God's Double Agent (13 page)

When I awakened the next day, the same thing happened. I was forced to skip class for another day of writing my confession. I was warned to be more forthcoming, and I scoured the recesses of my brain to find some pertinent yet obscure fact that could win me favor.

No detail, however, satisfied them. Instead of being a human being, I was a warning to others, like a memorial on the side of the road at the scene of an accident.
Don’t let this happen to you.

Another week passed, and another. After two months, I was no longer desperate; I was invisible. People didn’t even notice me. I had been removed so thoroughly from their lives I wasn’t even a consideration. My friends, the ones with whom I had laughed and conspired, no longer even looked my way. I was a ghost, an apparition people were vaguely aware of but preferred didn’t exist. Occasionally I’d make eye contact with someone. It may not seem like much, but it was the most affection I received from my friends. I began to live for those very infrequent looks.

Incrementally, hour by hour, my future slipped away. With
every missed class, I got a little more behind. At night, I still studied for my eventual goal of an international affairs postgrad degree. But even as I studied every page, I knew this goal was becoming more and more elusive.

One morning, the deputy came into my room with a splotchy, red face.

“Quit lying to me!” he yelled, as a vein stuck out of his forehead. He was so mad I could see his entire bottom row of teeth. They were more crooked than I imagined, all of them pointing in the wrong direction. “You still aren’t telling me the truth.”

“I’ve given you all the details,” I said. “Why are you accusing me?”

He opened up a notebook with all of my many confessions. “On this day,” he said, pointing to a page, “you were broadcasting an anti-China news organization from the loudspeakers.”

“I’ve never done that,” I said. “In fact, I wasn’t the person who chose what to broadcast. I had other things to do. I assigned that task to others.”

“That’s not what your friend told me.”

“What friend?” I was exasperated.

He told me the name of his informant, and I couldn’t believe my ears. The person who had made up stories against me was the same guy who was so passionate about protesting that he wrote the word
freedom
with his own blood on a bedsheet.

That’s when I realized that except for Heidi, every single friend and follower had turned on me. Presumably, they gave false stories to lessen their own punishment.

“I won’t confess to that,” I tried to say in the most reasonable voice I could muster. “Because I do not want to lie to the government. Did you ever talk to President Ming?”

“Sure,” he said. “He wants you to come by for tea one day soon.”

My eyes grew large.

“You and the Queen of England.”

I averted my eyes from him and looked at the floor so he wouldn’t see my disappointment. I breathed out slowly, in an effort to calm myself. After all, if I obeyed and did what I was told, I would be reintegrated into the college and could salvage my reputation.

One day, I was meandering around the campus, on my way to another dinner alone at the cafeteria, when I caught the eye of my old friend, William. He worked with me on the
Ugly Stone
, but never got as intensely into the protests. I was ready for him to look away, like everyone else. Instead, he slightly nodded to the garden behind the English department as he walked briskly toward it.

Was that an actual interaction?
I wondered. I’d been so separated from everyone else for so long, I felt like I might have lost my social skills. Was it even an invitation? I slowed my gait and looked for my agents. By this time, I had gotten used to them showing up in odd places, stalking me, watching me. Sometimes they stood off the sidewalk and simply watched as I walked by. Other times they fell into line behind me, causing me to fear that they’d grab me at any moment. Occasionally, they were nowhere to be seen, but I felt their presence lurking, threatening. I scanned all of the sidewalks and pathways around the garden, but couldn’t see anyone.
Is William setting me up?
I wondered, but I had to take the chance. After I circled back around, I casually strolled into the garden, looking to my left and my right.

Chinese gardens are designed in mazes, so one doesn’t see all of the beautiful flowers and stone architecture all at once. This meant, of course, it was a perfect place for a discreet conversation. Once I was sure there was no one following me, I meandered around a small pond and over a bridge. Then, behind a blossoming plum tree, right next to a wall of pink lotus flowers, I saw William.

I would’ve been just as shocked had I turned the corner and seen a dragon. The fact that a friend of mine would actually dare to talk to me in public was a miracle.

“Xiqiu,” he said, as soon as he saw me. “I know you’ve been through so much, but I wanted to tell you about a conversation I overheard.”

“Why are you risking yourself to tell me?” I asked, looking around.

“Let’s just make it fast,” he said. “I was working in the administration office today, as a favor to my Chinese lit professor. You know, making copies, filing papers, and the like. I noticed the dean of the English department walk into President Ming’s office.”

I knew President Ming would somehow figure out a way to save me, or at least to mitigate some of this unreasonable punishment. After so many weeks of confinement, I really needed an advocate, someone to vouch for my character. He was my only hope.

“I wasn’t paying attention at first,” William said. “But I could tell they were talking about grad school recommendations.” During that time, there was a two-stage process for acceptance into graduate schools. First, students had to earn certain grades. Second, the undergraduate institutions had to submit letters of recommendation from both the department and the university level.

I breathed a big sigh of relief. Graduate school was my only hope for a real occupation. As I spent day after day in my isolation, however, I feared my future was slipping away. If I knew my future was secure, I would be able to tolerate the days of seclusion.

“Wonderful news,” I said. “I was worried my enrollment process would be interrupted because of the trouble I’m in.”

“You misunderstand,” he said, his voice lowered to a whisper. I had to lean forward to hear him. “They started yelling. As I
went to get more copy paper I heard President Ming raise his voice.”

“About me?”

“Yes,” William said. “The dean of the English department wrote you a recommendation, but President Ming was not happy about it.”

