Ma Jian - The Dark Road

The migrant school is in a fertiliser warehouse at the other end of Meili’s washing line. The rent is cheap, as the area is low-lying and liable to flood. Last year in the rainy season, waters from Womb Lake flowed through here towards the sea, laden with timber and burnt plastic. Meili hopes that after one more year of hard work, they can move to an apartment in the centre of town, bring her parents to live with them and pay for her mother to be treated in Heaven Hospital. Her cancer has spread, and the rural hospitals are unable to perform the complicated operation she needs. The warehouse is only just large enough to seat the school’s fifty pupils. If government inspectors turn up, the children escape through the back door and hide in the fields. During the nationwide clampdown on illegal schools last year, the teachers put the students on a rented bus and drove them into the countryside, giving lessons as they went.

At eight in the morning, the children stroll into the warehouse singing a Hong Kong pop song: ‘ Neither fragrant like a flower, nor tall like a tree, I’m just a blade of grass that people walk past. Nobody knows it’s me… ’ Meili drops her mobile phone into her bag, looks into the mirror hanging from the durian tree, applies a coat of lipstick, then steps into her kitten-heeled shoes and heads off to work up the road that runs along the river. It’s Spring Festival next week, and before the holiday starts, she wants to sell off the company’s excess stock of transistors, inductors and resistors. A small factory in Hubei has become an important client. The manager is one of the Wang Suyas with whom she formed an online friendship. This woman always sends cash payment before consignments are dispatched, and has even promised to travel down to Heaven with her five-year-old daughter to pay Meili a visit.

Through the morning mist rising from the river, Meili sees a Bureau of Industry and Commerce van parked further ahead. She turns on her heels, goes to a nearby kiosk and tries to phone the headmaster of the migrant school, Mr Sun, but he’s teaching an elementary maths class and has switched off his mobile phone. She phones Kongzi, but he’s asleep, so she pulls off her shoes, returns to the school as swiftly as she can and tells Mr Sun to take the children out into the fields and hide them in the irrigation channels. As the children file out, she pushes the school bags, exercise books and lunch boxes into a corner and covers them with a black sheet. Then she goes into the yard and rakes out a pile of plastic granules so that the inspectors assume this is an e-waste warehouse. When Kongzi wakes up, she tells him to join the children in the fields.

Mr Sun reappears in a flustered state. ‘Can you take the morning off work today and help us out, Meili? I’ve ordered a bus. Go to the intersection and flag it down. Here’s the driver’s business card.’

When Kongzi ushers the children onto the clean bus, he wishes he’d had time to put on his usual suit and tie. The children glance at his mud-splattered shorts and dirty flip-flops, and smirk. He’s due to teach a maths class and two literacy classes this morning, but he has no textbooks with him, nor do most of the children.

‘Keep going,’ Meili tells the driver, pointing the way with her left hand, which she quickly hides in her pocket, embarrassed by the missing finger. ‘Just stick to the quiet roads.’ Then she looks over her shoulder at the children, saying, ‘How about I teach you a song?’ The children cheer and clap. ‘All right. This one’s called “Waking from a Dream”. It’s the theme tune for a new TV series you might have seen: I remember you describing Heaven to me, drawing the outline of a house with your finger… ’ Her phone rings. She presses the answer button. ‘Yes, I’m the general manager,’ she says. ‘Fine. I’ll send my assistant to inspect the goods at midday. And remember, we want hard box packaging…’

The bus drives on through a string of quiet villages. Poplars, willows and telegraph poles slice through the view outside the window. When a fresh breeze blows into the bus, Meili knows they’ve left Heaven Township behind. The bus stops at the edge of the next village. Apart from two figures in the distance and the aerials swaying on the roofs, everything is still. A pale blue banner proclaiming NEW TRENDS IN MARRIAGE AND PROCREATION SPREAD THROUGH THE NATION; FLOWERS OF JOY BLOOM IN EVERY HOUSEHOLD hangs from one end of the village to the other. The long empty road makes Meili nervous. She tells the driver to carry on and stop at the crossroads so that if the police turn up, they’ll be able to escape.

Kongzi stands at the front of the bus, opens a textbook he’s borrowed from a child and says, ‘Turn to Lesson 18, please, and let’s read out the story at the bottom of the page. Altogether now: “The Raincoat. Late one night, Premier Zhou Enlai was working feverishly by candlelight when suddenly there was a clap of thunder and a heavy rain began to fall. He immediately ordered his maid to take a raincoat to the man guarding the gate. The maid draped the coat over the guard’s shoulders and said: ‘Premier Zhou asked me to give this to you, and to remind you that one must never stand under a tree during a thunderstorm.’ The guard was so moved by the premier’s thoughtfulness that he didn’t know what to say.”’ Kongzi returns the textbook to the child and says, ‘Right children, make a list of the new vocabulary.’

Two hours later, the bus turns round and heads back to the school. Meili kneels on her seat and says, ‘Don’t worry, students. We should be back soon, so you won’t miss lunch.’ Smells of nitric acid from a workshop outside flow in through the open window.

‘Auntie Meili, how come you still haven’t given birth to your baby?’ asks a boy at the front who has a worm-like bogey dangling from his nose. ‘Nannan told me it’s been inside you for four years.’ A yellow-clawed eagle is embroidered on the front pocket of his red coat.

‘I’m waiting for the baby to become legal, so that it can get a residence permit,’ she says, thinking on her feet. ‘Otherwise it will be like you lot, and won’t be allowed to attend a proper school.’ She’s wearing jeans, a red-and-white-striped shirt and gold earrings today. If she had glasses on, she’d look like a teacher of a government primary school.

Lulu is sitting next to Nannan. She raises her unblinking goldfish eyes to Meili and says, ‘My dad told me my residence permit is fake. Does that mean I won’t be able to go to university in Beijing?’

‘What’s the point of us studying, Teacher Kong, if none of us will be allowed to go to university?’ says a chubby boy with hair neatly parted down the middle.

‘I want to be a judge when I grow up, and sentence all the family planning officials to death,’ says a small boy at the back wearing a blue jacket with a broken zip.

‘Don’t worry, students,’ Kongzi says. ‘Mr Sun has applied for authorisation from the Education Department, so with any luck, our migrant school will soon be legal.’

‘Teacher Kong, did Confucius get into as much trouble as us when he set up his own schools?’ asks a girl with a ponytail, her small eyes darting behind her overgrown fringe.

‘Back then, Confucius was an unofficial teacher, just like me,’ Kongzi says with a smile, ‘but he wasn’t treated like a criminal. Anyone could set up their own school. Things may be very different now, but we mustn’t lose heart. Every child deserves an education, whether they’re recognised by the state or not. We must assert our rights, or this country will never change.’

‘Yes, students, our paths are made as we tread them,’ Meili says, rising to her feet. ‘We must have the courage to strike out on our own and challenge injustices. On the internet, more and more people are daring to voice criticisms of the One Child Policy. The government is launching campaigns telling young couples that girls are as good as boys — that shows they’re aware of the millions of baby girls that have been killed because of their evil policies.’