His idea of going to Beijing crossed his mind when he thought of his childhood fellow, Kai, who was studying in Renmin University of China, and whom he had not contacted ever since they headed for their respective higher education. Both of them were too lazy to write letters, and the long distance phone call was very expensive. And, like himself, he was sure Kai would also spend his holidays at the university, to avoid the cost and drudge of their journey home. Therefore, there would be hardly any chance for them to meet each other during their four years of university life.
But then, only one day’s train trip was needed to see him, and at the particular time of China’s history, the train ticket, which was expensive at normal times, was free for the students. The more he contemplated the idea, the more enticing it seemed to be. After all, he had only seen the Tiananmen in textbooks, or sung about it in kindergarten a song ‘I love Beijing Tiananmen’. And to think Beijing was the centre and initial source of the very turmoil that had been sweeping China for more than a month, and currently on the Tiananmen Square, many students were going for their hunger strike.
There was only one risk that, if the teacher or political cadres knew he had gone to Beijing, instead of just following in the local streets, he would get himself into big trouble. So, if he decided to go, he must not let others know about it. He would of course tell Kang, and ask him if he also wanted to go. Then he thought against getting him involved, because two close friends disappearing at the same time would certainly induce suspicion in the class, even if less than one-third of the students were attending it. If it was only himself, and stayed in Beijing for no more than three days, his absence would easily pass without being noticed.
So via Kai’s parents, he obtained Kai’s phone number and called him. Kai was very excited for their proposed meeting in Beijing, while Kang discouraged him, citing that there was so much bad and dangerous news from Beijing, and the consequences in these days were rather unpredictable. But Bing convinced him that he only wanted to take the chance paying a visit to the capital and his friend. It was also agreed that, to any curious questioners, Kang would just say Bing was staying a couple of days in his country-fellows’ dorm in Fudan University.
He packed a number of small items into a small bag, for Kai would have everything he could possibly need for his short stay. He took the bus to the new Shanghai railway station, where the students were treated very kindly by the railway staff, as if overnight, they had all become princes or princesses. Every face seemed written with excitement and anticipation, and the ticket inspectors let all the youth who had a student ID pass the gate.
On the train, Bing didn’t see many going alone like himself. But he was as much inspired as all those jubilant students around him, taking his interest in listening to their hot debates on politics. It was the second time he had taken a train; though it was still very crowded, he found it less difficult, with only a small handbag, to move across the carriages. And even better, the students on board were exceptionally kind and comrade-like, and soon after boarding, he was asked by a group of students to sit together with them, sharing their food and drinks.
Therefore, without the like trouble and crushing of his first train experience, he was at Beijing station the next day. And among a sea of human faces, mostly young and some very pretty, he managed his pace, jostling out of the station, taking every possible chance to quicken his steps, until he arrived at the exit gate, where he stood searching for a face he had not seen about two years.
The two friends caught sight of each other at almost the same time. But their meeting point was not exactly in the middle of their distance, for Bing, taller, had taken longer strides than his friend.
‘Hi, Bing,’ Kai laughed, revealing his solid teeth, and with his sturdy fist banging on Bing’s chest and arms. Evidently Kai had grown much stronger, his face bigger and squarer. There seemed an extra layer of fat cushioning under his skin, giving an impression that he had been recently better off, or his worse days were behind him. However, his way of laughing, that had to excessively mobilise his mouth and his nose, had not changed.
‘Are you hungry?’ Kai asked, and without waiting for an answer, went straight to a nearby food stall.
The smell was good. A couple of students were already waiting at the stall. The cook, a woman at her forties, dipped a brush into a pot of yellowish oil, and took it out with oil dripping, and swept it on a flat and round iron-pan, like a painter who is preparing the first layer on a canvas. A layer of dough was then added, to be further smeared by two eggs she had expertly cracked and flung. The yolk and fluid were sizzling…
So many steps and strokes were involved in her cooking, that had only taken less than a minute. Kai told him that these days the food peddlers only charged students half price, as a gesture expressing their sympathy to their campaign.
