Ma Jian - Red Dust

According to local legend the workmen who were buried with Qin Shihuang lived on beneath the soil. They engraved the story of their plight onto a large stone tablet which grew through the earth like a root. But when the tablet reached the surface no one could decipher the script. The tablet grew taller and taller, until one day it blotted out the sun.

‘No photographs!’ A policeman with a thick Shaanxi accent pounces on a foreign tourist, snatches the camera from her hand, flicks the back open and pulls out the film. The shiny grey strip coils down like a loose gut. The lady starts screaming at him, but no one understands what she is saying. A crowd of Chinese tourists gather to stare. ‘We let you in to see our glorious past, but that’s not enough for you! You want to take photos on the sly and sell them to magazines when you get home!’ The policeman’s self-righteous voice booms through the hangar.

The winds that blow through Xian carry a fine yellow dust. I take a sip of eight-treasure gruel, and a bite of stuffed persimmon roll, but there is sand in both of them. I pay the snack vendor and leave. Most of the pedestrians are dressed in blue overalls, peasants are only distinguishable by the mud on their sleeves. As I walk through the streets, the garish shop signs and Marlboro advertisements fade into the background and all I see are pagodas, bell towers and ancient walls. This city was the capital of eleven different dynasties, and at its peak a thousand years ago, it was the largest city in the world.

I sit down by a window in a self-service restaurant and stare at my cup of black coffee. It is made with real Nescafé, but there are not enough granules, so it tastes like weak tea. The two peasants at the next table are sipping their coffee with a teaspoon. They look miserable.

‘One yuan fifty for this tiny cup. We could have bought three pots of tea for that.’

‘Stop whining. It was your idea to come here. Take some more sugar, it’s included in the price.’ I look at the small sausage rolls in their hands and know they could finish twenty and still leave hungry.

A few days ago I read up on the drug situation in China and discovered that drug abuse is more commonplace than I thought. The addicts come from ordinary backgrounds, and buy their supplies on the black market. Opium is still the most popular drug. Yang Qing is taking me to the detoxification centre this afternoon. I am visiting in the guise of a Shaanxi Press reporter.

When he steps out of the police car and taps on the restaurant window, I do not recognise him at first. He looks completely different in uniform. We make our way to the centre. I have never walked through the streets with a policeman before. At first I feel like a lowly criminal. Then I notice how people look at me and my confidence returns. As we advance, paths open in the crowd, children fall silent and snack vendors stop shouting their wares. I soon grow a taste for this vicarious power, and when we reach the gates I cannot help saying, ‘The world looks very different from your vantage point.’

Yang Qing ignores my comment and says, ‘The centre was converted from a guesthouse. It only takes female criminals.’ He sounds very different from the man who spoke so passionately about Tagore last week. ‘I must leave you after the introductions. I have a lot of work to do.’ He combs his hair back and opens the centre’s door.

About twenty young women are squatting in the corridor, none of them look up as we pass. The director leads us to an office on the first floor. She says she is happy for journalists to visit the centre. I ask if I can interview a patient and she takes me to a room at the end of the corridor. ‘This is where we keep the new arrivals,’ she says. Her face looks pale and tired.

‘Why are they lying down?’

‘We give them pills to make them sleep.’

There are about thirty women on the floor. Some of them stare at the ceiling. None of them see us walk in. They remind me of the buried warriors. The room smells of urine and the quilts are tattered and smeared with wet and dry vomit. ‘This place is squalid,’ I blurt out.

‘Yes. The quilts were left over from the guesthouse. We couldn’t afford new ones. You can mention that in your article.’

A girl at my feet sits up. She looks like any skinny girl you see walking down the street. I don’t know where to start.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ I say, looking into her eyes. ‘What made you turn to drugs?’ The director goes to pour me a cup of tea.

‘My name is Fang Li. I’m twenty-four years old. I have been here two months. I went to a labour reform camp last year. The police accused me of selling drugs. I told them I had bought drugs, but I never admitted to selling any.’

Her words sound forced. ‘I can check the records later. Just tell me what turned you to drugs. I’m not a policeman, you can talk freely. Isn’t that right, director?’

‘Yes. Fang Li, tell the gentleman about the harm drugs did to you. Young people can learn from your mistakes. This is Comrade Ma, he is a guest reporter for Shaanxi Press.’

Fang Li tugs at the hem of her red jumper. I twirl my pen and say, ‘Speak freely, Fang Li.’

‘It’s all my husband’s fault. My parents are intellectuals. I graduated from Shaanxi Normal University, but I have always loved singing and dancing, even as a child. When the artists’ salon opened in Xian, I went there to sing ‘Count Your Empty Glasses’ and ‘When Tears Fall From My Eyes’. Men would always come up to the stage and shower me with flowers. He was one of them. He hired taxis for me around the clock, took me to the best restaurants, bought me expensive jewellery. I had just taken over my mother’s job at the local nursery school, and was on a salary of fifty-three yuan a month. He gave me bunches of flowers that cost double that. How could I resist him?

‘I spent my days hanging around his clothes shop, and met his low-life friends from outside town. It wasn’t till he was arrested that I discovered he was the head of a criminal gang, and had already spent five years in prison. I had a terrible stomach ache the day the police caught him. His friends were lying in the shop, smoking opium. They told me to take a puff, said it would ease the pain. And it did. I took to smoking it every day, and told myself it was a luxury I could afford now. But before I knew it I had smoked through all my savings. When my husband was sentenced I sold the shop and smoked through that money too. .

‘I had tried giving up before they caught me last year. I was in a taxi at the time, on my way to do some business in Lingtong. I had just had a smoke and was half-asleep when the police stopped the car. They searched me and found some powder. I had forgotten I was carrying it. I said it was for my private use but they didn’t believe me. They said, "Why carry such a big bag if it is just for you?" They didn’t have handcuffs, so they pulled off my belt and tied my hands with that instead. When we arrived at the Public Security Bureau, I knew I was in trouble. There was a crackdown that night and the place was full. A policeman walked by and I asked him to untie my hands, but he kicked me to the floor, grabbed a rope from the counter and started thrashing me with it. I screamed, "He’s killing me, he’s killing me!" But no one came to my help.’

‘Fang Li! Stop exaggerating. Now, tell Comrade Ma about the wonderful treatment you have received here.’ The director looks angry.

‘Of course, I deserved to be punished. The police were just doing their job. But first let me tell you. .’

‘Would you smoke again if you had the money?’ Suddenly I notice I have adopted the same tone as the policeman who interrogated me in Beijing.

‘My family have nothing left now. We used to be quite well off, we had an imported cassette player, colour television, electric fridge. When I have given up the opium, I’ll go to Shenzhen and try to make some money. Money means freedom.’