God's Double Agent (12 page)

I picked my pencil up off the floor and started to write, including as much detail as possible. This time, for example, when I told the story of going to Beijing, I included a bit more.

“We got on the train,” I wrote, “but the conductor didn’t make us pay for tickets. I did not get his name, nor do I remember anything remarkable about his appearance . . .” And so, I began again, scrawling out my life on paper. The minutes eked by, and I—once again—filled the empty pages with minutiae. I wrote about the people who gave us food, the contaminated water, Heidi’s sickness, and the train ride home. When I finished writing the story of Tiananmen Square, I couldn’t think of any more details. I glanced at my watch. Only noon? I began to write in slightly larger letters, hoping to make it look like I’d written more text. I also searched my memories for specifics the government might find interesting. A second straight day in that room made me feel slightly claustrophobic. So, when the hour hand on the clock finally crawled all the way to the six, I grabbed my backpack and practically ran to the cafeteria.

It was only about a five-minute walk, and the air felt crisp on my face. Being threatened by the police had sharpened my
senses, and I felt so thankful to be out of that room and out on the gorgeous campus. I passed a dorm and walked through the quad, which was decorated with beautiful flowers along the walkway. As I was admiring the rows of scarlet and yellow flowers, my eyes looked past the flower beds and landed on two men standing slightly off the beaten path. Their arms were folded, and they were standing completely still, like statues of intimidation. I recognized them immediately from the police station, and a chill ran down my spine. I knew I was going to be watched, but I didn’t expect it to be so obvious. So intentionally intimidating. I put my head down and continued quickly to the cafeteria.

“You’ll never guess what I’ve been through,” I said to my friends who were already eating at our regular table. I wanted to let the whole story spill out, to explain my unexpected absence from class, to ask what news and gossip I’d missed. I sat down in the empty seat next to Joseph and simply said, “Wait ’til you hear this!”

To my surprise, he physically recoiled when I sat by him, like I had a terrible sickness he didn’t want to contract. The others looked down at their trays, and then at each other. No one asked me what happened or where I’d been. No one even looked me in the eye. Collectively, they all stood, gathered their food, and left the table. They moved so quickly and without a word, like they were geese flying in formation to a more hospitable lake.

“They forced me to register as a counterrevolutionary.” I kept talking as I watched my friends gather their things. Slowly, I realized what had happened. They already knew. Now that I was “an enemy of the people,” I was an inconvenient and possibly dangerous friend. The last to gather her food was a girl from the English department who sat with Heidi in the front row. I caught her eye, only for a moment. She didn’t say anything, and she didn’t even smile. But her eyes were full and deep. It seemed like she was trying to convey, in that one glance, “hang in there.”

While I tried to collect my thoughts, I picked up my drink and took a sip. Not only was I trying to figure out what to do, I also wanted to look busy. I felt very conspicuous sitting there all alone in my humiliation. Was it my imagination, or was the whole cafeteria staring at me? I took a bite of rice to look casual, hoping my emotions would not betray me. Had I begun to cry—if one tiny tear had managed to escape—I wouldn’t have been able to stop. I would’ve sat there in front of all of my friends and simply wept. With much effort, I tried to look calm. I took another bite of food. Then another.

“Is this seat taken?” I heard a familiar voice. Heidi smiled at me as she placed her tray on the table across from me.

“Are you willing to take the risk?” I asked, though I’d never been happier to see another person.

When she smiled, I melted in relief. While she ate, I told her everything that had happened. I talked so much that she finished her meal before I’d even taken another bite.

“Well, you may already know this, but there’s been a great deal of criticism of you.”

“Among our friends?”

“On TV, in radio, in the newspaper,” she said. “It’s like a marathon of criticism about you and the other student protestors. Also, your teacher got up and made a speech about how you were dangerous. He said you were no longer qualified to be a class monitor.”

I chewed silently on my chicken for longer than I needed as I processed this news.

“I know it meant a lot to you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’ll be interesting to see who replaces me.”

“You haven’t heard?” she said, while her finger traced the outline of her napkin.

“Already there’s a replacement?” I asked. “So soon?”

“Joseph,” she said very gently, letting the news sink in slowly. “He accepted the position yesterday.”

I looked across the cafeteria, to Joseph surrounded by all of my old friends. He was talking and the people around him were laughing. I bit my lower lip and forced a smile. “Well, that explains it.”

“If you ask me,” she said, leaning in across the table, “he’s a real jerk. He used to be your right-hand man, and now he thinks he can fill your shoes?”

“My main concern,” I said, trying to be magnanimous, “is not being the monitor or in student leadership. The main thing I want is to get a degree.” My voice broke a bit at the word
degree
, and I cleared my throat. I’d looked so contemptuously at my teaching degree, seeing it as merely a stepping-stone to my real passion. Now that it was in danger, however, I wanted nothing more. “My family would be devastated if I showed up back home and became a farmer.” I didn’t add what really burdened my heart as I sat across the table from Heidi. I also knew if I didn’t get a degree, I’d never be able to provide for a wife.

“Also,” she began, before hesitating. I could tell she was nervous to tell me even more bad news. “President Ming made an open speech rebuking the student leaders of the protests. He said they disturbed the peace, were instigators, and were sowing social turmoil.”

“But he was on our side,” I said. “There has to be some sort of mistake.”

