Madeleine Thien - Do Not Say We Have Nothing

Sparrow could not imagine what this scene would like through Zhuli’s eyes, at the age she would be now. How many deceits had the Red Guards accused her of? How many crimes had the government fabricated? How could a lie continue so long, and work its way into everything they touched? But maybe Ai-ming would be allowed to come of age in a different world, a new China. Perhaps it was naive to think so, but he found it difficult not to give in, not to hope, and not to desire.

—

Everyday there were more demonstrations: a million people on Wednesday, and another million on Thursday despite rainstorms. By now the hunger strike was in its sixth day and even the official People’s Daily was reporting that more than seven hundred strikers had collapsed. When Sparrow went out, no matter the hour, he could hear ambulances racing to and from the Square. His factory, perhaps every factory in the city, had all but closed. His new composition was almost done. Reading it over, he heard a counterpoint to Gabriel Fauré’s Op. 24, a similar descending sweep, and the three twisting voices of Bach’s organ prelude, “Ich ruf zu dir,” which he had always loved. But perhaps, rather than a counterpoint, the other works were sounds overheard, lives within lives. He no longer knew. The structure of his sonata felt unbalanced, even monstrous, and even though he knew it was nearly finished, he had no idea how it would end.

He called it, tentatively, The Sun Shines on the People’s Square , a title that echoed Ding Ling’s novel of revolutionary China, The Sun Shines over Sanggam River . But the Square in Sparrow’s mind was not the Tiananmen Square of 1989. Instead it was multiple places from throughout his life: the Tiananmen Square he had walked on in 1950 with Big Mother Knife. The People’s Square of Shanghai. The square courtyards of the laneway house, the sheets of Zhuli’s music, the portraits of Chairman Mao, the bed he shared with Ling, the square record jackets he had burned, the frames of the radios that he built every day. The ancient philosophers believed in a square earth and a round (or egg-shaped) sky. The head is round and the feet are square. The burial tomb is square. What might cause something to change shape, to expand or be transformed? Weren’t the works of Bach, the folded mirrors, the fugues and canons, both square and circular? But what if the piece of music in his mind could not be written? What if it must not be finished? The questions confused him, he knew they came from that other life inside him.

Ai-ming appeared in the doorway. “Are you writing, Ba?”

He put down his pencil. She was wearing clothes he didn’t recognize, a dress that must have come from the neighbour, and it made Ai-ming look more grown up, more like a northern city girl.

“Yiwen asked me to bring some blankets to Tiananmen Square,” she said. “These are donations from the neighbours, but she couldn’t carry them all. Ma is going to help me. Do you want to come, too?” Ai-ming appeared thin, exhilarated. In the last few weeks, she had said nothing of Canada.

It was almost midnight. Sparrow said yes. Yes, he would go with them. Perhaps tonight he would tell them both that he was leaving for Hong Kong. He would be gone briefly; before they knew it, he would be home again. He would not abandon his life, but find a new beginning that included them.

Outside, Ling was stacking the blankets onto their bicycles, securing them with twine. Every movement she made was precise, intentional. He had always loved this quality of hers.

“You’ve been composing,” she said.

“A new sonata. It’s nearly finished.”

“I’m glad, Sparrow.” Her face was guarded yet, in its curiosity, open to him.

He wanted to tell her that attachment, to another person, to the past, was shifting from moment to moment. Set in motion again, his own life was finally becoming clear. But Ling knew, he thought, of course she already knew this. So many people, sent to labour camps like Ba Lute, taken away like Swirl or Wen, reassigned to distant provinces like Ling and Big Mother, had been denied a basic freedom, the right to raise their own children.

They set off, Ai-ming leading, turning through the maze of alleyways that bypassed Chang’an Avenue. Ahead of Sparrow, Ling’s hair twisted in the breeze. Her movements were strong and graceful, and the almond scent of her skin seemed to float back and hold him, once more, in thrall, following her, he had the sensation of rising up a flight of stairs.

Even now, so late at night, there were people everywhere. Banner after banner read, “Chairman Deng Xiaoping, step down!” He pedalled faster. He was side by side with his wife and daughter now, and they were folded into the tens of thousands who occupied the perimeter of Tiananmen Square day and night.

They got down and began pushing their bicycles, Ai-ming leading the way. Inside the Square, a student marshal with startlingly long arms recognized her and came to assist. When they reached the hunger strikers, Sparrow unknotted the twine and was about to carry the blankets inside when the long-armed student stopped him. “Only students,” he said sharply. “No outsiders.” Ai-ming had run ahead. In the lamplight, he could see the faint glow of her shape. She was speaking to a tall, pale girl with very short hair, the neighbour’s daughter, Yiwen. The girl looked desperately thin. Some of the hunger strikers were fast asleep, a few boys were singing quietly, the camp smelled of urine and garbage. Doctors and nurses in smocks and blue jeans hurried past. One nurse was slumped over a table. “Quiet, quiet,” another whispered loudly, “can’t you see they’re trying to rest!”

A wiry old man in a blue uniform ran up. Excitedly, joyfully, he announced that the new independent workers’ union had officially called for a city-wide general strike. Sparrow was stunned, but no one else seemed to react. Ling, too, was speechless. She whispered to him, “How do they dare? How do we dare?” Minutes later, a girl ran in and said that General-Secretary Zhao Ziyang and Premier Li Peng were on their way to the hunger strike command headquarters. The tent hustled into activity, and then nothing, as if news continuously arrived, burst, rained down, evaporated and was no more. Ai-ming had wrapped her arms around the neighbour girl, they stayed that way for a few moments, their eyes closed, the girl rocking back and forth, weeping. An old woman came by the entrance, she was delivering water donations and at the same time eating a fried dough stick, and the guard hissed at her, “No food here! No food!” and the old woman, pale with shame, turned and fled.

Ling tried to intervene. “She’s a citizen only trying to help.”

“No food here!” the student shouted.

“Be quiet,” the slumping nurse cried. “Just be quiet, please!”

Ai-ming emerged, crying freely, and together they pushed their bicycles around the scattering of people. It was late and they were hungry, so Ling led them to Comrade Barbarian. The kitchen was still open, though the menu was limited, the waitress said that the owner was making regular deliveries to the Square to support the student marshals and volunteers. They ate in silence and Sparrow finally said, “Ai-ming, you have to look after your health.” His daughter stared at her plate. Streaks of dried tears had left white patches on her skin. “But what about you, Ba?” she said. “In a week, you’ve aged a decade.” Ling sighed. “Come on. Everyone eat.” When they went back out, speakers were being dragged around even though it was almost three in the morning. People had come out all over again because the student broadcast centre was repeating the news that General-Secretary Zhao Ziyang had indeed arrived, along with Premier Li Peng, and they were meeting with representatives of the hunger strike. After Deng Xiaoping, they were the highest-ranked leaders in the country. Sparrow was so exhausted, he felt as if his shoes were glued to the concrete. He did not know how many minutes passed before a staticky broadcast finally dribbled out of the speakers. It was now four in the morning. The sound was not good, words were lost. General-Secretary Zhao kept clearing his throat and starting over.