‘Really?’ Bing was surprised, ‘then they won’t make money?’
‘Well, they still make some, I suppose, but they are also having some fun.’
Bing stood eating his first food in Beijing. Kai didn’t get one for himself, for he said he had already had his lunch.
‘Taste good?’ Kai grinned.
Bing swallowed, ‘Excellent, never tasted so good a thing.’
‘Yes, it is also my favourite street diet in Beijing,’ he said, looking around. ‘Now, if you are tired and need some sleep, we can go directly to my dormitory, or, we take a trip first to the Tiananmen Square; up to you.’
‘I am all right; let’s go to the Square first. It has long been in my mind, even before I knew you,’ he chuckled, completing his delicious wrap.
Many buses were waiting on the crowded street. As they walked towards them, a couple of students came forward, who claimed themselves as picket leaders on Tiananmen Square, and coaxed them to take the specific bus.
On the bus, Bing was confused, ‘Why did they ask us to take their bus, aren’t they all the same? The bus ride is all free, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, all free. But, why they pursue the students like this is an issue hard to explain,’ Kai replied, and in spite of what he had just said, he went on explaining, ‘there were different factions of students on the square, each of them try to expand their power base to secure their leadership. Directly coming to the station to take on the students is one of the ways they may think advantageous.’
‘Factions?’
‘Haha, long story, better leave the issue for now.’
The lengthy bus was hurtling along, but before Bing had a good chance to check out the passing objects outside the window, the bus was already on the famous Chang’an (Permanent Peace) Avenue. The street here looked magnificent, wider than any road he had seen anywhere else. People, a great many but very small in the vast space, were littering the sidewalks and the street. The motorcycles were roaring, among the bicycles and buses and wheelbarrows. Two blocks of shouting demonstrators were on the move, with people’s heads heaving like waves, under the flourishing flags and banners. One or two ambulances sped by; its sirens were echoing long and deep, melodramatic, like in a war, pervading the air with danger and desperation.
Due to the poor traffic conditions the bus couldn’t go close to the square. After dropping off some miles away from it, they walked in the direction.
‘Look there, Tiananmen.’ Kai said, excitedly, as if it were also his first time visiting the place.
Tiananmen, the gate of Heaven and Peace, the front entrance to the Forbidden City, was China’s national symbol. The ridges, the figures, the roof hooks, the dragon tails, the stony columns, and the lions, were all so familiar.
Facing the great monument, Bing felt himself very little and small, as if having radically shrunk on this moment. He looked at the portrait of Chairman Mao; Chairman Mao looked down at him. He fancied that Chairman Mao, standing on the porch, was waving his great hand, declaring with his strong Hunan accent, ‘Chinese people have finally stood up!’ and that, Chairman Mao even came down to meet him and shake his little hands...
‘Do you have a camera?’ Kai asked. ‘Let’s take some photos?’
Rather absorbed in his trance, Bing started and looked at Kai incredulously, as if his friend were a knight who had just jumped out of the moat under the bridge. ‘No, I haven’t, never mind the photos.’
Bing turned to the square, where the number of people stunned him. Like the swarms on the People’s Square of Shanghai, it had the crowd density in a railway station, but had a spread as wide as more than ten times. In the middle of the square stood a tall, sturdy pillar, marked with ‘Monument to the Heroes of the People’, with the respectable air of a giant pine tree aged hundreds of years like the one in his village. But unfortunately, at this time, its stem was stained with many tiny human heads, together with here and there the red and white flags and banners, displaying a sight even more unpleasant than a face full of acnes.
Then, a whitish something was moving above the human crowd.
‘What is that?’ he asked Kai.
‘Oh, that is the Statue of Liberty, just finished by some students from the Central Academy of Fine Arts.’
‘Is that imitating the one in the United States?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Interesting, let’s go have a look,’ he said, reckoning as a novelty unseen on the Shanghai People’s Square.
