Ma Jian - The Dark Road

‘The police refuse to help us,’ Meili moans. ‘What if she got onto a long-distance bus? Three buses leave Foshan every hour.’

‘But she hasn’t any money to buy a ticket,’ Kongzi says, loosening his tie.

‘She was given a hundred yuan today for Spring Festival. Oh God, I must sit down…’ Her belly tight and aching, she places a hand on the concrete step and gently lowers herself onto it. The coconut tree on the other side of the road stabs the upper air like a green umbrella.

‘I’ll phone my mother tomorrow to see if she’s made her way there,’ Kongzi says, sitting down beside her and struggling to stay calm.

‘Does Nannan know her address?’ Tang asks.

‘Yes, she’s posted four letters to her. I made her address the envelopes herself. Last week she sent her a copy of the photograph I took of her class in front of the Ming theatre.’

‘Well, let’s check the long-distance bus station, then,’ Tang says. ‘Did you read about the child-trafficking gang that was busted in Guangzhou last week? The men hung around train stations, tricked young girls into boarding their vans, then sold them to brothels in neighbouring cities.’

‘The police said they won’t open a case on Nannan until she’s been missing for a month,’ Kongzi says, his anger rising again. ‘But by that time, she might have been carted off to a nightclub a thousand kilometres away, or sold as a wife to a peasant in some mountainous backwater. Well, I’m not budging from here. I’ll stay on these steps until the police agree to help find her.’

Tang’s phone rings. ‘Thanks for returning my call, Director Wu,’ he says. ‘Yes, it’s my friend’s daughter… Eleven years old… We’ve just spoken to them — I’m outside the station right now. I asked if we could see Sergeant Zhang, but they wouldn’t let us. I know he’s a good friend of your brother’s, so I was wondering if you could give him a call and persuade him to open a missing person’s case and send out a search party… Wonderful. Thank you so much.’ Tang hangs up and says, ‘That’s promising! Sergeant Zhang is second in command at that station. I’ll go and get us something to drink. You two wait here.’

‘I’ll wait here, but Kongzi — you go to the bus station,’ Meili says, placing her mobile phone on her lap, yearning for it to ring with news. She still can’t accept that Nannan has disappeared, that this is really happening to her. Apart from her four-week absence, she and Nannan have never spent a day apart… If I lose Nannan, it will be like losing an arm, she says to herself. No, it will be worse than that, much worse. If I lose her, I will die. As this thought sinks in, she almost passes out, then her head begins to throb as she remembers the sound of Nannan wailing as a baby. When Nannan was three months old, she cried inconsolably for two days. Meili couldn’t work out what the problem was. At last, her neighbour Fang came round, checked Nannan’s ears, mouth and bottom, then lifted the folds of her neck and discovered that they’d become raw and infected from drops of breast milk that had collected inside.

Tang returns with bottles of Coca-Cola, but Meili doesn’t want any. She remembers her father giving her a bottle for Spring Festival one year, and not wanting to be so selfish as to drink it all herself, she fed half of it to Nannan in small spoonfuls. Nannan was only five months old at the time, and ended up with severe diarrhoea.

‘Go on, have a sip,’ says Tang, kneeling down beside her. ‘Don’t cry, Meili. I’m sure Nannan’s just wandered off to play by herself and will turn up at home this evening. I have noticed that the papers have been full of stories about missing children recently, though. Last week, I read that the police stopped a coach travelling from Guangxi Province and discovered twenty-eight baby girls in the boot, tied up in black plastic bags. They were all under three months old. The police suspected they were going to be sold to restaurants in Foshan. One of the poor babies had suffocated to death.’

‘Nannan is eleven years old — no restaurant would want to make soup out of her. It’s far more likely that she’s been abducted and sold to a brothel. Will you search all the nightclubs round here? She wouldn’t dare take a bus to another city. Since I was caught in Wuhan, she’s known how dangerous it is for peasants to enter cities and large towns.’

