Eight Rooms, Page 2

  I say a quick prayer for Xu Guan who was executed two weeks ago, and try not to dwell on the fact that I’m following in his footsteps. I might even die on the same spot as he did for all I know. It’s the same stadium after all, and I can’t imagine they’re going to execute us anywhere but right in the centre, giving the crowds an unimpeded view. A wave of nausea fills me and I hurriedly turn my thoughts aside, fixing my concentration on watching the men drinking their tea. The second man has pushed back his armsleeves and loosened the overalls around his neck. To my relief the nausea recedes. Glancing up, I can see the sun struggling to get through the polluted mist. If we weren’t burning so much coal the sky would be clear, a bright blue Autumnal day.

  Despite my efforts, Xu Guan’s face edges into my mind’s eye, his bright button eyes alive with humour, his mouth slightly curved on one side as though he was perpetually smiling at a secret joke. He was only nineteen when he was arrested for hacking into the PSB’s – Public Security Bureau’s – system. He did it for a dare. What a waste of a young life. Will he be there to welcome me when I die? Will we be in heaven or hell, or nowhere at all? I’ve never quite known what to make of religion. My mother was baptised a Catholic when she was twelve years old, and attended a Catholic high school which was eventually closed down by the CCP to force Catholics to abandon the Vatican. My father leaned towards Buddhism, but since religion is outlawed in China, neither spoke of their beliefs. Not even in the privacy of our own home – that’s how paranoid Mao has made the older generation.

  Will I see my parents again, I wonder? As I picture my mother on her deathbed, her breath getting horribly short, her eyes turning pale and distant, another wave of nausea washes over me. I put my shoulders back and take several deep breaths. I really must get a grip. I couldn’t bear the ignominity of being sick in the truck.

  Still, there’s a part of me that can’t quite believe I’m going to die today. The other part of me, the one that’s chattering away at the moment, taking deep breaths and making sure I stand here with as much dignity as I can when I’m handcuffed and shackled and paraded to the public, has to be in denial. I keep thinking a miracle might happen, that Lia has pulled some strings, and at any moment a police car will rocket along the road and screech to a halt in front of the truck and halt the proceedings.

  I’m not going to be rescued. I know it, but I can’t stop hoping. And cursing too, for being such an idiot. I should never have forgotten what happened to my uncle. However, as Miahua said time and again, I only got into trouble because I was trying to help.

  A vibrant cheeping chirping makes me look down. Sparrows are hopping in the gutters looking for food. I love sparrows, their busyness, their happy chattering. I used to feed them on my balcony. I crane my neck to give the two workmen a final glance. They’re slurping their tea, puffing on their cigarettes seemingly without a care in the world. I want to scream: you try and do some good, and you get executed for your trouble! But of course I don’t. I want to maintain my decorum right until the end. I’ve heard of people weeping, falling to their knees and begging, shitting themselves, and I’m determined not to become one of them. Come what may, I’ll hold my head high, even if I do take the prize for being the most stupid person on the planet.

  What was I thinking, I wonder? It all started when another doctor recommended callisthenics to me, along with some deep breathing exercises. I was, I admit, somewhat overweight – Miahua’s a great cook and I hate to leave even a single grain of rice on my plate – and despite my reservations, he was so persuasive about the benefits that I gave it a try. Within weeks I found not only had I shed several pounds, but I was so much more clear minded and energetic I got Miahua to give it a go. Every morning, before our porridge and before I headed to the surgery, Miahua to the office, we’d move the living room table aside and begin. Lia thought we were hysterical when she came and visited. I can remember her standing there in her cream silk pyjamas, shiny black hair hanging to her waist, clutching her sides with laughter. She looked so like her rmother at that age I nearly lost one of my Indian Squats and fell over backwards. Between chortles, Lia managed to say, “What on earth are you doing? ”

  Miahua stuck her nose in the air. “What do you think?

  Whatever it is, it looks painful. Wouldn’t you be better off doing yoga or something? ”

  Miahua sniffed dismissively. “I hate yoga.”

