The Dark Road (22 page)

‘Be quiet,’ Meili says. ‘The villagers have let us “dwell beneath their hedge”. Don’t antagonise them . . . Oh God! It looks like he stole the cash we buried. What if he comes back to murder us? Who would bury our bodies?’

‘He can’t have found it. I’ll dig a little deeper.’ Since they set up home here, Kongzi has been stashing their cash in a hole he dug beside the hut. ‘Don’t be silly. No one will kill us. During his thirteen years in exile, Confucius toured the nine provinces and never once came to harm . . . You’re right, the cash has definitely gone.’ Kongzi rubs the mud from his hands, tramps back to the boat, sits down at the bow and lights a cigarette. ‘We must view this setback as a blessing,’ he says, watching Meili climb back onto the boat. ‘As the ancients said, “Today’s financial loss prevents tomorrow’s disaster.” Our cash has been stolen so that Waterborn can be granted a safe birth.’

‘Touring the country, you say? Hah! We’re not tourists, we’re fugitives, you idiot. I’m fed up of this vagabond life, Kongzi. You think of yourself as some great philosopher, roaming the country, contemplating the troubles of the world, with me tagging along as your humble disciple. Well, I’ve had enough, I’m telling you! What if that man was from the family planning team? What if he sends his colleagues down to arrest us?’

‘No, he was just a simple village thief. I’ve told you – the family planning officers here don’t care about illegal births. They’re happy for the villagers to have as many children as they want, so long as they pay the fines. The more maimed children are sold, the richer everyone gets. No one wants to kill the golden goose. So stop worrying.’

‘If we can’t return to your village, let’s go back to mine. I want to live in a house with a tiled roof. Nannan should be going to school now. This rootless life isn’t good for us. Let’s sell the boat and go home.’ Meili squashes two mosquitoes on her arm then wipes the blood on the cabin’s canopy.

‘Officers have told your parents to report us to the police if we turn up,’ Kongzi says. ‘So we’ve nowhere to return to now.’

‘But I’m tired of traipsing behind you,’ Meili says, folding an empty plastic bag and placing it under the bamboo mat to use later.

‘You’re tired of me? But I’m a model husband. I don’t play mahjong. The moment I wake up, I make breakfast for us. Didn’t you say you wanted to live in Heaven Township? Once the baby’s born, we’ll sell this batch of ducks and sail south.’

‘I still have another month to go. I heard that in Guangxi Province, family planning teams with metal helmets and shields have been storming into villages to carry out forced abortions. A village priest who tried to take away the aborted fetuses and give them a proper burial was beaten up and put in jail.’

‘This is Guangdong Province – it’s much more relaxed than Guangxi.’ Kongzi turns off the torch and lights another cigarette. ‘Do you remember, in Kong Village, how we’d hear frogs croak until dawn, just like that poem by Han Yu? But at night this filthy creek is as silent as death.’

‘What about the buzzing of the mosquitoes?’

‘Huh! Where’s the poetry in that? Just now, you used the phrase “dwell beneath their hedge”. Do you know which poem that comes from?’

‘Stop testing me. Let’s go back to sleep. You must go into the village in the morning and track the thief down. He’ll probably be roasting the ducks by then, so the smell should lead you to his house.’ Meili lies back down on the bamboo mat, turns onto her side and feels the taut skin of her large belly relax. ‘Oh God, Kongzi! I just realised we left our tricycle cart on the sand island! How could we have forgotten it?’

‘Didn’t I tell you? Someone stole it while we took Weiwei up to Yinluo. All I found when we got back was a single wheel chained to the tree . . .’

‘“Summer wildfires cannot destroy the grass, / For in spring, soft winds will restore it to life . . .”’ Father recites his favourite line of poetry and flicks his cigarette butt into the creek. Then he returns to the cabin, squeezes down next to Mother, drapes his leg over hers and unhooks her bra. ‘Bet the mosquitoes haven’t got to these two soft dumplings yet.’

‘Get your hands off me!’

‘What are they for, if not for me to fondle?’

‘It must be nearly four o’clock. You’ll wake the rooster.’

‘Until the baby’s born, these belong to me.’ Father leans over and moves his lips towards Mother’s nipple.

