Eliot Pattison - Mandarin Gate

For a few moments as he stared at the southern horizon he told himself he would walk. More than a few Tibetan families walked two or three days to visit loved ones in prison. But even if he walked all night he would not make it over the steep mountain roads before the visiting hours ended the next morning. He would have to sleep in the stable and write a letter, praying it would reach his son.

The cheerful banter suddenly died. He looked up. A public security car was parking on the opposite side of the road. Liang and Meng climbed out with two knob soldiers behind them.

As Shan saw the glint in Liang’s eye his gut tightened. The major had been defeated at the crossroads but now he strutted across the street with a smug, satisfied air. Liang seemed to make a show of searching the tables, then he nodded to Shan.

Shan pushed back his chair, thinking of slipping away, but Liang had anticipated him. One of the soldiers had circuited to the rear of the tables, behind Shan. Meng held back, looking at him with pain in her eyes.

“Comrade Shan!” Liang called out loudly as he reached Shan’s side. “At last we have found you! Good news! Everything about that splittist Jamyang has been confirmed! Your payment is approved!” The major reached into his tunic and extracted a stack of currency notes, bound with a rubber band. “One thousand is the going rate. A rare bargain for the body of another outlaw lama.”

Liang dropped the money on Shan’s table, offered a stiff bow, then spun about and marched back to the car.

There was no more jesting, no more talking at all. Every person at every table stared in shock at Shan, some with hatred in their eyes, others with disgust. Shan had just been publicly declared a bonecatcher.

All but one of the tables were quickly vacated. The thin grey-haired man who remained slowly rose and stepped to Shan’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder as his daughter appeared at his side. “Come with us,” Yuan said.

Shan said nothing but stood and followed the professor. His daughter picked up the money where Shan had left it, untouched.

“It is just Liang’s way,” Yuan said as he poured tea for Shan in his kitchen. “Those in Baiyun will soon realize it. They know you better.”

Shan had trouble speaking. Liang had tried, and failed, to imprison Shan. It had been parry and thrust since the two men had met. Now Liang had inflicted the crippling blow. When he finally spoke his voice was hoarse. “By this time tomorrow,” he said, “there won’t be a Tibetan in the valley who will speak with me.”

Shan awoke abruptly, his nightmare so real he flinched, thinking the touch on his shoulder was that of another prison guard’s baton.

“Shan,” Yuan whispered, shaking him. “She’s here, been parked outside for two hours. She’s at the door.”

He groggily followed the professor, tucking in his shirt, to the entry.

Meng stood in the dim predawn light. “We need to be going,” she declared.

“Going?” Shan asked through his fog.

“Have you truly forgotten what day it is? It’s the first Sunday of the month.”

Whether from fatigue or disbelief, he could find no words. He followed the lieutenant to her car and obediently climbed in, then stared out the window, strangely ashamed.

They had left the sleeping town far behind before he turned toward Meng. Her uniform was disheveled. “Did you sleep in your car?” he asked.

“Not much.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s Sunday. Isn’t this what couples do on Sunday, take carefree drives in the country?”

“Meng Linmei, you really don’t. It won’t be pleasant.”

As if in response she tossed a paper into his lap. He slowly, painfully opened it. It was the letter he had written to Ko in Liang’s cell. “It was good of you to-”

“You look like hell,” she interrupted. “Get some sleep.”

He stuffed the letter inside his shirt and leaned his head on the window, watching the sky. Stars were blinking out as dawn spread across the sky. He watched the shadows retreat across the mountains.

Much later, he stirred at the sound of voices outside the car. Meng was speaking to soldiers. A security gate that blocked the road was being lifted. Suddenly he was wide awake, rubbing his eyes, then reflexively looked down as a patrol drove by. They had entered a penal zone. Arrows pointed the way to each of Colonel Tan’s hard-labor camps.

His mouth went dry as the 404th People’s Construction Brigade came into view. His eyes were unable to move from the long, decrepit barracks where he had lived for years, where he had met Lokesh and the lamas who had built him anew out of the broken, drug-dazed body that had been dumped there by Public Security. The shabby structures had become chapels to him. Many good and innocent men had died in them, and on the execution ground outside, men who still visited him in his dreams and nightmares.

Meng shook his shoulder. They were at the main gate, a guard leaning inside the window with a clipboard. “Your son’s name, Shan. They need his name.”

“Shan Ko,” he said, his voice breaking. “Barracks fourteen.”

The guard paused as he heard the name, then glanced pointedly at Meng and lowered the clipboard without looking at it. “Don’t waste your time,” he muttered.

“Is he or isn’t he a prisoner in the Four hundred and fourth?” Meng demanded.

“Of course he is. But he is in solitary. Locked up this past week. No visitors for those in solitary.”

Only when Meng cast a worried glance at him did Shan realize a moan had escaped his throat.

“We are coming in,” the lieutenant stated.

The guard shrugged and pointed to a strip of gravel inside the gate.

Shan did not argue when she told him to stay in the car. He watched the compound behind the razor wire, saw the rail-thin prisoners shuffling around the perimeter, saw old men too weak to walk being carried out into pools of sunlight, the Sunday rituals of the camp. This was no reeducation camp, this was where Beijing ground its enemies into dust. Shan found himself clutching the seat, as if part of him expected to be seized and thrown back inside the wire at any moment. It was always like this when he waited on visiting days. Some days he would pace back and forth in front of the gate, calming himself before going through. Once a prisoner always a prisoner.

It was nearly an hour before Meng finally returned, a guard at her side. “Only fifteen minutes,” she announced. “I’m sorry.”

As he climbed out he shot a confused glance toward her, knowing he should thank her. Here in the prison, with her standing by him in her uniform, he could not forget that more than once he had been interrogated, even beaten by women like her. But getting a prisoner out of the special punishment lockup, however briefly, was nothing short of a miracle.

They left him alone in the sterile, drafty chamber reserved for visits, with barred windows and four heavy metal chairs bolted to the cement floor, each with two stools in front of it. He stared out a window, looking for familiar faces among the prisoners until he heard the closing of the metal door at the end of the long corridor leading to the isolated room, then quickly sat on a stool, facing a chair. He knew better than to watch.

The rattle of the chains down the hall was always a slow torture for Shan. They seemed to wrap around his heart and wrench it with each step. He forced himself to stare at the metal chair, not looking up even when he realized the rattle was different this time, not the usual sound of Ko’s foot manacles.

Then suddenly they were beside him, two beefy guards flanking their slender prisoner. Shan clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. A heavy leather collar had been placed around Ko’s neck, with a link through which a chain was fastened. The chain was wrapped around hand manacles and connected to a link on his foot chains. The guards shoved him into the chair and looped still another chain to bind him to a metal ring on the chair before retreating.