Ma Jian - Beijing Coma

It is morning in America now. Perhaps there will be bells ringing in the church. Tian Yi will wear a white wedding dress and have her photograph taken surrounded by bouquets of flowers. I’m sure she will be clutching a few petals in her palm. I once promised I would give her a house, and a garden with a reclining chair…

I wonder if any of our old classmates will be attending the wedding. Ke Xi left America a couple of years ago, and has moved to Taiwan. He’s opened two small snack bars that sell spiced lamb skewers. Han Dan moved to America after he was released from prison, and is doing a PhD in political science, and Shu Tong and Lin Lu are in Boston, so those three will probably be at the wedding. No one has heard from Wu Bin and Sun Chunlin since they sought asylum in France. Perhaps they’ve met up with Tang Guoxian. After his epic journey across Siberia, he found God, settled in Marseille, and is now a Catholic priest.

Wang Fei’s fate is the reverse of mine. His body is alive, but his spirit has been killed. When he’s released from the Ankang mental hospital, perhaps he can go back to playing basketball. Maybe, by then, he will have lost all capacity to feel pain.

The headlamps of a passing vehicle fill this cold flat with a snowy-white light. They are probably illuminating the half-dead streets, telegraph poles and the mounds of concrete slabs on the construction site as well, and making the eyes of the cats crouched on the steel girders shine gold. I remember the bright patches of unmelted snow that would dot the compound in late December. You could spot them no matter where they were hidden. Girls in thin jackets would stand shivering under the locust tree, stamping their feet to warm themselves up, letting out an occasional shriek that made the cold air shudder.

‘Look what I just found among last year’s bills. I wonder who sent it. There’s a foreign address on the back.’ My mother comes into my room, tosses an envelope onto the pile of junk at the bottom of my bed and walks out again.

My heart jumps. Perhaps it’s a letter from A-Mei. I think of the bloodstained letter lying in the box for my ashes and wonder what it might have said… On a mountain seventy li north grow red flowers that can cure sadness and nightmares… I want to go to that mountain. But what is its name, and where is it?

The noise of crashing walls and bricks moves closer and closer…

In the mounting chaos, the tanks and armoured personnel carriers moved closer, shaking the ground so much that my head bobbed up and down.

They continued to push forward, forcing the students to the east of the Monument to begin evacuating the Square. The remaining crowds at the base shrieked in panic and retreated back onto the Monument. Thousands of students were still packed on the lower terrace. There were loud screams as people were knocked over or trampled underfoot. A few students who were being crushed against the balustrades at the edge of the terrace climbed over and jumped off.

I watched tanks driving back and forth across the nylon tents in the north, and wondered whether the boy I’d seen writing out his will had escaped. I never found my backpack. The thermos cup that Ge You brought me from Shenzhen had presumably been flattened by now. Two foreign journalists took flash photographs as more students began to file out towards the south-east. A band of plain-clothes policemen dressed like reporters snatched the cameras from the journalists, twisted their arms back and dragged them off into the bushes. One of my shoes had been pulled off during the stampede. I took off the other one and flung it at the battalion of soldiers behind us. They were forcing us forward, striking us over the heads with the butts of their guns as though they were driving out a pack of dogs.

We continued south across the Square along a route lined with armed police. A student at the front of our column began shouting slogans through a loudspeaker. The crowd became restive. A voice yelled, ‘I’m not leaving. I want to die here in the Square!’ Another cried, ‘Someone help me! I can’t walk!’ The soldiers behind us were clutching guns, the butts pointing in the air, ready to attack us if we stepped out of line. Wang Fei glanced back and shouted, ‘Down with Fascism!’ and was immediately struck across the face. The butt of the soldier’s gun hit my shoulder as it swung past. A girl who was being kicked ferociously by an armed police officer screamed, ‘Mum, help me…’

At last we squeezed our way out of the encirclement. As we walked away, we broke into the chorus of the Internationale, glanced back at the Square and flashed the victory sign. The noise of gunfire and screaming seemed to light up the sky.

One guy bravely unfurled a banner that said ALL DICTATORS WILL PERISH! I too felt my fear slip away as we moved further from the Square.

I looked back again. About three hundred students were still sitting on the south side of the Monument, refusing to move. The soldiers and policemen surrounding them were kicking and clubbing them. I spotted Zhang Jie among the crowd. He stood up and waved a flag but was quickly struck down by a rifle butt.

Xiao Li appeared in front of me. He looked smaller. His eyes were red. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, and the skin underneath was ripped open. He was covered in dirt and blood.

Qiu Fa grabbed his arm and said, ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘They killed Mou Sen,’ he replied blankly. ‘I was right next to him when it happened. We were in the north-east corner…’

‘Did you see whether there were any students left in the underpass?’ I was relieved I hadn’t hidden Tian Yi down there.

‘We walked towards the troops shouting “The People’s Army love the people!” They opened fire, and Mou Sen was struck by two bullets… Hai Feng and I jumped onto a bus with some other students and drove it down Changan Avenue to block the troops. But as the bus swivelled round, the soldiers showered us with bullets. The guy who was driving got hit. The bus was a wreck. Hai Feng and I jumped off. A soldier grabbed Hai Feng by the hair and flung him to the ground. I went down on my knees and held up my hands. The troops marched straight past me.’ His eyes glazed over.

‘One day we’ll get our revenge for this. I fucking swear it!’ Qiu Fa was usually immaculately groomed, but now the only clean part of him was his left ear. Both his shoes had been dragged off in the rushed evacuation. His feet were bleeding.

Xiao Li squatted down on the ground and stared blankly at the road ahead.

Wang Fei pressed the buttons of his walkie-talkie even though he knew the batteries were dead.

Hou Dejian staggered towards us, a student supporting him on either side. He looked shell-shocked. We stood scattered like detritus across the wide empty road on the south of the Square.

‘Down with Fascism! Down with Li Peng!’ someone shouted through a megaphone.

A Beijing resident walked up with a large basket of trainers and handed them out to students who’d lost their shoes. I checked the sizes. They were all too small for me. I went back into the bushes that some of the students had escaped through, picked up a plimsoll and a flip-flop that were nearer my size, and made do with those.

Bai Ling’s eyes were so swollen, they were now just two narrow slits. Wang Fei walked beside her, gripping her shoulders.

We began to rearrange ourselves into university groups. Flags and banners were brought out again and held aloft. Many of the girls were sobbing. The boys took their hands and led them on. Mimi was crying uncontrollably. Yu Jin heaved her onto his back and carried her. Old Fu shouted into his megaphone, ‘We will be back. Tiananmen Square belongs to the people!’

We walked west past Qianmen Gate, skirting the southern edge of the Square. Wu Bin’s eyes were blood red. He tied a bullet belt he’d stolen from a soldier to the end of a wooden stick and marched in the middle of our procession, waving it above his head. Big Chan was limping in front of me. His feet were badly cut too. Little Chan was holding his guitar for him, as the shoulder strap had broken. Mimi went over to walk beside Bai Ling. Her pale-blue dress was filthy.