I walked through the campus as a man on a mission, one foot firmly in front of the other as I went down sidewalks filled with students lugging backpacks. Left foot, right foot, left, right. I was in a rhythm, like a soldier marching off to war, though I was hardly a soldier. But this was definitely war.
I felt numb. Hazy. As a kid, I wasn’t the type of boy who caught bugs and dissected them. I didn’t kill small animals or throw rocks at birds. In fact, I wasn’t sure how to kill anything. But the government was forcing my hand. I could learn.
The first step was obvious. I needed to go to President Ming’s house, scout out the property, and figure out the best way to proceed. I didn’t necessarily want to make a big public spectacle out of his death. Out of my death. I simply wanted a chance to see him one last time, to explain his betrayal, and to blow us both up.
His house seemed like a fine enough place to die. Tucked away in a little compound reserved for high-level university executives, it was relatively secure. I knew that, because he’d invited me there in the past—back when we were friends, when we’d talk about politics and world events over tea, when I thought I was securing my future by impressing him. Just a few months ago, I would’ve fought anyone who dared speak ill of President Ming. I thought he was a brilliant reformer, an independent thinker, and a thoughtful scholar. How was I to know he was a communist thug willing to let me suffer a lifetime of indignity to save himself?
I approached the area of the university where the officials lived, and didn’t really fear getting caught. After all, I had no weapon, no ill intentions for the evening. I was simply on a fact-finding mission. And as far as I could tell, no agents had followed me.
In my head, I prepared the words I’d say if I ran into him.
“You aren’t worthy,” I said, practicing out loud. “You are a cheater. Honestly, I don’t even think you’re human!” Hearing the words gave me a little jolt of energy. I couldn’t wait to be able to deliver my lines to his face. I was going to condemn him, maybe even curse him.
It was dusk when I approached his beautiful villa, which was larger than the other academic domiciles. It was tall and stately, about two or three stories high. I walked all the way down the street, past his house, then turned back toward it. No one was milling around outside. Perhaps everyone was finishing up dinner. President Ming would probably still be at work and my special agent didn’t expect me back at the English department until eight o’clock. I had one hour. My plan was simple. I would go around to the back of the house, find a window, and check out the lay of the land. Usually Chinese architecture follows the same basic pattern. The home’s center has an area for a shrine to the deities and ancestors. On its two sides are bedrooms and “wings” of the building for younger family members, the living area, the dining room, and the kitchen. However, I wanted to make sure there were no surprises. If I was going to deploy a suicide bomb, I wanted to make sure my plan would work. I only had one chance, after all.
I glanced at my watch, then back up at the house. Instead of walking by it again, I walked around it, vaguely aware that what I was doing was dangerous. If I was caught sneaking around the home of the president, however, what was the worst that could happen? Would I lose my academic standing? My degree? My future? I almost laughed. The government had overplayed its hand. The Communists should’ve left me something for which to live.
I crept around the home until I found a window covered with a carved window screen. I took a deep breath, stood up on my toes, and peered through the window. Through the opening, I saw a hallway. A red rug on the floor. A small table with a jade bowl sitting on it. No one seemed to be home, but this was getting me nowhere. I took a step back from the house and noticed a back door. It was red, with a dragon-headed doorknocker on it. I placed my hand on the brass knob, which was cool to the touch. I pulled on the door, and to my surprise, it opened. I looked into the silent house, and then I looked around me. No witnesses.
When I stepped into the house, I felt a strange combination of pure hatred and complete excitement. I’d been cooped up with my special agent, some pencils, and a stack of never-ending paper for so long. Now that I had decided to die, I finally felt alive. I placed my foot on the slate tiles of the hallway. My shoe made a sound, and I paused.
Was I right about the home being empty? I took another step and paused to listen. Nothing. I took another step. Then another. And so I made my way through the hallway toward the kitchen, one step at a time. If the president was home, he definitely could’ve heard me—either my shoes clicking on the tile or my heart thudding in my chest. But I couldn’t control either of those things. I’d started realizing just how few things were in my control.
The hallway led to the kitchen, which was open and clean except for some tomatoes sitting on a butcher’s table in the middle of the room. One was cut with a knife, which was lying beside the food and a dirty plate.
My feet were suddenly glued to the floor and I strained to hear sounds indicating another person’s presence. Was President Ming’s wife there, nibbling on food instead of preparing dinner because her husband was working late? I scanned the rest of the kitchen. An empty wine glass sat beside a copper vase holding chrysanthemums that should’ve been thrown away a week ago. A few dead petals had fallen from the flowers and piled beneath it.
I was somehow both completely numb and exceedingly invigorated as I left the kitchen—and heard a loud crash. I froze again. My first inclination was to assume I’d unintentionally hit something, knocking it to the floor. However, the sound had come from the living room, which was about ten feet from where I stood as still as a statue. Had the agents followed me here? Were they setting up a trap in the other room?
After the crash I heard a gasp, and then laughter. It was a man, definitely President Ming. Though he was generally a serious and sober man, we had shared many good times in his office. I would’ve recognized his throaty laugh anywhere.
Instead of feeling fear or trepidation, I felt relieved. It was like I’d walked into his house and heard the sound from times past, when things were less serious. When I had more life in front of me than behind me. Instead of running away, out the door and back to my security agent, I put my hand on the living room doorway and peered around it.
There, sitting in a chair, was President Ming. His eyes were partially closed, his head tossed back in a complete belly laugh. A bottle of wine was between his legs, and a glass was on the floor, completely shattered. All of the rage that had built up in my heart against the man was temporarily halted. It’s hard to hate a man who’s giggling.
“Xiqiu,” he slurred. If he was surprised at all that I was in his house, I couldn’t tell. When he said my name, it reminded me of the first time he called to me on campus. Inexplicably, even in those weird circumstances, I felt honor that the president of the university knew my name. “What are you doing here?”
I walked into the room but stayed near the doorway.
“Wait,” he said, holding up a finger. “Let me guess. You’ve come here to . . . protest something.” He absolutely cackled at this, and I noticed an empty wine bottle on the floor next to the broken glass. My anger rose again.
“You’re mocking me?” I said. “You used to be on my side!”
“Well, your side is now the losing side,” he said, leaning over and picking up shards of glass. For the past few months, I had hung my hopes on the asinine idea that this man would be my advocate?
He got up out of his chair and headed toward me. I thought of the knife on the butcher block in the kitchen, but didn’t move from my spot. When he got to me, he stuck his finger in my face, just an inch from my nose.
“You are such a troublemaker,” he said, little drops of spittle hitting my face. “The Communist Party has nurtured you for years. Why do you go and do these offensive things to the nation that’s given you so much?”
“You betrayed me,” I yelled. “I was loyal to you, and you turned on me!”
“What do you know of loyalty?” he barked, his jovial mood completely gone. Beads of perspiration had formed above his eyebrows. “China has taken care of you like a son, and all you’ve done is try to destroy her. You are an enemy, an agitator, and you will pay for your treachery.”
I was livid, but I suddenly wanted nothing more than to get out of there. “No, you will pay!” I yelled. I turned away from him and ran through the house. By the time I reached the back door, all I heard was chortling from the living room.
“I will pay?” He laughed. “I will pay?”
As I scurried back to campus, I didn’t feel humiliated or even fooled. I felt betrayed by a person I had believed to be a true friend and ally. He mocked me because he knew I’d always wanted to right all the wrongs in the culture. Of course, I couldn’t do that with my life.
But in my death, I was satisfied to be able to right just one wrong.