So, they made their way across the Chang’an Avenue, to the greatest square on earth. People, tents, quilts, blankets, and bamboo sticks, were obstructing their way through. Mouths were eating, yawning, debating, laughing; eyes were blinking, sleeping, staring at him, and at the sky. There was a man, his back and shoulders bare, doing push-ups, training his muscles, as if he was gong to fight like a boxer in the Boxer rebellion in Qing dynasty.
Bing was inspecting the Statue of Liberty. It was a woman, with a smooth and pretty face, far more attractive than that of his secret ‘lover’ Vivian. But her short fair was comparable to that of Fang, the girl who had turned him to a real man. But her nose was well shaped, straight and elegant and gracious, with a pride that seemed to have accumulated from the entire universe. And, what a body, isn’t it like a goddess every man is desiring! And the torch in her hands, for the moment, reminded him of a figure in the poster of Worker-Peasant-Soldier, who would also hold something like that, such as a sickle, such as a hammer, such as a gun, such as a spear, such as anything that had more iron than a human’s bone.
But on the other hand, she was so white and weak, so incompatible to the harshness of the Square, to the surrounding marbles and cement and stones, to the yellow skin and black hair and bamboo sticks. Like a white paper, she didn’t look like she was able to sustain a pinch of his finger, or a kindling of a match, or a single stroke of a hoe like the one used by his grandfather to strike the wall of his enemy’s house.
‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said to Kai.
‘Yes.’
‘But I wonder why it is a woman, instead of a man?’ he said whimsically. ‘After all, men are the main fighters in the history of humankind.’
‘Maybe it appeals to the use of peace and softness of heart, rather than violence?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I read that the statue was the gift of France to US, and the French are really very romantic, loving women the most.’
Kai laughed, ‘I can’t tolerate the idea of using a man for the sort of thing. But, if it is a man, then the women would be attracted, and lured by it to fight more, don’t you think?’
Bing thought a moment. ‘I guess, because you are yourself a man, a statue of a woman will entice and excite your manhood, arousing a sort of savage instinct to fight, to protect the weak beauty.’
Then, a sudden babyish shout nearby put an end to their discussion. It was from a child, ‘Come, come, who needs garlic… who needs garlic .…’
The boy, about five years old, smiling beautifully, stood on a cloth-shrouded, up-raised who knows what supporting structure, waving his little hand with a glass bottle full of garlic bulbs, calling to distribute them to the students.
‘Why, garlic?’ Bing asked, watching the boy turning his body round and round, giving out the bulbs. Beside him, a couple of women were bending their heads, working their hands inside two baskets of garlic.
‘Beijing people like eating garlic, don’t you know that?’ Kai replied, ‘they often eat it afresh with their meals.’
‘I see, it helps kill germs,’ Bing remarked, wading gingerly through the space, then a thought suddenly coming up. ‘Millions of people are sprawling here, I wonder how they go for lavatory? I can’t imagine a crowd of such magnitude is to occupy the Shanghai Bund. They would, I am afraid, have to do directly into the Huangpu river.’
‘Lavatory? Well, the design of Tiananmen Square should have well considered the human needs, please remember it was designed to host millions of people for various occasions. And also, since the campaign began, the factories had donated a lot of portable toilets, to be maintained by the Beijing residents. After all, this is the capital of China, not something you Shanghainese can have the capacity to imagine,’ he boasted, in a pride of a Beijingnese.
‘Well, I am just a temporary Shanghainese, but I know finding a toilet is a dreadful thing for travellers in Shanghai.’
‘In other parts of Beijing, they may be as appalling as Shanghai, but around the square, the Tiananmen, and the Forbidden City, toilets are sufficient, though rather dirty due to the quantity of users.’
‘So, is it fair to say, without enough toilets, demonstrators would be much fewer than now?’
‘What? How could you say such a thing? You think they have come here for the sake of toilets?’ Kai retorted solemnly, for a reason, ‘don’t you forget they are brave enough to even go for a hunger strike.’