  It was true. Miahua had never got on with yoga, saying it was too slow, her mind too busy, but she took to callisthenics really well – the fact that she could do the exercises at home was a major factor – and she was delighted when not only did the exercises improve her muscle strength and tone, but like myself she felt a zillion times better. Even I recognised the difference her, she looked younger, more animated. She seemed to have lost ten years in the same amount of weeks.

  This was why I took callisthenics to my patients. I started with the top eight I knew would benefit the most. I wanted them to share my and Miahua’s newfound vigour and perhaps spread the word to others. All but one agreed to test callisthenics out. When I mentioned it to Chen Zhengsu – a lugubrious man with a penchant for hypochondria – he looked as though I’d offered to ram a melon up his backside. He practically galloped out of the surgery; apparently petrified I was going to make him start exercising right away. Before then, I had no idea there were some people out there who were so opposed to exerting themselves, and from the look on his face when I suggested it, I wasn’t surprised he never came back.

  So, there I was with seven patients all signed up and ready to start. Somewhat foolishly, I thought that once I gave them a practical demonstraton – showing them how to work on their muscle groups, how to mix and match the exercises to suit them – they’d get cracking. But I hadn’t taken in one of the most important factors about exercising. Motivation. I’m not sure how it happened, but I have a sneaking feeling it was probably Ming Rong’s idea. As head of a valve company that exports to foreign countries, he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and is always coming up with what he thinks are bright ideas. This one was for all of us to meet once a week in the park where I’d lead a half hour exercise class and make sure everyone was working their muscles correctly.

  It’s not uncommon to see people practising Tai Chi in public spaces, but of course they’re doing it solo, not in a group. Groups – unless they benefit the Party, of course – are anathema in China, they threaten the system, so it was little wonder we eventually got arrested. It didn’t help that SuLyn’s apartment held a shrine to Bodhisattva, or that Mei Ting admitted to dabbling with Buddhism. Branded subversives, all seven of us were carted off, interrogated, and chucked into jail.

  Lia flew in from Hong Kong. She tried to call in favours as a cop, but nothing she tried did any good. All she got for her trouble was a demotion and a transfer out of the prestigious banking area, where she was investigating fraud, to some stinking dump on the outskirts of Macau. She was lucky not to lose her job. Having a subversive father apparently planning on toppling the government isn’t the best recommendation for a fast-track route to the top.

  That was the last time I saw my daughter. She wore her uniform on purpose, hoping to gain me some leniency, and for a moment I didn’t recognise her. She stood so rigid, so tall, her bearing so military, I thought she was one of those obsessive robot-women who’s entire being was wrapped up in toeing the Party line. It was only when the man from the PSB was forced to go outside to answer a phone call when the daughter I love so much appeared, shining from her eyes. I had trouble holding back my tears.

  “I’ll get you out, Papa.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, I promise. ”

  Her voice choked. She was trying not to cry as well. I took her hand in mine. It was cold and I rubbed it, trying to warm it. “Do you know what I want the most? ”

  “No. Tell me. I’ll do anything. ”

  “I want you to hug me and promise “
you’ll return to Hong Kong. That will be the greatest gift you can give me, because then I know you’re safe. I’ll be able to picture you in your city apartment, cooking dinner for friends, maybe cooking for your husband one day. If you stay here, you’ll get implicated. You know how things work. ”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Come. Hug me. ”

  She squeezed me tight. Told me she loved me. I kissed her hair and told her she was the apple of my eye. Then I told her to go. It took every ounce of self-possession to look at her for the last time, and smile. No way did I want her tarred with the same sordid brush as me. The further she stood from me, the better, and although it just about killed me to watch her walk away, I didn’t have any doubts that what I was doing was one hundred percent right for my beloved, cherished, glorious daughter.

  The PSB officer was surprised when I said I no longer wanted to see Lia. I told him I was ashamed to let her witness me doing so poorly in the camp. I told him I would only lay eyes on her when I’d completed my sentence and been redeemed. Both of us knew this would never happen. Not that I couldn’t be redeemed, I hasten to add, but that I’d get to complete my sentence. There’s no way the system would want to lose someone as valuable as me, not unless they wanted to make an example of them.

