Sheng Keyi - Death Fugue

He left the bus in silence, like a passenger reaching his destination at the end of a long journey.

‘Your poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls” was very well-written. I hope you’ll stay and continue writing.’

Though he seemed to hear Qizi’s comment he did not look back. He may have paused momentarily, but maybe not. An early half moon hung in the sky. He felt a little cold, like a man lost in the wilderness.

22

When Mengliu left Round Square, Sixi and Fusheng were going through a wedding ceremony. Their marriage certificate had been prepared by Hei Chun. He printed both names and birth dates on a sheet of paper, covered it with the red Unity Party stamp, and gave it to the couple. The broadcast had declared the protestors’ refusal to retreat, and the people brought with them a passion for victory when they gathered to witness the wedding ceremony. They were rowdy, surrounding the group of hungry protestors who were staring out of vacant eyes at them as they danced, turned somersaults or performed martial arts. Hawkers sold melon seeds and peanuts and smoked mutton kebabs. Pickpockets blended into the crowd, couples cuddled together. Mengliu stepped over the obstacles and wove his way through the lively atmosphere, filled with the smell of beer and urine, and finally disappeared like a bubble into the air.

All he could do was walk back to the Wisdom Bureau. There were sounds of fighting as he walked the streets, and he occasionally encountered injured, bloodied people. One young man was refusing treatment, unbuttoning his clothing to expose the wound and declaring his own willingness to shed every last drop of his blood. Mengliu lowered his head and quickened his steps. Sweat soon covered his face. He ran into an old professor from the Department of Medicine, and was about to hail him, but the professor just glanced in his direction, then walked away suspiciously. He suddenly felt desolate, like he was falling to pieces. When he got to the Wisdom Bureau he sat under a tree for a long time. He finally came to a conclusion — he would leave the country, never to return. Wherever he went, he would find a girl and marry her, and would raise a brood of foreign citizens there, where he and they could live freely. He stood up decisively, smoothed his trousers and his collar, then said to himself, Finally you understand, Yuan Mengliu. This will be the right life for you. You are no hero, and you weren’t cut out for earth-shattering deeds. And as for love, that’s just an illusion too.

He looked around at the old grey office building. It was silent, and the countless empty windows looked back at him with a profoundly solemn light.

Jia Wan came by, wearing a grey suit with his shirt buttoned all the way up to his Adam’s apple, defying the heat. His shoes were covered in dirt, making him look quite shabby. He was surprised to see Mengliu and asked why he wasn’t at Round Square. His voice was thick with accusation. Mengliu answered patiently, ‘None of that is my business.’

Jia Wan was surprised. ‘You’re just being modest. Your poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls” is very good. It’s a particularly powerful call to action.’

Mengliu replied, ‘I didn’t write that.’

‘The poetic styles of the Three Musketeers are distinct,’ Jia Wan said. ‘Hei Chun’s poetry is direct, while Bai Qiu’s is romantic and graceful. No one but you could have written that kind of poem.’

Mengliu admitted to himself that Jia Wan’s analysis was accurate enough, but he didn’t want to change his position simply because of flattery. He knew he hadn’t signed the poem, and he didn’t want to be associated with it.

He said instead, ‘Professor Jia, aren’t you a member of the Unity Party? Why aren’t you there?’

He noticed that a lanky fellow with a sharp profile stood behind Jia Wan. He was lighting a cigarette, and Mengliu though there was something very familiar about him.

Jia Wan said, ‘The Unity Party is suffering from internal chaos. I’ve resigned from my post. I don’t want to struggle for fame and fortune, and all this politicking has made me lose confidence in the organisation. Just look at Qizi. The international media has really taken to her, and she’s always in the headlines. Her reputation is skyrocketing above everyone else’s. She is envied by everyone, there was even the staging of a fake kidnapping. Her infatuation with the mike in her hand is an infatuation with power. She doesn’t even realise it herself…’

Mengliu saw that the lanky man behind Jia Wan was growing impatient as he smoked his cigarette. Jia Wan looked around, then whispered, ‘It’s best not to go out at night.’

‘Why?’ Mengliu asked.

He answered mysteriously, ‘There’s no harm in staying home.’

‘They’re going to be cleared out?’

Jia Wan patted his shoulder. ‘Just listen to what I’m telling you and you’ll be all right.’

Mengliu pondered this as he walked home. Jia Wan had never been a close friend, so why believe him now? What was his motive?

He stopped at the entrance to the West Wing. Sadness, riding on a heart-piercing wind, stabbed at his chest. It was as if it had been lying in wait, and had attacked him with an iron bar. The pain almost doubled him over. He was breathing heavily, and tears escaped from his eyes. He was being ground into the earth. His heart cried out, Qizi! Oh Qizi! What am I going to do?

His legs felt like they were filled with lead, and his head with water, which swished as he walked with twisted steps, his shoulder rubbing against the wall. The slogans that had been painted there had already run, were no longer fresh.

‘I’m tired, so sleepy. Yes, sleepy, and thirsty, and hungry. I want to bathe. I want to have a restful sleep. I don’t want to think of anything. The birds, the wind, the shouting, the radio, love, democracy…just shut the hell up! Don’t talk to me about any of it anymore. I don’t want anyone to bother me. I just want to have a good night’s sleep.’

He had no idea how long he had slept when the door opened and woke him. He saw a girl standing in the doorway, the sun making her face blurry and her body luminous, like a white angel descended to earth. It took some effort for him to focus, and then he discovered that the girl was tall and well-built, and her head almost touched the top of the doorframe. It seemed as if she was stuck there. He did not know a girl as imposing as this one was.

She leant forward and entered the room. The halo dissipated, and the body ceased its glowing. Seeing more clearly now, Mengliu realised it was a man, Shunyu’s father.

The older man’s hair was a curly mess, his clothes dirty and in disarray. He wore a strange expression, staring at Mengliu but saying nothing. Two minutes passed like that then, with a ghastly pallor, he said, ‘This…you hold on to this first. The issue of the chuixun …wait until you come back and we can discuss it then.’ He carefully placed the lady-charming xun on the table, then turned and gave an extraordinarily grave, secretive command. ‘You must leave Beiping immediately.’

‘Why?’ Mengliu asked, frightened. ‘Why should I leave Beiping?’

‘They opened fire…’ Shunyu’s father’s voice trembled, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘Last night, they opened fire. They brought tanks in and started shooting indiscriminately. There’s blood everywhere. Shunyu…she, she caught a stray bullet…She’s dead.’

Mengliu felt a bomb exploding in his head. ‘She’s…dead?’

‘Here is a train ticket, and here’s money to use on the road. It should be enough. It should be safe in the countryside. Lie low. Go, and wait for word from me.’ Shunyu’s father was suddenly overcome with emotion.