INCARNATION (16 page)

David ordered chrysanthemum tea, and Nabila dark tea from a pressed brick. The kutkuchi brought little cakes on a patterned plate. David bit into one and felt it tremble in his mouth as it crumbled and dissolved. It tasted sweet, then there was nothing.

‘Are you married?’ Nabila asked.

He followed her gaze and realized he’d kept his wedding ring on.

He shook his head.

‘Technically, yes. The divorce proceedings have already started.’

‘Does that take long in England?’

‘Not very.’

He twisted the ring idly for a few moments, then pulled at it. It would not pass over his knuckle at first, but a few more gentle tugs and it was free. He hesitated for a second, then put it down on the table in front of her.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s yours. It means nothing to me any more. I’m sure you can have it made into something decent.’

She shook her head violently. Her cheeks had reddened, and she seemed upset.

‘No,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘I can’t take such a thing. I don’t want a present that means nothing to you.’

She pushed the little ring back across the table, and he picked it up, embarrassed, and put it in his pocket.

There was a palpable stillness over everything, as though every door and roof and wall had been painted with it. Glancing out again, David noticed that the street was no longer filled with bustling crowds. Behind a window on the other side, he saw a Chinese face peering out nervously.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

1 don’t know. But you’re right, there is something. I’ve been aware of it myself. What day is it?’

He glanced up at a calendar behind the counter.

‘Seventh of July,’ he said.

‘It can’t be that. Unless. What’s the Muslim date?’

‘Let me see. Eleventh of Rabiyul Awwal.’

She nodded and stared out into the street.

‘I’ve been so busy getting ready for the conference, I’ve been doing everything in Chinese dates. I’d completely forgotten that tomorrow’s the birthday of the Prophet. I think there may be trouble.’

He knew what she was referring to by "trouble". The Muslims of Sinkiang had been struggling for a long time to put an end to Chinese rule, and to create a Republic of East Turkestan. In the past few years, there had been small rebellions, and any number of riots in the towns, all of them put down violently.

For over a year now, Muslim resistance had been hardening. One of David’s colleagues had monitored five heavy-arms shipments in the past six months, three via Pakistan, over the tightly guarded Khunjerab Pass. two from Tajikistan. The weapons had been bought in Afghanistan with Iranian money.

‘Nice little weapons, David,’ his friend had said, drooling over the computer printout. ‘Assault rifles, night-sights, grenade launchers, sniper’s rifles. State of the art, straight from Belgium and France, a doddle to use if you’ve got the skill, and who hasn’t these days?’

Now, he wondered how many had turned up in Urumchi.

‘I think we should head back to the conference,’ he said.

She hesitated, reluctant to leave what seemed to be a safe haven. But as yet there was no sound of angry crowds, no vibration from heavy engines, and she thought his suggestion might be a good one.

They paid and hurried out.

T
he street outside was almost deserted now. David decided that the best thing to do was head for the main Chinese thoroughfare, which would take them away from the Uighur district and back up towards the Holiday Inn.

A loudspeaker was droning a few streets away. David could make out very little. The language was Uighur, the voice a man’s. It was not a young voice. As they turned a corner, the sound suddenly clarified, and David realized there must be more than one speaker.

‘It’s coming from the mosque,’ said Nabila. ‘I think it’s just some sort of event in preparation for tomorrow’s festival.’

They turned another corner and saw the Shaanshi Mosque ahead of them at one end of a broad square. All the Koran-vendors and sellers of piddling-tubes had vanished. The square was empty, but for pigeons strutting back and forwards in search of bread. David sensed that the mosque itself must be filled to overflowing.

The loudspeakers were perfectly audible here. The voice was that of the ahun, rising and falling in the lilting manner peculiar to his profession.

‘They do not pray, they do not fast, they do not give alms. Their only pilgrimage is to the village of Mao Tse-tung. Their only marriage is with prostitutes and lewd women. They call themselves Communists and atheists, and mock their Creator. They bring their vices with them from Peking and Shanghai to the land of Islam. Gambling, alcohol, prostitution, contraception.