‘Hehe, I’m not trying to be smart, just thinking that one may strike in hunger, but may not endure a place without a toilet.’
‘Oh, how crazy you are! Is it because you have read too many odd books in the university? How could…’
‘No, no, don’t get me wrong,’ Bing protested, ‘I just had a moment of undisciplined thinking. That is all.’
Some time later, they were in the centre of square, where the Monument to the Heroes of the People was erected. The inscribed handwriting of Chairman Mao, ‘Eternity and Immortality of the People’s Heroes’ was so beautiful and rigidly powerful that, in his mind, the Chairman might have just carved with his index finger directly into the stone. Each stroke seemed embodied in a spirit of courage, of an unswerving determination, towards the greatest cause in the world.
On the foot of the monument was a scene of utmost ghastliness. The hunger strikers, in every possible body disposition, occupied all around of the ascending steps. Two Chinese characters, ‘Stop Eating’ were inked in blood-red on a white strip of cloth, wrapped around the hunger strikers’ heads. For a moment, it reminded Bing of the mourners in a funeral procession, like the one he remembered for his grandfather.
The faces were sallow, emaciated, despondent, as if their bearers were approaching the end of the world. Something in their eyes stirred Bing’s nerves, that seemed to resemble the eyes of a cow being killed by the farmers. He had a number of times watched the scene, where a man, with the blunt side of an axe, hammered the cow’s head repeatedly, until she stumbled and collapsed. The only difference was that, as far as he could remember, a cow would release its last dying tears from her soul, while the eyes of these hunger strikers were only dry, dull, and plaintive.
There was a mother, whose head was also wrapped with the ‘Stop Eating’ stripe, as her son. She sat behind him, and with her chin upon his head cuddled him. His hair was very thick, and unkempt, like a tangle of fern leaves. Their paper-like faces, linked in such a way, were tranquil, and dejected, or even hopeful, that Bing couldn’t tell. The pair of round glasses that masked the larger part of the boy’s face, made him look like just a child, younger and weaker, than the rest of the strikers around him.
Bing couldn’t help but move his eyes away from them, the son and the mother who were hunger-striking together. Were they beggars in the street, he would surely give them all the money in his possession, even the watch given to him by his father, could be an impulsive source of charity.
But they were not beggars; they had plenty of food, a lot of pig-meat, donated by the generous Beijing citizens. They just refused to eat, so Bing had to walk away, for he couldn’t help someone who was so obstinate against the very nature of living things on the planet.
‘How many times have you joined the parade?’ Bing asked Kai.
‘Three times,’ Kai replied, and pointing, he added, ‘look, over there, the flag of my university.’
‘Well, hundreds of flags, you don’t have to feel proud of that,’ Bing said, beholding the banners and flags that stuck high up in the air, very much like a large flock of scarecrows. But he admitted they had done a great artistic work in connecting two or three bamboo sticks together.
They spent more time touring the square, until their limbs and eyes and ears felt tired. The speakers were very loud, constantly broadcasting the updates and the lines of petitions.
‘It is six now, shall we leave?’ Kai asked.
‘Okay, let’s go to your university,’ Bing said, ‘Oh, I am feeling hungry, and want to know how good your canteen is.’
So they walked back towards Chang’an Avenue, where many buses should be available for their ride.
Then, a wisp of music, a sort of singing from a band, caught Bing’s attention.
‘What is that?’ Bing asked, curiously.
‘There must be a band on that side.’
Now, the song was clear, it was the one, very popular, titled ‘The Descendants of the Dragon.’ It sounded like it was being accompanied by a guitar, and people were singing along.
‘Let’s go over having a look,’ Bing became suddenly enthused, treading as quickly as he was permitted to the source of singing.
A band of four were there performing. A boy, with a guitar strapped over his shoulder, was humming in a low but very rich voice. The surrounding students were absorbed in singing together with him.