  Take Wen Zhang, one of my patients at the camp. He was a big man, very strong, and despite the appalling diet, one of the camps best workers. He’d build walls, break up concrete, dig holes you could bury a bulldozer in while barely breaking sweat. His release date was the twenty-fifth June, and on the nineteenth, out of nowhere, he was subjected to a beating due to his poor work attitude in feeding the pigs – his favourite job at the end of the day. His letter writing privileges were revoked, along with his family members’ visiting rights, and his sentence extended by three years. He could have made love to those pigs, sang to them joyfully while he shovelled their shit and the outcome would have been the same, because good prison camp slave labour results in good profits for the government.

  Us slaves spend our last drops of sweat, our last drops of blood, supporting the national economy. It’s not just that we produce stuff to export around the world – the ubiquitous T-shirts, rice, cotton, etc. – but prison camps are encouraged to be part of the competitive market like any other businesses. A camp that earns foreign money is considered a real success. My camp’s teamed up with a European car manufacturer who supplies us with equipment in return for cheap labour. Wen Zhang’s previous camp produces wine that’s sold from Los Angeles to Berlin. I bet the liberals in the West wouldn’t quaff half as much of the stuff if they knew where it came from.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not having a go at China. I love my country. Well, I hate it too – how could I not considering where I’m headed? – but I have to admit it’s one of the most extraordinary places on earth, with one of the richest civilisations. I just find it amazing that we’re the first nation with a prison system so extensive and well organised that it constitutes an integral part of the economy. Not that your average man on the street realises it. They might suspect it, but with all prison camps being given corporate names it’s impossible to know whether the box of Golden Dragon tea you’ve just bought was produced by slave labour or fully paid employees.

  They’re clever, though, these camps. They make sure they know exactly what your skills are, and then use them. Dressmaker, chef or cow herder, it doesn’t matter, your particular skill will be utilised one hundred percent. An architect came in a few weeks back – the idiot used one of those protest parks the government created for the Olympics, needless to say anyone who actually used them won’t see the light of day again – and already he’s designing the new kitchen block. As a doctor, I spend just about all my time in the infirmary. This is the reason why I know so much about the system. Doctors listen. It’s their job.

  I heard so many horror stories in the first six months I’m amazed I got any sleep. There were too many to count. The worst atrocities appeared to be in the laogai based in the remote Qinghai and Jiangxi Provinces. It seemed the further the camp from the seat of government, the more the use of violence. I heard of prisoners routinely beaten to death for stealing food. Others foot-shackled with twenty-kilo weights for taking too long in the latrines. One prisoner was late for roll call and had his back broken. He was left lying on the ground with no help, no medical attention. He was dead by morning.

  The thought of being in one of those isolated border camps made my heart turn cold. I found I could stand the snakes, the lice crawling over my body, the flies, fleas and bed bugs. I could ignore the fact that we were never allowed eggs or meat, or that we were supervised every minute of every day. All I had to do was picture one of those places. I knew I was relatively lucky living just a day’s train ride from Bejing meaning Miahua could visit me – once a month for twenty minutes – bringing me vital things such as underwear, warm undershirts and socks, food, and occasionally the odd book; all strictly controlled needless to say. I would do pretty much anything to stay put. So when I was told I was to be transferred to a camp in the Xinjiang Autonomous Region, you can imagine my reaction.

  I can remember the shock of Miahua’s face when I told her. She tried not to show any emotion, but her face spasmed into a rictus, emphasising her delicate bone structure and giving her the appearance of a bird’s skull, a death’s head the colour of curdled milk. If I ever doubted she loved me, I didn’t any longer.

  That said, I still went through a stage of wanting to blame her for my misfortune. The same refrain rattled around my head for days: if only she hadn’t put her old bag of a mother first … if only she’d forced Fang Dongmei to join us in the mountains … if only her mother had dropped dead … I don’t want to think about those shameful, bitter-dark thoughts now, there’s no point, but at the time I found Miahua’s visits almost unbearable. I wanted to throttle her, I wanted to hold her. I wanted to scream at her, I wanted to weep in her arms.

