuffbox. Then she sealed the brown envelope and kissed it for luck. As she stood, the package slipped from her hands and thudded onto the wooden floorboards. Startled, the baby in the pram by her side began to cry. She picked it up and laid its head against her chest.

Anna stroked her son’s fuzzy black hair and rocked him until he fell back to sleep. Outside under a bright blue sky a magpie warbled. She looked up at the painting that hung over her desk. From a Chinese landscape, her face gazed back at her.