After dinner, I headed to the English department classroom where students gathered to study. I felt a surge of emotion when I saw my old desk. Heidi sat in the front row, as usual, and I walked to the back of the room, as usual. What was not usual was the tall, perfectly starched deputy waiting for me in the corner. He nodded when he saw me, and motioned to a chair in the very back of the classroom. I was separated from the others to discourage me from talking to anyone, which, of course, was an unnecessary precaution.

In the very recent past, I would’ve been surrounded by friends
and acquaintances. Known as a leader, I was a big man on campus. People sought my advice and my company. I was invited to all the afterschool parties. When there was a study group, I was the first to receive an invitation. Now the other students backed away from me, avoided me, and pretended they’d never known me. I had social leprosy.

“Sit,” the agent said. I sat silently as the agent graded my paper and corrected grammatical mistakes. He marked every error, then handed me the paper and some ink to fingerprint it. I wasn’t technically a prisoner, but I felt like one. The real purpose of this game, of course, was that he was looking for evidence to use against me, to determine if I was a threat to the government or if my friends were threats. And he was going to make me sit there, day after day, until I either remembered some amazing details or fabricated them.

Welcome to my new life as a counterrevolutionary
, I said to myself the next morning as I walked slowly through the campus to start yet another day of forced confessions.

I wasn’t looking forward to sitting in that room again. I’d already written all that needed to be said. They were simply trying to wear me down, to get me to confess to things I didn’t do, to incriminate friends who weren’t guilty.

On the way, however, I passed a newspaper stand and slowed down to check out the headlines. After all, my news addiction didn’t stop just because of my punishment. In fact, the news seemed even more pertinent, even more urgent.

I stopped and opened a box, pulling out a newspaper with a very curious headline. “Those Who Make Chaos and Disturbance Should Be Killed.”

Killed?

I put the paper down and glanced around to make sure no one was watching me. I suddenly felt guilty, like I was reading
someone’s mail and had just read something atrocious about me. “Those Who Make Chaos and Disturbance Should Be
Killed
.” Yes, I’d read that correctly.
Killed.

I forced my eyes over the rest of the article, which was neither impressive nor particularly well written. Though it covered the entire top half of the newspaper, it was simply a regurgitation of the standard communist propaganda. It claimed we student protestors had turned our backs on all the nation had given us, that communism was the only way to achieve peace and prosperity for everyone, and that we were selfish, violent, and a detriment to society.

I folded the paper and was about to toss it into a metal garbage can next to the sidewalk.

You’d think the writer would at least try to make more creative arguments against me
, I thought.
This is so boilerplate!

But just as I was about to throw it away, I read the byline. It stopped me dead in my tracks.

Joseph wrote this?

I tucked the newspaper under my arm and walked briskly back to my room. How could my friend turn on me in such a dramatic fashion? Not only did he believe I should die, he had advocated for my death in a newspaper. I unlocked my dorm room door and lowered myself into a chair near my desk. Joseph had been my friend and confidant when I was planning extracurricular activities. If my buddies were advocating for my execution, what were my enemies planning? Suddenly, I started breathing faster, like I couldn’t quite get enough air into my lungs. I jumped up from my chair, ran to the window, and closed the blinds.

My room and my life grew darker. Every day was the same: forced confessions, lonely dinners, and back-of-the-room isolation. It went on for an entire week, then two.

Then three.

After a month, I began losing count. The days ran together
into an amorphous blob of forlorn, uneventful days. I confessed to things I barely remembered and admitted to positions I’m not sure I believed. But even with the additional confessions, the government didn’t relent. In fact, their grip tightened. A few times a week, my two agents showed up to follow me down the sidewalk, or passed by as I was washing clothes, or stood near me as I ate dinner. I didn’t hold my head up high, but I didn’t want to let others see how wounded I really felt. I began to wonder if the agents were following me to keep tabs on me, or if they were going to seize me and put me in prison. I felt like I was always looking over my shoulder.

If I just had the chance to explain myself, things might be different
, I thought. After all, the whole campus joined in on the protests.

“I didn’t mean any harm by leading the protests,” I said to the deputy one day, in the most reasonable voice I could muster. “In fact, have you talked to the president of the university?”

“Why would the president of the university defend a student like you?” He sneered.

“Because we’re friends,” I assured him. Even as I said the word
friends
, hope swelled in my chest. “Just talk to him and you can get all the information you need.”

“In the meantime, write your confession.” He pointed to the paper.

“For what?” I asked. I no longer tried to hide my incredulity. “How can I confess to something I never did? I didn’t burn any tanks. I didn’t hurt anyone!”

“Oh, you did plenty wrong,” he said. “All you’ve given me so far is description. I need to see sorrow.”

“For what? I’m sorry you’re treating me like a criminal.”

“There’s a reason I’m treating you like a criminal,” he snarled, revealing a glimpse of his jagged bottom teeth. “For one, you could start by saying you were misled and that you damaged the country by your misguided efforts.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, and then my eyes. Trying to reason with this agent was getting me nowhere. I needed an advocate, someone who could testify that I was one of the good guys.

“Will you talk to the president?” I asked, before adding a conciliatory, “Please?”

“Get to work,” he said as he disappeared into the hall.

“I was misled,” I wrote, but it seemed the pen didn’t want to move across the paper. “I did something terrible for the country. I boycotted class.”

Along with everyone else in the nation and with the permission of the president.

Even as I wrote this so-called confession, I began to feel hope. If my special interrogators talked to the president, they’d soon realize I was no “enemy of China.” I actually had its best interests at heart. I was a friend.