‘No you don’t. As soon as I got up from your sofa the other day you wiped it down with a wet flannel. You treat me worse than a dog.’
‘That’s not true. When Wang Shu and I have a flat of our own, we will make a room up for you and you can stay with us whenever you like. As long as you have a shower before you arrive.’
Lingling is terrified of dirt. She always carries a packet of tissues with her to wipe her hands and face, her restaurant chopsticks, or her seat on the bus.
‘We have been married six months and are still living with Wang Shu’s mother,’ she says. ‘There is no privacy. We still haven’t made love yet.’
I catch her eyes and hold them until at last she looks down. The night sky behind her has turned a deep red. This city never sleeps. I drag the oars through the water and hear the splash stretch to the bottom of the lake.
Women offer me peace and security, but I am afraid to get too close. When I took the Buddhist vows I pledged that I would fend for myself and depend on no one. My feelings for Wang Ping are confused. I try not to think about her too much. But part of me hopes that once my mind has calmed down a little, I will be able to build a life with her.
To fill the silence, I talk about Da Xian’s decision to split with Chun Mei and return to Beijing. The boat glides under the bridge, scattering its reflection across the lake.
‘The quickest way to commit suicide is to marry an artist,’ she laughs.
‘Well, you can come and marry me then when things get too much!’ I smile. Then I pause and say, ‘I will always be a good friend to you, Lingling.’
She tosses her tissue into the air and it floats through the night like a patch of day.
Building a Park Within a Park
Three days before the exhibition is due to open, the photographer Shen Chao arrives on a bus with twenty people from remote villages of Yunnan. After twelve days on the road everyone is covered with mud and dust. Most of them have never been on a bus before. As they step off, some of them start to vomit. Wang Shu leads them to the exhibition rooms where he has laid out mattresses and sheets he has borrowed from the local hospital.
Now that everyone is here, the place comes alive. We hold a lunch meeting in the park teahouse. The park’s Party secretary gives a welcoming speech. Shen Chao stands up and announces this is the first exhibition of its kind in Guangzhou, a very important event. Wang Shu lists the prestigious guests who will be attending the opening ceremony. Then Shen Chao’s girlfriend Pan Jie briefs us on our sponsors and I talk through the rehearsal schedule for the bonfire dance. Suddenly everything seems to be falling into place.
The next morning I run to the station to fetch Li Tao and Fan Cheng from their train. Northern peasants spill from the exit carrying their quilts, padded coats and dreams. In this hot, bustling city, they appear slow and clumsy. They wipe the sweat from their brows, stand at the crossing and stare blankly at the passing traffic. I climb over some cardboard boxes, squeeze to the front of a long queue, flash my journalist card to an aggressive policeman and buy a platform ticket.
Fan Cheng steps off the train. He has a beard now, more wrinkles and less hair. Li Tao still looks pale but he is smiling. Perhaps he has pushed the Mimi episode to the back of his mind.
In the afternoon, Hu Sha comes from Beijing, and Yang Ming from Chengdu. They arrive on the same train, so I presume they met up at a town along the way. Yang Ming is wearing leather boots. We exchange a smile. She thanks me for inviting her and asks whether the post she sent on for me arrived.
Chen Hong turns up the following day, but Fan Cheng ignores her. Yesterday, he told me, ‘I have no intention of going back to her. Horses never eat the grass behind them.’ I wrote to Chen Hong a while ago, suggesting she forget about him and start a new life for herself, but she wrote back and said: ‘That’s easy to say, Ma Jian. If you lose a finger it takes your body two years to readjust. And what I have lost is a hundred times more vital.’
I invited Wang Ping too, but she wrote back last week to say she couldn’t make it. ‘The leaders refused to give me leave. Hangzhou Daily published "Escarpment" last month, so I’ve enclosed a postal order for 70 yuan. I hope you like the T-shirt. Thank you for the Hong Kong birthday card. It’s beautiful. I passed it round the office and everyone was very jealous.’ Those birthday cards are sold in every shop in Guangzhou. I sent one to my sister as well, along with a leather satchel with shoulder straps which I asked her to give to Nannan.
Everyone from Beijing uses my hut as a meeting point. It takes me back to my life in Nanxiao Lane. Chen Hong and Hu Sha decide to visit Shenzhen, and ask me to help them apply for the permits.
The opening ceremony is a great success. Everyone from the local media and arts turns up, even the mayor makes an appearance. The black-bean soup, rice gruel and pork dumplings our Beijing cook made are finished in a flash. Pan Jie is dressed to the nines, she looks like Imelda Marcos. Shen Chao is wearing a suit and tie and is walking through the crowd shaking hands like a proud father at his daughter’s wedding. He has reason to be pleased. He spent two years in Yunnan taking the photographs for this exhibition. The men and women in Dai, Tibetan and Jingpo dress are the friends he made there. This is his dream come true, and I am happy for him.
The Qingke wine he has brought from Yunnan is very strong. Six Lishu women invite the male guests to drink from their cups. They have got quite a few of them drunk already. When dusk falls, we light the bonfire, and our friends from Yunnan perform their dance. After the official guests leave, we laugh and hug and take jovial group photographs. The Jingpo men fill our bamboo cups and teach us the pony dance. Then the Lishu women stand up and sing ‘We came into this world weeping, but we will leave it with a smile. .’ At midnight we retire to my hut. I lay the leftover snacks on my table and sneak in another bucket of Qingke wine.
Hu Sha has drunk too much. He has been sick twice and is now sprawled on my camp bed cursing the city. ‘All these bloody crooks think about is money, money, money. .’
‘Stop flinging your arms about. If this net tears, the mosquitoes will bite us to death!’
Hu Sha bought a tape recorder in the market yesterday but when he came back and opened the box there was nothing inside. I put a Jean-Michel Jarre tape into my cassette player and turn the volume up.
Fan Cheng examines the exhibition poster on the wall. ‘I like this photograph, Ma Jian. You’ve made the site look like the paradise garden in A Dream of Red Mansions.’
Yang Ming wipes the sweat from her brow. ‘Transplanting a primitive village into a modern city — it would be a good subject for an avant-garde poem. Are you tempted to visit Yunnan after this, Ma Jian?’
‘Yes, I would like to explore the whole of the south-west, and then perhaps move on to Tibet. I try not to make any fixed plans though. I prefer to follow my instincts. So, Fan Cheng — what do you think of the south?’
‘The north is a yellow wasteland, the south is a green wasteland.’
Li Tao is sitting in the corner, having a serious conversation with Chun Mei. Last night he drank so much, he sweated like a pig and stripped to his underwear. ‘My job at the bank was a nightmare,’ he says. ‘I had to have lunch every day with our Party secretary. He didn’t have a clue about finance. This province shows us the way forward. Social progress depends on a strong economy. .’
‘Stop lecturing the poor girl,’ Fan Cheng says, snatching a Marlboro from Li Tao’s pocket.
Chen Hong is standing in the doorway. She is still wearing her sunglasses. Her hair is a mess. ‘Our Beijing circle is falling apart,’ she tells me. ‘Everyone is just out for themselves now. They all want to move to Shenzhen. Hu Sha is the only one with any ideals left. By the way, did you see my poem in this month’s New Era?’