‘Yes, it is dangerous. Did you read about that young migrant called Sun Zhigang? He had a college education, a respectable job. He was stopped by the police on the streets of Guangzhou, taken to a Custody and Repatriation Centre for not having the right documents, and ended up being beaten to death. It’s all over the internet.’

‘She’s too young to be locked up in a custody centre. Oh God, why is it that as soon as we leave the polluted backwaters, something terrible happens? Are we migrants forbidden to breathe clean air?’ She stares across the road at the long red wall and the blue sky above that appear to be pressed against each other as uncomfortably as two lovers who’ve fallen out of love.

KEYWORDS: murky water, skeleton, crumbling balcony, Womb Lake, CD drive, fountain, faintly visible.

ON THE AFTERNOON of the fifth day of Nannan’s disappearance, Kongzi waits at Heaven Township Long-Distance Bus Station to check the last bus from Guangzhou, then sets off for Womb Lake down a rubbish-strewn path lined with willows, his long thin shadow trailing behind him. When someone approaches, he runs up to them, lifts a photograph of Nannan and says, ‘Comrade, have you seen this girl? She was wearing an orange jumper with a red collar. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she had a red Lucky Dot here, between her eyebrows…’ When he senses they’re not registering what he’s saying, he repeats his words louder and more insistently. But the elderly residents he approaches don’t understand his accent. Most of the migrant workers shake their heads, and tell him that dozens of children go missing in Heaven each month, and he should give up hope of finding her. Before returning home, Kongzi always walks round the lake, as he’s afraid that Happiness’s ghost might have dragged Nannan into it. Last night he did see a girl standing in the water, but when he ran towards her she disappeared. He remembers how, aged about ten months old, Nannan used to like hiding in a cardboard box in her bedroom, and as soon as he found her, she’d burst into peals of laughter and crawl away at top speed. On the first night they spent on the boat, she ran to the edge of the deck, stepped into thin air and plunged into the river. If he hadn’t heard the splash, she would have drowned. By the time he shone his torch on the water, all he could see was a small tuft of her hair. A year later, when she was leaning overboard shaking water from her hair, she fell into the river again, but this time was able to grab hold of the side of the boat and clamber back onto the deck all by herself.

Kongzi leaves the path and walks towards the lake over a stretch of broken printers. The sky is not yet black. On the left is a Qing Dynasty stone house with carved lintels and eaves, whose front half has toppled into the lake. Migrants occupying the back half have hung their laundry out to dry on the crumbling balcony. On a small stone jetty that juts out from the house, ducks are pecking at leftover scraps. The dark red water below smells of dung and rotten fish. Kongzi stares at the ducks and thinks of the birds he used to keep in the cage on the side of their boat. The rooster that each dawn would shake the dew from its wings, peer at the river and let out a piercing yodel became chicken stew the night of Nannan’s third birthday. Its meat tasted of fresh sweetcorn. But the ducks that feed on Heaven’s chemical waste taste of sulphur, and their stomachs are filled with plastic screws and nylon string. To his right is a swathe of rubbish which the lake’s tide has pushed up into a mound. As he begins to climb, his eyes fall on the wooden skeleton of an overturned boat. He goes over, squats down, rubs the soft wood and thinks about their old boat. In the early days, he had no idea how to look after it. The first two times it leaked, he had to pay a fellow boatman to mend the cracks. Then, in spring, when the sun was warm but the river still cold, he decided to buy some tung oil and try to seal the exposed wood himself. While he lacquered the decks, Nannan kept him company, lacquering her doll, her shoes and her pillow. He gets up and examines the vessel more closely. My God, he whispers. This is our boat, Meili! You don’t believe me? Look. Ten steps from bow to stern. The length of our boat exactly. If I dig through this timber, I’m sure I’ll find the cabin in which we slept and raised our child. Now that Nannan has gone, the government won’t dare charge us any fines. Let’s leave Heaven Township and sail home. Phone your mother and tell her we’ll be there soon…