Ma Jian: Red Dust

I sink into my sofa and gaze at the bucket of beer. In fact, Li Tao was not the only one to remember my birthday. Last week I received a card from Lingling, a poetry editor at Guangzhou Press publishing house. It was a picture of Jesus. In tiny script at the bottom she wrote: ‘Your expression reminds me of his.’

My mind drifts back to past birthdays.

Twenty-ninth. About ten of us went to Miyun Reservoir. I swam to the island with crippled Lu Desheng on my back. We nearly drowned. The tall poet Yang Ke came. He is an only child. After his mother was beaten to death in the Cultural Revolution he took over her job as gatekeeper of Beijing Workers’ Hospital. He brought his new girlfriend, Weiwei. My heart sank when I saw her. She was the spitting image of Xi Ping.

In the twilight we all danced by the shore. The Taiwanese singer Su Rei sang from the cassette player, ‘Speak to me in your soft voice and tell me what life is about. .’

Our torch shone onto the rippling water. I swam into it, the light went out, and for a moment I felt as though I was floating in space.

In the evening, we sat on blankets in a cave and told stories to each other. Hu Sha rubbed his eyes and recited his new poem: ‘Forgive me/ For when I lift my ideals to the sky/ I cannot help treading on the earth. .’ By day he teaches history at Beijing Steelworks University. Yang Ming, the buxom editor of Chengdu’s Star magazine, read a verse she had just composed on the back of her hand.

Long after most of us had fallen asleep, Lu Desheng was sitting up, reciting his avant-garde poem by candlelight and glancing at the bodies around him.

‘Hu Sha, stop messing around! I can see exactly what you’re up to,’ he said. Someone was fondling the girl on my right. I could hear her soft intakes of breath.

On the drive home, I turned to Weiwei and said, ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’

Twenty-eighth. Had a drink with Li Tao and Hu Sha at Mimi’s restaurant.

Twenty-seventh. Made red-bean dumplings at Zhou Zhen’s house in Yanshan. After supper we pushed the sofa back and danced. Guoping did the rumba with He Nong and I waltzed to the Blue Danube with Zhou Zhen’s wife. She was just back from work and still smelt of hospital corridors. I told her, ‘I saw you last summer, queuing outside the cinema. You were wearing a black headscarf.’

Two years previously, the work unit informed us of Premier Deng Xiaoping’s edict that anyone caught listening to the Taiwanese singer Deng Lijun would be sentenced to five years in jail. Guoping and I discussed the matter with Zhou Zhen as we had heard her tapes at his house. He advised us to stay away from him until the campaign was over.

Since we were not accustomed to the language of erotic love songs, when Deng Lijun sang ‘Every day I wish you would take the loneliness from my heart’ Guoping and I thought she said, ‘Every day I wash, so that you will take the loneliness from my heart.’ So when we returned from our weekly showers, Guoping and I would always jump straight under the bedcovers. It was only when a friend from Guangzhou sent me a copy of the tape last year that I discovered our mistake.

The party was to celebrate both my birthday and the end of the Campaign Against Deng Lijun.

Today, though, I am thirty years old. I open my notebook, and write a message to myself.

‘Confucius said that at the age of thirty, a man should take a stand in life, but you still don’t know who you are. Last year you lost your wife and your girlfriend and now you are about to lose your job. You have about twenty thousand days left before you die. Why are you wasting your life? You must focus your mind and do something. ’

Peng, peng! The door opens, Li Tao and Mimi walk in. Mimi always spreads a smile across her face.

‘Cheer up,’ she says. ‘Look what we’ve brought you!’

Li Tao glances at the collection of his poems on my bookshelf and puts on Dvo ák’s New World symphony. He must have come straight from the office, he is still in his regulation white shirt. The bank where he works as a clerk is about a twenty-minute walk from here. ‘Is that a new painting?’ he says, slumping onto the sofa.

Mimi has a long cream dress, a gold necklace and a gold ring on the finger that is pointing to my canvas. ‘Are those branches or stones?’ she asks.

‘Those are branches, and those are stones.’

‘Why is the trunk twisted in a circle?’

I can’t bring myself to answer that one.

‘Have you finished your poem?’ Li Tao asks.

‘Not yet. My inspiration has dried. Maybe I really will have to go travelling. I’d like to visit the grasslands Fan Cheng wrote about.’

‘You’ve poured all your poetry into your painting. You have nothing left to give.’ Li Tao is my closest friend, he understands me better than anyone.

Mimi claps her hands. ‘Enough chat. Let’s eat! You can’t paint on an empty stomach. Waa! Look at that bucket of beer! How many people did you invite, Ma Jian? Now tell me where you keep your kettle. I’ll make us a pot of tea.’ She swirls round and strides across the room, her leather sandals squeaking with each step.

‘Chairman Mao was incontinent by the time Nixon came to China. During the state banquet, he crapped a turd onto the seat and it rolled onto the floor. Nixon asked, "What’s that?" So Zhou Enlai rushed over and said, "This is a Chinese delicacy — it’s the Chairman’s favourite. Waitress! Please remove the pickled gherkin that has fallen to the floor!" ‘

‘That was last year’s joke. Bet no one’s heard this one. .’

I am lying in bed, half drunk. Da Xian is sprawled beside me. His breath reeks of alcohol. Last week, he drank so much he was sick over his half-finished painting. He waited for it to dry then hung it on his wall and called it a masterpiece of abstract art. There are six or seven other men on the floor. Through the darkness I can see red cigarette tips flicker above each face.

‘Jiang Qing and Chairman Mao were having a screaming match. She had just bought herself a bra, but Mao insisted bras were a bourgeois vanity and refused to let her wear it. He snatched it from her hands and threw it out of the window. Deng Xiaoping was standing outside listening to their row, and the bra landed on his head. When Mao saw him there he nearly blew his top, but Zhou Enlai stepped in and said, "Look, Chairman! Comrade Deng is training to be a fighter pilot!" ‘

‘I don’t get it. Why would a pilot wear a bra?’

‘You fool. Haven’t you seen those big goggles pilots used to wear?’

‘That’s a terrible joke. Listen to this one. A kid asks his dad, "Dad, why do we have a picture of Chairman Mao but no picture of the Communist Party?" And his dad says, "Because the Communist Party isn’t human, stupid child." ‘

‘The Communist Party isn’t human! You’re damn right there, damn right.’

Fan Cheng and Hu Sha are mumbling on the sofa. They have recently started publishing an underground literary journal called The New Era. Fan Cheng works for the tax office and has access to a mimeograph, so he is able to print copies on the sly. ‘Chen Hong’s written a poem about abortion. I think we should put it in next month’s edition. . That American journalist said the secret recording of Wei Jingsheng’s trial was broadcast right across the States. .’

‘Hey, Hu Sha! I heard the Wang brothers have set up a guerrilla force in Anhui.’

‘Rubbish. They were caught ages ago on the railway outside Beijing and were clubbed to death.’

‘You’re both wrong. My neighbour works for the State Security. The brothers are still on the run, but they’re not half as dangerous as everyone makes out.’