‘People of Islam, do not let yourselves be deceived. Do not let the feet of the unbelievers trample on the sacred Koran. Do not let men of depravity violate your women. Do not let Satan and his minions ridicule God’s laws in order to steal your property.’

The voice boomed from every side, the words clear and precise.

‘The moment has come to strike back. The moment has come to declare holy war on the forces of evil. The moment has come to send the Chinese back to the land of unbelief. Let them hear your voices in the street. Let them tremble as you march to victory.’

The preacher continued to incite his listeners. His words were not veiled in the least. He was calling on them to rise up against the Chinese, to cast the unbelievers out from their midst, to create an Islamic state.

‘I think it’s time we got away from here,’ said Nabila. 'There’s going to be trouble.’

She had hardly spoken than they became aware of the sound of heavy engines on every side. In less than half a minute, the shouting of the loudspeaker was drowned by the rumble of approaching vehicles. A lorry appeared in the mouth of one of the streets leading into the square. Moments later, a second appeared just north of it.

‘They can’t attack the mosque,’ said Nabila. ‘Not even they would dare.’

But as they watched, masses of green-uniformed soldiers started moving into the square. They were all Han Chinese, possibly shipped in from other provinces. David strained to see their uniforms more clearly.

‘They’re from a special force regiment. Lingdao ba or Yingshiang chi. The bastards mean business.’

Every exit was blocked. They ran along a row of closed shops, in the hope of finding somewhere to hide. But every door and every window had been locked or shuttered. David remembered that his passport was still in the possession of the hotel reception. He didn’t think any of the soldiers moving into the square would have the patience to listen to protestations of innocence.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We should have stayed in the cafe.’

‘We don’t know what’s happening back there. Can’t we break one of these doors?’

Suddenly, there was a hissing sound on their right. They turned to see an old man holding the door of his shop open and waving urgently at them.

‘Kirinlar!’ he urged. ‘Kirinlar!’ all the while beckoning them frantically inside. They didn’t ask any questions, but tumbled gratefully through the shabby wooden door. The old man slammed a heavy metal bar back over its stanchions, then turned a key in a large old-fashioned lock.

David glanced round. The shop belonged to a Chinese apothecary. Even on a day of bright sunshine, it exuded darkness from every crevice. The smell was overpowering: a mixture of senna, liquorice, and moss, mixed with the peculiar aromas of one thousand and one other herbs, plants, toadstools, roots, berries, and dried fruits. Everywhere, large wooden boxes bulged with specimens of what looked like every herb known to man. A long glass counter ran the length of the room at the rear. Behind it, rows of dusty wooden shelves rose to the ceiling, crammed with glass jars containing an extraordinary variety of substances. David could make out snake skins, whole snakes wound up like firecrackers, dried monkeys, toads, centipedes, grasshoppers, rhinoceros horns, elephants’ penises, shrivelled tortoises. From the ceiling hung bundles of dried plants, a baby crocodile, a bag of scorpions, another bag of roasted silkworms, and a dozen buffalo horns.

The old man introduced himself as Lao Wu - Old Wu -and tried to draw them to the rear of the shop, out of sight of the troops now flooding into the square. David shook his head.

'I want to see what’s happening out there.’

Nabila came towards him.

‘David, you don’t need to watch. It’s much too dangerous. This old man is risking his life to get us out of here.’

‘You go with him. Please. I’ve got to stay here. It’s my job.’

He knew that wasn’t exactly true: if he stayed, he would endanger his mission, and that was what counted most. But he couldn’t tear himself away. He was an eyewitness of whatever was about to happen. He crept to the window and crouched down low, out of sight behind a box of dried marigolds.

The square was swollen now with green uniforms. The troops were heavily armed. David felt his heart beat unpleasantly fast: he was certain they were planning to make an assault on the mosque itself.

Two soldiers appeared carrying a long ladder, which they laid against the wall of the building. The loudspeakers still blared out their message of resistance, the ahun’s voice mingling with the rumbling of the motors. As David watched, a young officer shinned up the ladder with a pair of wirecutters in one hand, found the wire powering the loudspeakers, and sheared through it with a single motion. A shower of sparks signalled the death of the speakers.