Bing turned emotional. He joined the chorus. The collective voice seemed to spellbind him, enrapturing him. The heroic feeling was very strong; it surged, bubbled, and seeped through him. He had a desire to perform, to express an sentiment that had somehow soaked his heart to this minute.
So at the end of the song, he couldn’t resist but convey his urge to the boy that, he wanted to play.
Though sceptical, the boy asked him what song he was to play. ‘I Have Nothing,’ he replied, and said that he was from Shanghai, and had performed on stage many times.
The boy and the rest of the band looked reasonably convinced, while the passionate spectators started clapping their hands.
‘Here you go,’ he said to Bing, and, releasing the guitar from his back, he turned to ask for the accompaniment of a drum and a digital piano. ‘I Have Nothing.’
But Bing didn’t forget one thing, ‘Wait for a minute, I need to drink. Anyone who can give me a bottle of beer? Please?’
A voice came up at once from the audience, ‘I can, let me go fetch it.’
While waiting idly, Bing was in his habit playing a piece of classic. In the meantime, he caught in the crowd the unbelieving eyes of Kai, who stood there stupefied by the unusual behaviour of his friend.
Before long, the guy came back with two bottles of beer, both of which were already opened. Bing grabbed one of them, and like an addict thirsty for liquid, gulped down all its content to his system.
Without much food in his stomach, the influence came to him quick. He was relaxing, his eyes dilating, looking at the audience, as if they were nobody but a mass of shadows. The people’s hand-flapping sounded very remote, like that of a dream; and their scattering shouts were like the village dogs barking at nights.
He wiped his mouth, and breathed in a full chest of air, and stretched his arms, and whipped his hands. He was nursing his soul for an imminent cry.
When the first line broke out from his shell, the spectators and their shadows were all gone. A new set of faces, either anxious or careless, either tearful or tearless, either the mother’s or the son’s, emerged to cloud his eyes. He was singing to the sky. And in the sky was a vague object, of which shape was unlike anything he had earthly known. He was asking and appealing to it, with all his uttering power.
It was in the sky, in the universe. It was above the top of Tiananmen, above the image of Chairman Mao, above the head of the Statue of Liberty, above the tip of the Monument of the Heroes, above all the struggles and hideous lines and forms on earth. And, he, a man, an oppressed tongue, a soul in torment, a writhing heart, a clutch of frantic fingers, active but humble as an ant, sad as a dying cow, pained as a bullet-struck bird, threatened as an innocent child, with nothing in his pocket, with nothing in his eyes but it in the high sky, was hysterically shrieking, asking it to go with him.
‘Endlessly I have been asking, when will you go with me, my darling; but you are always laughing, for I have nothing…I wish to give up my pursuit, as well as my freedom for you; but you are always laughing, for I have nothing…’
During the transition, he emptied the second bottle of beer, bending himself into an arch of pain and agony, pressing the guitar deep into the middle of his life.
The singing continued, and then he was conscious the audience was shouting coarsely and ardently all together with him. ‘I tell you I have been waiting for a long time, I tell you this is the last asking of mine…I am going to grasp your hand, and drag you to my last demand…why are your hands trembling, and why are your tears running, oh, please go with me, go with me…’
In the midst of intense applause, he left the scene with his friend, and went searching for a bus to the Renmin University of China. In his head was still reverberating, ‘why are your hands trembling, and why are your tears running, oh, please go with me, go with me…’
…
Later on the bus, Kai remarked: ‘It was brilliant, I can’t believe you play so well. You never told me you play guitar.’
‘Look at my horny fingers, the marks of practice, you can see.’ Bing was showing his fingertips.
‘Wooh, very much like an old farmer’s, ’ Kai laughed. ‘I know some guys in our university playing it, but you did far better. I even tried a bit myself, but it was very hard, especially after passing the first phase of interest. A lot of people begin well, but give up after a while.’
‘Yeah,’ Bing said, not in his usual modest tone, ‘and probably this is only thing I think I can do, otherwise really nothing, as the song says.’