“How could you tell?” I asked.

“Because he said, ‘How could you recommend this troublemaker? Are you trying to sully the name of this college? Of me?’”

“Troublemaker?”

“Yes, Xiqiu,” he said. “The president said, ‘Bob Fu will damage the whole country!’”

“But President Ming is my friend,” I managed to say. “He participated in the protests with me!”

“He
was
your friend,” William said, very kindly. “Now he’s working against you.”

“In what ways?”

“He told the dean to withdraw his recommendation for you.”

I shook my head, as if there was something covering my ears that prohibited me from hearing correctly. Surely, I’d misunderstood. Certainly, after all this work and so much effort, my life wasn’t going to end up in the poverty of the rice paddies.

“That can’t be true,” I said, my voice raised.

“Why would I risk my own academic life to tell you a lie?” he said sternly, putting his hands firmly on my arms. “Get yourself together, Xiqiu. I just wanted you to know that President Ming is against you. You need to know that.”

I couldn’t speak. After a moment, William dropped his hands from my arms and apologetically said, “I have to go. Don’t follow me.”

I watched him disappear into the maze of the garden, without thanking him for his courage or friendship. Instead, I stood there, gobsmacked.

As the sweet aroma of the lotus flowers wafted over me, I ran
my hand through my hair and tried to think. What options did I have left in life? No matter how much I tried to improve my lot, I was a peasant, a son of a beggar. Without a degree, I could neither support Heidi nor provide my family with much-needed relief from their lives of poverty. I’d be a farmer. I’d be ashamed.

Rage began to build in my chest as I thought about all the hours I had spent preparing for grad school. I used to dream of going places, of cultural reform, of defeating corruption, of conquering inequity. And yet, there I was under the cruel foot of injustice. I wasn’t sure of anything, except one inarguable fact: life as I’d planned it was no longer a possibility. I was dishonored.

I gasped when the thought fully took hold of me. I never quite understood why people would decide to commit suicide. It felt desperate and wrongheaded. But as I stood there by the blossoming plum tree, I reached for a branch and broke it off. I’d kill myself, I decided.

But I wasn’t dying alone.

8

I walked through the campus as a man on a mission, one foot firmly in front of the other as I went down sidewalks filled with students lugging backpacks. Left foot, right foot, left, right. I was in a rhythm, like a soldier marching off to war, though I was hardly a soldier. But this was definitely war.

I felt numb. Hazy. As a kid, I wasn’t the type of boy who caught bugs and dissected them. I didn’t kill small animals or throw rocks at birds. In fact, I wasn’t sure how to kill anything. But the government was forcing my hand. I could learn.

The first step was obvious. I needed to go to President Ming’s house, scout out the property, and figure out the best way to proceed. I didn’t necessarily want to make a big public spectacle out of his death. Out of
my
death. I simply wanted a chance to see him one last time, to explain his betrayal, and to blow us both up.

His house seemed like a fine enough place to die. Tucked away in a little compound reserved for high-level university executives, it was relatively secure. I knew that, because he’d invited me there in the past—back when we were friends, when we’d talk about politics and world events over tea, when I thought I was securing my future by impressing him. Just a few months ago, I would’ve fought anyone who dared speak ill of President
Ming. I thought he was a brilliant reformer, an independent thinker, and a thoughtful scholar. How was I to know he was a communist thug willing to let me suffer a lifetime of indignity to save himself?

I approached the area of the university where the officials lived, and didn’t really fear getting caught. After all, I had no weapon, no ill intentions for the evening. I was simply on a fact-finding mission. And as far as I could tell, no agents had followed me.

In my head, I prepared the words I’d say if I ran into him.

“You aren’t worthy,” I said, practicing out loud. “You are a cheater. Honestly, I don’t even think you’re human!” Hearing the words gave me a little jolt of energy. I couldn’t wait to be able to deliver my lines to his face. I was going to condemn him, maybe even curse him.

It was dusk when I approached his beautiful villa, which was larger than the other academic domiciles. It was tall and stately, about two or three stories high. I walked all the way down the street, past his house, then turned back toward it. No one was milling around outside. Perhaps everyone was finishing up dinner. President Ming would probably still be at work and my special agent didn’t expect me back at the English department until eight o’clock. I had one hour. My plan was simple. I would go around to the back of the house, find a window, and check out the lay of the land. Usually Chinese architecture follows the same basic pattern. The home’s center has an area for a shrine to the deities and ancestors. On its two sides are bedrooms and “wings” of the building for younger family members, the living area, the dining room, and the kitchen. However, I wanted to make sure there were no surprises. If I was going to deploy a suicide bomb, I wanted to make sure my plan would work. I only had one chance, after all.

I glanced at my watch, then back up at the house. Instead of walking by it again, I walked around it, vaguely aware that what
I was doing was dangerous. If I was caught sneaking around the home of the president, however, what was the worst that could happen? Would I lose my academic standing? My degree? My future? I almost laughed. The government had overplayed its hand. The Communists should’ve left me
something
for which to live.

I crept around the home until I found a window covered with a carved window screen. I took a deep breath, stood up on my toes, and peered through the window. Through the opening, I saw a hallway. A red rug on the floor. A small table with a jade bowl sitting on it. No one seemed to be home, but this was getting me nowhere. I took a step back from the house and noticed a back door. It was red, with a dragon-headed doorknocker on it. I placed my hand on the brass knob, which was cool to the touch. I pulled on the door, and to my surprise, it opened. I looked into the silent house, and then I looked around me. No witnesses.