Ma Jian - Beijing Coma

It came to a large blockade further down the road that it was unable to breach. Its engine roared as it struggled in vain to push through it. A mob raced over and attacked it with more Molotov cocktails. I spotted a quilt lying on the ground, so I picked it up, ran over to the vehicle and tossed it onto the bottles burning on the roof. The quilt immediately caught fire. A few moments later, the armoured carrier finally managed to break through the roadblock and escape west down Changan Avenue, the quilt on its roof still blazing. Marshals from the Workers’ Federation chased after it, shouting, ‘What the fuck are you doing driving into people like that?’ Others ran over with metal rods which they stuck into the tracks, bringing the vehicle to a halt once more. Soon hundreds of people surrounded it and attacked it with metal rods and wooden sticks. Some people even punched the metal sides with their fists. I too went over and kicked it a few times, but the thick smoke pouring from its exhaust pipe made my eyes water, so I ran back to the middle of the Square. Bullets were still arcing through the night sky, accompanied by a continuous sound of gunfire.

Just as I was about to make my way through the rows of nylon tents, a man walked up to me, pulled me aside and told me he was an undercover agent. He urged me to tell the students to leave the Square immediately, as the soldiers were about to move in and clear it by force, and would kill anyone who resisted them. To prove his identity, he pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket. It was a model used only by the government’s security force.

‘What difference will it make if we leave now or get driven out in a couple of hours?’ I said blankly, then walked off to fetch my backpack from my tent. But when I got there, my mind was so muddled, I forgot what I was looking for. I saw a student in a tent opposite mine scribbling into his journal by torchlight. ‘The troops are coming to clear the Square!’ I shouted. ‘Hurry up and get out of here!’

‘I’m writing my will,’ he said without looking up. Then he switched off his torch and lay down on his camp bed.

‘You will — you will regret this!’ A fire was raging in my head. I couldn’t think straight.

Five hundred li downriver, you come to Mount Plenty. The River Li rises from the foothills and flows west to empty into the Yellow River. Poisonous fish inhabit its waters. If a man eats them, he will die.

My mother is searching for something again. She’s in her bedroom. She always seems to be looking for something or other, but what she is really looking for is herself. She no longer turns on the radio, so most of the noises I hear now are either from her or from the bulldozers which are edging closer and closer to our building.

She must be leaning down. She kicks away a pile of plastic bags. I can hear there’s a swelling at the base of her oesophagus. It lies at the opening to her stomach like a rotten potato and gives her breath a smell of sickness.

She survives on a diet of raw cucumber, celery and small snacks that are sold wrapped in cellophane. She often wakes up in the middle of the night, groaning with stomach pain, then turns on the television and watches it until dawn.

The nurse who comes to bring me medicine every week pushes a thermometer into my mouth and says, ‘Why don’t you open the windows and tidy this flat up a little? It smells worse than a public toilet in here.’

‘I don’t want the sparrow to fly out,’ my mother answers.

‘No wonder no one wants to come round here. You really are a strange woman. You have this vegetable to keep you company, and now you want a sparrow as well!’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘There’s a new drug you should buy for him. Our clinic has just received a batch. It’s synthesised from fresh placenta cells, and helps stimulate cell regeneration. You inject it straight into the blood. As a regular customer, you can have it at a discount rate of just two hundred yuan a box.’

‘I don’t think I’ll bother. There’s nothing much wrong with him. All the tests he’s been having these last years show that his condition is stable.’

‘He’s your own son. What’s two hundred yuan to you? What a miser you are! You can’t be short of money. All the residents of this compound have made a fortune from the demolition compensation fees.’

‘Huh, even if I were to get 200,000 yuan, I couldn’t buy another flat around here. The smallest flats in the new commercial block round the corner cost at least three times that much.’

‘Well, you can rent then. You’ll have enough money to cover the rent bills for the rest of your life.’

‘No I won’t. Everyone in this building has done well, apart from me. Because I took early retirement, my work unit refuses to give me a property ownership certificate, so I’m only eligible for tenants’ compensation, which is a tenth of what everyone else is getting. I’ve told the Hong Kong developers that unless they pay me the full amount, I won’t budge.’

‘They’ve daubed the word “demolish” all over this building. Most of the shops and restaurants outside have closed down. It’s like a ghost town. I don’t want to come here again. Even during the day, I feel frightened walking down that street. I’ll come next week, but if you want any more medicine for your son after that, you’ll have to visit the clinic.’

‘It’s a building site outside. There are bulldozers everywhere and mountains of debris. Even the roads are filled with rubble. How can you expect me to leave the flat?’

‘Ha! You mad old lady. I’ve heard that you wander through the streets all the time!’ She walks out, shutting the front door behind her.

My mother is getting frail. Over the years, her life has gradually become even worse than mine. Neither her son who’s far away in England, nor the comatose son who’s lying by her side can help her now.

She checks the radiator, sits on a sunny patch of the bed and takes my hand in hers. ‘How strange! The red spots on your fingernails have disappeared! When did that happen? Does it mean you’re going to wake up, my son? You’ll have to do your hand exercises yourself, now, I’m afraid. I don’t have the strength to bend your fingers back…’ Yesterday, my mother read a book called The Medicinal Benefits of Palmistry , which An Qi gave her. Her husband finally died a few weeks ago. His old bullet wound flared up again and he contracted septicaemia.

My mother shuffles off into the sitting room to rummage through a pile of old belongings. Smells of dust and bird droppings waft through the air again.

She has become nostalgic in her old age. She’s telephoned some former colleagues at the National Opera Company and asked whether they have photographs of the performance she gave in Moscow. She’s even phoned her younger sister, with whom she’d broken contact, and asked her how she is. Master Yao is still in prison, but she seems to have blotted him from her memory.

The sparrow climbs back onto my chest and sits down. The evening light filtering through the window turns my thoughts to death. If my body comes back to life, will my soul return to its previous comatose state?

Your spirit moves restlessly through your flesh. Your heart has been crushed.

‘Where is it?’ my mother says, taking a brief rest from her rummaging. ‘I’m sure I put it between the pages of a book…’

I suspect she’s searching for the postcard she was sent by a Russian man she met while touring in the Soviet Union with the opera company. Its disappearance perplexed her for years. It was probably the only love letter she ever received. She gets up, walks into my room and says dreamily, ‘His eyes were blue. He was a bit taller than your father.’