An older man in a neat blue Mao suit stepped to the centre of the square. David thought there was something familiar about him. He carried an electronic megaphone casually in his right hand. As he reached the centre of the square, he turned to signal to someone behind him, and David caught sight of his face. It was Chang Zhangyi. They were old enemies, bonded by indifference and pain. David did not like to see him here.

Chang Zhangyi raised the loudspeaker to his lips and spoke sharply into it. His voice lifted above the lorries’ gentle roar, penetrating the wood and brick of the mosque.

‘Come out quietly and you will not be harmed. We are here to help you. Don’t be afraid. You can only come out through the doors to the square. Put your hands on top of your heads and come out peacefully.’

David turned round. Nabila and the pharmacist were still waiting at the back of the shop.

‘Why haven’t you gone? I told you to go.’

‘If you’re caught without us you’ll be in serious danger,’ Nabila said. ‘I’m waiting for you, and Old Wu says he won’t go without me.’

‘I have to stay.’ He paused. ‘How many people does the mosque hold?’

‘I don’t know.’ She turned to Old Wu.

‘Five hundred,’ the old man said. ‘Maybe more than that today.’

‘Is it full?’

‘I saw them going in. It’s packed. All men today. No women.’

‘Are they armed, do you think?’

Old Wu shrugged. ‘
Keneng
’ he said, ‘
keneng bu
.’ Perhaps. Perhaps not.

David looked out again. The cordon of military had tightened round the square. Only a very thin mouse could have squeezed past. So far no one had appeared from the mosque. Chang Zhangyi continued to bellow his instructions through the loudhailer.

‘It will go much harder for you if we are forced to enter the mosque. Use your sense and come out now. Come out and disperse. That is all we ask.’

A figure appeared in the central door, a young man in T-shirt and jeans, his hands clasped nervously behind the back of his head. He came out into the square and started walking forward slowly. Behind him, others came out, and in moments worshippers were spilling from every doorway. David guessed that the soldiers had breached the doors on the other side, and were pushing those inside out into the square.

Without warning, the cordon moved in on the Uighurs as they struggled through the narrow doorways. People had started to panic at the sight of the soldiers. David saw youths and boys as young as five or six desperately looking round for an exit. Once out, there was no going back inside.

And now the soldiers struck. Two at a time, they advanced on anyone in the open, dragging or frogmarching him to the waiting lorries. Some tripped and fell to the ground, whereupon the soldiers started kicking them. The kicking was systematic and designed to cause internal injury.

Some of the younger men tried to fight back. One tried to punch a soldier who was pulling him by the hair. Chang Zhangyi walked up to him and shot him through the head at point-blank range. With the first shot, panic grew. Shouts and cries came from every direction.

A man of about twenty tried to run, hoping perhaps to break through the cordon and squeeze out past the lorries. He’d gone twenty yards or so when a short burst of submachine-gun fire stopped him in his tracks. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his riddled chest, then tried to steady himself on one arm. David saw Chang Zhangyi stroll across to him, raise his pistol, and shoot him in the back of the head.

David looked round. Nabila had joined him, watching in terror as the square, so peaceful fifteen minutes earlier, was overtaken by a mass of screaming, beaten humanity. They saw legs broken, arms wrenched from their sockets, heads smashed with truncheons, collarbones fractured, flesh kicked and pounded and torn.

An old man was seized by the beard and hurled backwards on to a waiting bayonet. The ahun came out in his traditional green cloak, a frail old creature supported by two younger men. He was knocked to his knees and punched repeatedly in the face. Someone snatched the Koran from his hands and shredded it into small pieces. One of the young men tried to intervene and was knocked unconscious with a rifle butt. The old man tried to retrieve the holy book: a soldier knocked him back down and stamped hard on his hands again and again.

‘Oh, no, David!’ Nabila’s hand grabbed his tightly. He tried to follow her line of sight. ‘There,’ she said, ‘near that lorry.’

He caught sight of a small child, separated from its father or brother, crying loudly and staggering in a daze of fright among the fighting and bewildered crowd. Ghang Zhangyi appeared from the side, grabbed the boy with one hand, and threw him head first against the back of the lorry. A dark stain appeared on the tailgate as the child slumped to the ground. He did not move again.