When we reached Shu Tong’s dorm, I said, ‘I hope Han Dan and Old Fu’s resignations won’t destroy the Organising Committee.’
‘Han Dan is too impulsive,’ Shu Tong said. ‘I don’t trust him. He wants to use the strike to boost his authority.’ His expression had relaxed since Han Dan had left the dorm.
Old Fu was about to interview the dissident novelist Zheng He, the most celebrated member of the Creative Writing Programme. We’d worked together in the now-defunct supervisory office. He was a serious-looking man with a balding head and thick glasses. One of his books had been made into a low-budget art film.
We filed out into the crowded corridor to leave them in peace.
‘The students are getting very worked up about Han Dan’s speech,’ Sister Gao said, striding up to us. ‘The boycott was a good idea, but who knows what a hunger strike could lead to?’
‘If we launch a strike, the government will crush us, and there’ll be chaos and bloodshed,’ Shu Tong said, pacing nervously up and down the corridor.
‘I agree,’ Liu Gang said. ‘As the executive chairman, I’d like to broadcast an announcement stating that the Organising Committee is opposed to the strike.’
‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t push for a dialogue and stage a hunger strike at the same time,’ Wang Fei said, puffing on his cigarette. ‘Perhaps if we attack the government from both sides, it will be forced to compromise. The question is: will Han Dan cooperate with us?’
Nuwa went to stand beside him. She’d changed into a short skirt. Her pale legs glowed in the smoky darkness of the corridor. She pulled the cigarette from Wang Fei’s lips and took a quick puff. I couldn’t understand how she could bear to stand so close to him. The stench of his sweat filled the corridor.
Bai Ling poked her head out from my dorm and said, ‘Shu Tong, I think the Dialogue Delegation’s petition needs to be rewritten. It’s too long-winded.’
‘I’m tired, I need to sleep,’ Shu Tong said, closing his eyes. ‘I’ll leave it to you and Tian Yi.’
Tian Yi was in the corner with Sister Gao. ‘The Communist Party emerged from the barrel of a gun,’ Sister Gao was telling her. ‘It’s a brutal, rigid organisation. As soon as we stepped out onto the streets, they accused us of creating turmoil.’ Ever since the 4 May march, she’d been advising us to wind up the student movement.
‘Yes, and President Yang Shangkun is a military man too,’ Tian Yi said, dazed from lack of sleep.
‘So is Vice President Wang Zhen,’ Sister Gao said. ‘This country is ruled by the military.’
The corridor was getting too noisy, so we went to sit down in my dorm. Five volunteers were proofreading articles for the next edition of the News Herald. Half of the bunk beds were piled with banners, flags and boxes of stationery. Two students who’d travelled up from Nanjing were asleep on my bed. Chen Di and Dong Rong were folding up some freshly mimeographed pamphlets. Mao Da and Qiu Fa had become so fed up with the chaos they’d moved into another dorm.
When Tian Yi and Bai Ling had finished rewriting the Dialogue Delegation’s petition, they turned to a transcript of the speech General Secretary Zhao Ziyang had just given at the annual meeting of the Asian Development Bank. ‘Listen to this,’ Tian Yi said excitedly. ‘“China will not fall into turmoil” and the students are “not opposing our fundamental system, they are merely requesting we rectify a few flaws”.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ Liu Gang said, standing up. ‘We must broadcast it at once. Shu Tong, wake up!’
‘That shows that Zhao Ziyang disagrees with the 26 April editorial,’ Shao Jian said. ‘He’s on our side!’
Xiao Li walked in and read out an emergency proposal just posted by the hunger-striking graduate student in Block 46: ‘“Given the gravity of the current situation, we suggest that we: a) launch a mass hunger strike, time and place to be determined; and b) occupy Tiananmen Square during Gorbachev’s state visit to China. If we don’t escalate our protests, our movement is doomed.” Shall I turn that into a pamphlet?’ Xiao Li had been making mimeographed pamphlets from the most interesting texts he’d seen in the Triangle.
‘No, don’t,’ Shu Tong said. ‘If there’s a hunger strike, what will be the point of a Dialogue Delegation?’
‘But the whole purpose of the hunger strike is to force the government into holding a dialogue,’ Bai Ling said, glancing angrily at Shu Tong.
‘The Organising Committee has opposed the hunger strike, Bai Ling,’ said Wang Fei. ‘If the strikers make headway, they’ll become the voice of the students, and we’ll be mere supporters.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Nuwa said, slapping his shoulder. ‘You’re supposed to be fighting dictatorship, but deep down you all want to be little emperors.’
‘It’s all very well having General Secretary Zhao Ziyang on our side,’ Shao Jian said, lighting another cigarette, ‘but Deng Xiaoping still holds the reins, and he thinks we’re dangerous counter-revolutionaries. Deng likes to portray himself as a reformer, but don’t be fooled. He’s sly. He was responsible for the Anti-Rightist Campaign, but he managed to make everyone believe it was Mao’s fault.’
‘The hunger strike might spread through the whole country,’ said Sister Gao. ‘If China falls into turmoil, it will be the end of Zhao Ziyang. Over the last few days, the police have retreated to the suburbs. Beijing is a ghost town. They’re waiting for us to start smashing and looting, then they’ll launch a crackdown. We must declare our support for Zhao Ziyang’s speech. It will boost the morale of the students and stop them from doing anything extreme.’
‘Who’s going to replace Han Dan now that he’s resigned?’ Liu Gang asked impatiently. ‘We’d better hold a meeting. Let’s get all the department representatives up here.’
Wang Fei and Nuwa had left the room. Wang Fei had seemed irritated by Nuwa’s criticism a few moments before. Their relationship was quite stormy. They often seemed to be on the verge of breaking up.
Everyone began wandering off. Tian Yi sat down in front of the typewriter and continued trying to teach herself to touch-type. ‘These little keys are upside down,’ she said. ‘They’re impossible to read.’
‘Foreign authors write their books on typewriters,’ I said. ‘If you practise long enough, you’ll get the hang of it.’
‘Those foreigners have twenty-six letters to deal with, we have two thousand,’ Tian Yi said, looking up at me. In the faint light of the room her face had a comforting glow.
As your cells struggle on inside your body, you feel, once again, that you have been buried alive.
‘Ah, you’re here at last, Dai Dongsheng,’ my mother says. ‘Come in and take a look at your cousin. He’s had terrible diarrhoea since the treatment started and it’s not getting any better. What can we do?’
‘He should stay here a few more days. I’ve just spoken to a nurse. She said the non-surgical treatment he’s getting takes longer to show results. He’ll need at least two courses, I should think.’
‘I can’t keep him here that long. The Beijing police might get suspicious and come and track us down. And I’m not sure about that Dr Ma. I followed him last night. He went to the graveyard behind the clinic and tore off some clumps of grass then dug up some roots and insects. They didn’t look like the ingredients of traditional Chinese medicine to me.’
‘He knows what he’s doing. The grasses and insects in the graveyard have supernatural powers. A fox spirit appeared to him in the graveyard a while ago and gave him some herbs to treat a woman’s swollen liver. He made a tincture from them and told the woman to drink it. It gave her acute diarrhoea for three days, but after that, her liver disease was completely cured.’