  On the day of departure, around eighty of us were shuttled to Beijing’s Yongdingmen Station and forced into a train already crammed with other prisoners. It was mid-summer, and while it was baking outside, inside the train is was almost unbearable. There were no seats. They’d been removed to make more space, but there still wasn’t enough room for everyone to sit, so we took turns. There must have been fifteen hundred people, I reckon, being shunted out west. At the end of the train was a carriage of armed guards, and more guards were stationed throughout the train. They took shifts watching us, making sure nobody jumped through the windows when the train slowed – a tempting thought except for the gunmen waiting for the chance to practise their marksmanship on our fleeing figure.

  I managed to squeeze a space for myself and Xu Guan at the end of the second carriage and beside the doors, which had their windows wide open and, once we got going, offered a breeze. Unfortunately, this position also meant we were outside the toilet. This normally wouldn’t bother me, but since it had no door and just a hole in the floor where to aim your effluent – and a lot of prisoners didn’t care if they missed – it wasn’t the best place to be. It stank, but we both decided it was worth it to be next to a window.

  I don’t know how many hundreds of miles the journey was, but it took three days. We rattled through pollution-choked cities where everyone wore white masks and the acid rain ate its way through anything metal – lamp posts, bridges, cars – gradually travelling north-west, all the time moving through towns and villages, but eventually they began to change, becoming smaller and smaller, until they were just collections of rickety shacks.

  Finally we emerged on to a vast plain flooded with light and colour. We were on the edge of a yellow and green sea of grass stretching in every direction. In the distance stood a spine of snow-capped peaks. They looked tiny but I knew they had to be massive. I had never seen such distances before, and I stared, for a moment breathless with awe. The clarity of the air was astonishing. I felt as though I’d had both eyeballs removed, thoro
ughly washed, dried and then polished. Behind us lay towns and cities, bustle and noise, ahead was an immense space empty of humans. As the train ventured across the plateau, I felt we were as exposed as a millipede on a freshly laundered bed sheet.

  In all actuality, the plateau was deceptive. It wasn’t uninhabited after all. After a couple of hours I saw a huge building, a great slab of grey misery appear in the distance. As we approached, I saw it was belching great gouts of thick black smoke into the air. Again, I stared. I felt the shock of it like a fist against my heart.

  It was like being offered a glass of fine wine and then your host spits in it. I’d never thought about pollution before, I’d just lived in it, breathed it, knowing it was a fact of life, but this. It hurt to see such a brilliant, beautiful wilderness befouled.

  I counted seven gulags that day, all pumping a variety of filthy clouds into the atmosphere – one coloured vivid orange. I dreaded to think what they were making that produced such evil looking vapour. There were no villages or towns in between these places, nothing but grasses and rivers. Each gulag was entirely self-supporting, supplied by the single railroad that the inmates had built years before. It’s always puzzled me why people become prison guards, so I say to the policeman next to me, “What made you become a policeman? ”

  He jerks slightly in surprise. “Why do you ask? ”

  “Would you humour me? ”

  “My father was a cop. ”

  Was it really that simple? I don’t think so. Both my family nor Miahua’s had any police or military backgrounds, and there’s our daughter, the cherry on the cake of our life, a full-blown sergeant. Miahua’s a secretary. You can’t get much further from being a policewoman than that, surely? Besides, why should you inherit the same profession of your parents? It smacks of a lack of imagination to me. My father wasn’t a doctor. He was an accountant, a bean counter for a national manufacturing company that made robots. Not the type of robot you see in science fiction stories, but the kind that sit on an assembly line putting other machines together, like engines. By all accounts it wasn’t exactly thrilling work, but we lived comfortably and had enough money not just for my education, but for a few luxuries also. My background didn’t help when I was being sentenced, needless to say. Even though Mao’s been dead a long time, should you get anyone from the old school listening to your case, those who are born into wealthier families invariably incur harsher sentences.