Ma Jian - Red Dust

I talked to my students about Thomas Paine the other day, and I sense my leaders are about to turn on me. They haven’t said anything yet, but I’m going to fake a hepatitis test, just in case. . Remember to disseminate our ideas as you travel around the country — the future of China depends on our struggles. .

His letter takes me back to our dissident circle in Beijing. We huddled together and cursed society but never came up with an alternative. I remember the fear in Hu Sha’s bloodshot eyes when he recited his subversive poem to us one night. ‘Because I sing for the sun/ I must follow in its wake/ I convene the oppressed and the abandoned. .’ It was the same look of panic he had the time we were attacked by some thugs in a dumpling restaurant.

The next letter is written on prescription paper, and is signed Chen Hong.

I’ve been practising at Miyun Hospital since June. It’s way out in the Beijing suburbs. I am often sent into the countryside to perform vasectomies and ligations. When I return at night I cannot eat a thing. After a day’s hard work, I read and write. On Sundays I am usually too tired to go home. My room is on the first floor of the doctors’ dormitory block. My window looks out onto the mortuary and the wide fields beyond. The purity of sky and air reminds me of the poem you sent me. I like it. It is cleansing, full of vigour. You insert your scalpel at just the right point. But you must go more to the source of things, and for that you cannot rely entirely on your personal experiences. Have I spoken out of turn?

. . I wrote the first lines of a new poem last night: ‘Inside my reconstructed wooden house/ I try to forget the wood/ And the window/ And accept there is no road that will lead from my two hands/ To you. .’ Fan Cheng and I have broken up. I hear he’s gone to Xinjiang. You men always have an escape route. .

I sent a copy of your poem to Lu Ping as you asked. She was discharged from hospital in May, a shadow of her former self. She will never walk again. Don’t worry though, her boyfriend is taking good care of her. .

Chen Hong’s delicate characters slant like blades of grass in the wind. I like her poetry. When a colleague of mine asked me to help his girlfriend get an abortion, I asked Chen Hong to sort it out, although she was still at medical school at the time. She must think I fathered the child because she has never mentioned it since.

There is a telegram from Guangzhou which reads: ‘happy birthday loneliness is my water filter it nurtures me.’ I guess it is from Lingling.

Another Hangzhou postmark. Wang Ping again.

Dear Ma Jian, I got your letter today. So you really have gone! I can’t believe it. I sent a letter to Nanxiao Lane a few months ago, but never heard back. I thought you were ignoring me. . The dried flowers are beautiful, I’ve stuck them into my notebook. To think you have spent the last six months roaming the Great North-West! I can picture you now, dragging your long shadow across the desert, the sun beating on your back. How exciting! I wish I could be with you. . My life is so dull, I would like to disappear and have done with it all. . I go running every morning. After work I write for an hour, study some English and go to sleep at twelve. On Saturdays I compere the Chinese acrobatic show at the Hangzhou Hotel. .

In your letter you wrote: ’Life must be nice when you are in love.’ I was shocked. It is the first time I have heard you say anything remotely positive about life. It made me think of that windy day you took me to the Forbidden City. Do you remember? You wrapped my scarf a little tighter around my neck and said, ’How nice to have found a friend like you.’ And they said it was the coldest day of the year. .

Stay off the cigarettes and liquor. I will buy you some brandy if you come to Hangzhou. Inside the parcel you will find a jar of King Bee Honey and a bag of malt extract. . I kiss your evil claws.

I look at the carefully stitched parcel, and imagine the look of blank intent on Wang Ping’s face as she sewed it together in the post office. Her face is not always blank. Sometimes it breaks into a smile and you can see her two little pointed canines. She has long straight hair, writes short stories and newspaper articles and knows the words to some American songs.

Lingling has sent me a parcel too. It contains five rolls of colour film, a bag of chocolate and a packet of crushed biscuits.

Fan Cheng writes to say he has given up his job at the tax office and run away to Xinjiang. I know he will be all right. When he was sent to breed horses in Inner Mongolia he managed to kill a rabid dog once with a single piece of wire. He says he is popping back to Beijing in October and asks whether he can stay at Nanxiao Lane. He does not mention the fact he has broken up with Chen Hong.

The last letter is from my father.

Come home to Qingdao. You can visit my friend’s lace factory and write an article on the success of his new management reforms. If you guarantee it will be published, his factory will pay you two thousand yuan for your expenses. . Be humble and courteous during your travels. Look after yourself — remember: your body belongs to the revolution.

My parents do not know I have resigned from my job. When I left Beijing I told them I was going away for a while to conduct some research into Chinese society.

I have read twenty letters and finished a whole bag of chocolate. I feel happy and surrounded by friends. Wait for me, Wang Ping. I will visit you. Don’t go off with any of those men just yet.

The private ballroom is located in the cafeteria of a transport company. Music and steam pour from the four windows that open onto the street. Only two of the ceiling lights are on, but the room is still bright. Moths, paper chains and dust particles glow under the bulbs. Hundreds of people are seated around the room on folding stools. The dining tables, dustbins and crates of tomatoes have been pushed to the back. Three pretty girls are sitting on sacks of flour there, dressed in red, white and pale green. The lunchtime slops are turning rancid in a concrete sink along the wall. A Chinese version of ‘Rhythm of the Rain’ blares through the speakers. I wander around the room with Yang Ming, He Liu the poet, Du Chuan the painter and his girlfriend Xiao Juan, but there are no seats left so we go and stand near the dirty puddles by the sink. I glance back at the three pretty girls. The one in red is being accosted by a boy with his shirt stuffed into his trousers. She stands up and they get into position.

‘Come on, Ma Jian, let’s dance!’ Yang Ming pushes me into the crowd. The music starts and we spin and twist through the sea of moving limbs. Everyone’s hair is steaming. The women smell of soap and shampoo. Sweat drips into my eyes. I catch glimpses of the girl in red bobbing up and down and edge towards her until our shoulders rub. When the waltz comes on I ask her to dance, and we twirl around the room. She is as light as a feather. Through her thin dress I can feel her moist, soft waist.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ding Xue.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I am an actress in the theatre company. And you?’

‘I’m from Beijing.’

‘I could tell from your accent you weren’t from Chengdu. Are you a painter?’

‘No.’

‘You look like one.’

‘You’re very pretty. Can I take some photographs of you?’

‘Only if you give them to me afterwards.’

‘I’ll keep one and give you the rest.’

‘All right then.’

‘Let’s go to the People’s Park tomorrow. We can take the pictures there.’

‘All right.’