Quanmu did not reply, but stood there like a shabby beggar unable to squeeze a coin out of anyone.
‘We need to vote on the issue again immediately.’ Hei Chun took the microphone, ready to use the broadcasting equipment to convene a meeting of all the representatives.
Qizi snatched the mike back, like a hungry tiger pouncing on a lamb. ‘You aren’t authorised! I’m the commander-in-chief, and I am responsible for everyone.’
Hei Chun was stunned. He looked at Qizi like he had never seen her before. Her face was lit up, flickering like a candle before it finally goes out.
He turned around, got out of the bus, and disappeared into the crowd which had gathered around it.
Mengliu looked into the vehicle, weighing the situation. He raised a stiff leg, held onto the door, and pulled himself into the bus.
‘Hei Chun is trying to maintain democratic procedures. As far as I know, the majority still insists on the hunger strike, but I think you’re doing the right thing.’
Qizi didn’t speak, but her mouth trembled. Mengliu could see her inner turmoil.
‘Any further delay will be life-threatening. I have to look after them,’ she said.
‘You should probably discuss a more comprehensive approach.’ Mengliu wanted to persuade her to retreat, but couldn’t make himself say the words.
‘Actually, we have already resigned ourselves to death, if need be.’
‘Qizi, you’re a good…leader. You’re responsible. I think you should retreat. Withdraw.’ Mengliu finally said it, surprising even himself. ‘You don’t need to sacrifice everything here in vain. Qizi, I also want to say, I’m sorry about all that nonsense that day. I’m sorry for what I said. Can you forgive me?’
Qizi looked at him blankly. ‘I forgot about that a long time ago.’
‘These last few days, I keep thinking about you. Let’s go. Don’t be angry. Let’s get out of here, just like we planned before. Let’s leave.’
‘‘Liu, I’ll admit I was a little angry with you at first, but after that, I wasn’t anymore. Now even less so. I can’t leave. Even if we decide to leave Round Square, I should be the last one to go.’
‘There are some things we would prefer to believe, even if they are unbelievable.’ Mengliu felt a sense of foreboding.
‘No. Everyone is watching us. If no one is willing to make the sacrifice, how can we face that? I’m ready to die, just like I said in the speech I wrote.’ She had already thought the issue through.
‘Qizi, what about your parents? You’ve got to think of them. They were already forty when they had you. You are their life. If you die…they…’
‘They will hear the words I wrote. “I can’t be loyal and filial to both country and parents.”’
‘Have you really forgotten how we felt for each other?’
‘My feelings for you haven’t changed.’ Her face and tone were very calm.
‘Then as soon as all this is over, we…’
‘I don’t have time now to talk about trivial personal issues.’
‘I believe this will all be over soon. Let’s…’
‘You should go. If you think this is all meaningless, then just leave now. I don’t want to pull you down with me.’
‘I want to be with you. Qizi…’
‘I’m not lonely. There are plenty of people with me.’ She spoke in a rush.
For a flickering moment, Mengliu caught sight of the spirit of love. She was a nimble, dark spirit, and she was running in the moonlight, emitting a varicoloured light. She fled to the flag and hid herself behind it.
He felt that he was walking further and further away in Qizi’s view. Like a lonely figure in a landscape painting, he was now nothing more than an ant-sized inkblot.
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…’