Your brain cells course through your dead flesh like streams of lava spewing down a volcano.
A cool draught blows into the room. It feels as though the front door has been opened, but I didn’t hear any noise.
A kid in the yard outside shouts, ‘It’s snowing, Mum. It’s snowing!’ He’s the son of the migrant labourer who’s renting the flat below. I often hear him in the early evening. But it’s morning now. He should be at school.
‘Snow in July! It must be a show of anger from the gods. How can the police lock people in jail for days without notifying their families?’ The man speaking now is the kid’s father. He has a southern accent.
‘I thought someone was blowing soap bubbles,’ another voice says. ‘The flakes are tiny. They melt as soon as they touch the ground. But look, the sky over there is still blue.’
‘The heavens are showing their anger!’ the man says.
‘I’ve heard of snows in August in ancient history. They were seen as signs of the gods’ anger at cases of injustice. But I’ve never heard of it snowing in July before.’
‘It’s uncanny though, that it should snow now, just a few days after the mass arrest of Falun Gong practitioners.’
‘When I went into my kitchen a minute ago, I saw the spring-onion cake I bought this morning was covered in ants. There’s definitely something strange going on.’
‘The government has outlawed Falun Gong. They’ve declared it an evil cult and a threat to social stability. So be careful what you say… The air really does feel unnaturally cool now.’
‘Think about it. In May, the Americans bombed the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade. In June — well we all know what 4 June is the anniversary of. And now in July, Falun Gong has been suppressed. All these events are connected with injustice and death.’
‘I wonder what’s happened to that vegetable upstairs since his mother got arrested. Has anyone been looking after him?’
‘That’s the government’s business, not ours. It’s best if you keep your mouth shut and don’t ask any questions. Look, the snowflakes vanish as soon as they touch the ground.’
‘But he’s been alone for a week now. If he’s dead, we’ll have to report it to the authorities.’
‘Go and tell the public security bureau, then, if you’re feeling so brave.’
‘Look, that bird keeps flying into their window,’ the kid says. ‘It must have built a nest in there.’
‘Why isn’t your son at school today?’
‘The school he went to was for children of migrant workers. It was unlicensed and run by volunteers. We don’t have a Beijing residency permit, so no state school would accept him. When China’s Olympic Bid Committee visited the area last week, they came across the school and told the police to close it down. They’re proposing to build a huge “Bird’s Nest” sports stadium near here. This whole neighbourhood is going to be razed to the ground.’
‘The entire city is being demolished and rebuilt. It’s all part of the government’s “New Beijing, New Olympic Bid” concept. Our compound will be pulled down soon.’
‘The snow’s stopped! I barely got a chance to cool down, and already it’s getting hot again.’
‘The state schools are so expensive now. The one my son goes to is middle-ranking, but the fees are 10,000 yuan a year. I only earn 11,000. How can the government expect people like us to fork out that amount of money?…’
The snow gave my neighbours a brief respite from the summer heat, but my room is still swelteringly hot. In the afternoon, the sun beats down on the covered balcony and the temperature rises even higher. When I sense my body start to evaporate at last, I feel as relieved as I did whenever I left the stuffy hospital ward in which my father was dying.
A picture comes to mind. I see a woman in blue trousers standing in our flat with her young child. I think it’s a boy. There’s a yellow star on his cap, and a dog’s face embroidered on the knee of his trousers. The fake leather shoes the woman is wearing are cracked and covered in dust. The woman has no face. All I can see is her claw-like hand touching her son’s head. Who is she? The mad wife of my cousin, Dai Dongsheng? Perhaps it’s an image cobbled together from scraps of other memories. I have no control over my mind any longer. As I slip into unconsciousness, a series of random scenes flicker before my eyes… In the north region of the Great Wastes stands Mount Zhangwei. A giant god with a human face and a snake’s body lives on its summit. When he closes his vertical eyes, it’s night; when he opens them, it’s day. He doesn’t eat or sleep or breathe. All he feeds on is the wind and the rain. He shines his light over the dark lands, so they call him the Torch Dragon…
Both night and death are approaching. The mosquitoes continue to suck my blood while the internal bacteria start to attack my flesh. The sparrow nestled in my armpit shakes its feathers and prepares to sleep.
I hear two men enter the flat. A beam of torchlight moves across my room.
‘Careful, there’s a corpse in that room. Come on, let’s see what we can find!’ It sounds like Gouzi, the electrician who works in the restaurant across the road.
‘How could anyone bear to live in this squalor? You said her TV had stereo speakers. Where are they? God, this flat’s a tip. What a stench!’
‘Look at all these newspapers stacked on her table. This one must be two years old, already. It’s got a photograph of Deng Xiaoping’s corpse on the front.’
‘Search through that pile of cardboard boxes then take a look at the bicycle.’
‘Hey, a modem! So the old lady wants to join the internet age, does she?’
‘What’s in all those plastic bags over there?’
‘This book is huge. It’s called Illustrated Edition of The Book of Mountains and Seas. Do you think it’s worth anything?’
‘You won’t get any money for a book, unless it’s a business directory.’
‘Aiyaa! There’s a mouse under that bed!’
‘Here’s the microwave oven I was looking for. So this is where she put it…’
‘Have you got everything? Great. Let’s get out of here…’
They’ve probably taken all the goods my mother bought when she was collecting lottery tickets. I can smell, too, that the box of soap powder which has been standing in the corner of the sitting room for the last six years, is no longer here. After they flicked through the Illustrated Edition of The Book of Mountains and Seas and my mother’s Mysteries of the World, they tossed them onto the chest of drawers.
The room is quiet again. If I’ve remembered correctly, today is my seventh day without food. A small distance separates me from death. I am still living in what Buddhists refer to as the stinking skin-bag of the human body.
I remember one night when my mother tried to shoo the sparrow away, it flew out of the window in terror, and I felt myself break free and drift into the locust tree outside. I was too light to fall to the ground, and not strong enough to fly into the sky, so I just hovered in mid-air, caught like a balloon between two branches.
If anyone were to spend a week locked inside his own body, he would choose to run away, even if the only escape route available was death.
Flesh-eating cells gnaw at you. Your organs disconnect and drift apart.
My mother must have been released from detention an hour or so before dawn. She plods back into the flat in a daze and throws herself onto the sofa, without bothering to turn on the light or even shut the door.