‘Those weighing scales take up too much space. Let’s throw them away.’

‘But I use them to prepare the feed.’

Mother pushes the scales out of the way, then folds her arms over her chest as Father coils around her and buries his face in her hair. ‘I warn you, I have nits! Don’t bite me . . . Get off! Stop pressing on my belly . . .’ Nannan opens her eyes. Mother quickly covers them with her hand and says, ‘Close your eyes, Nannan, and go back to sleep!’

Overlapping this scene, the infant spirit sees Father, a few days later, sitting in the cabin, listening to a man say, ‘We grew up together, Kongzi. You’re a brilliant strategist. Without your help, we’ll get nowhere.’

Father puts down his glass and says, ‘Kong Qing, you’re like a brother to me. I admire you for wanting to stand up for the Chinese people and protect the Kong family line. But the rebellion you’re planning is doomed to fail. This country has changed since the Tiananmen Massacre. The people have lost their fighting spirit. Where would you base your stronghold?’

‘In Wild Man Mountain. It’s easy to defend. Armies with heavy artillery wouldn’t be able to climb it.’ The two men are cross-legged on the cabin floor, smoking. The kerosene lamp illuminates the blue notebook, ashtray and carton of deep-fried broad beans on the cardboard box between them.

‘I admit, if you demanded the repeal of the One Child Policy, every peasant in China would support you. But what would you do next? Overthrow the Communist Party? Challenge the People’s Liberation Army? You say you want to take over every family planning office in the country, but you must understand that once you’ve occupied them, you’ll become an easy target. It’s a game of chess. You might take their knight, but if they nab your queen in the next move, you’re finished.’

‘All right, forget about the Fertility Freedom Party, then. Let’s form a suicide squad instead! Like those Muslim suicide bombers, we’ll storm government offices, detonate ourselves, and take the whole corrupt lot of them with us!’ Kong Qing punches his fist onto the bamboo mat. Although this scene took place years ago, his punch still judders down to the base of the boat and sends ripples through the moon’s pale reflection.

‘I’m not afraid of death,’ Father says. ‘I’m sure you and I would have the balls to storm every family planning office in China. But we’d just be letting off steam. We wouldn’t achieve anything.’

‘I want to fight, Kongzi, not only to avenge the abortion of my son, but to ensure the survival of the Kong clan and Chinese family traditions. These are causes for which I’m willing to sacrifice my life. Did you know that in the Cultural Revolution, after the Red Guards smashed the Tomb of Confucius, they dug up the corpses of a seventy-sixth generation descendant, Kong Lingyi, and his wife, and thrashed them with spades? It was a declaration of war against the Chinese nation.’

‘I know. They dug up and destroyed two thousand ancestral graves. Corpses were pulled out, stripped and hung from trees. I agree we must avenge our family honour, but not by launching a rebellion. The time isn’t right. Historically, popular revolts have erupted in times of hardship. But the Party has allowed people to get rich. Who would want to join the revolution now?’

‘What destruction Mao unleashed . . .’

‘Yes, but Mao’s dead, and faith in Communism is dead. The Party has no ideology to legitimise itself now, so it’s bringing back capitalism and Confucianism to fill the void. Go into any bookshop, and you’ll see that in official publications Confucius is no longer referred to as “Evil Kong, the Second Son” . . . All right, I’ll help draw up a constitution for your Fertility Freedom Party, but I tell you now, I won’t join any uprising.’ Some of their rice wine has spilt on the mat, filling the cabin with a sweet, heady smell.

‘Look at all the people who’ve signed up: Kong Guo, Scarface, Wang Wu . . . I’ve got a hundred names already. We’ll hold our first party congress soon and elect a chair. I hope you’ll accept the position of secretary general.’

‘No, count me out. Meili’s going to give birth next month – so I’ll be doing my part to ensure the survival of the Kong clan! But I have three points to make. First: if you do launch a rebellion, you must be aware that you will receive no international backing. America and the UN have given full support to China’s population control policies. Second: if you want to get rid of the One Child Policy, you must get rid of the Communist Party first, and that won’t happen without a military coup. Tens of thousands of protests flare up across China every year, and in the end each one is crushed by the army. So, my third point is: bide your time and focus on building a network of contacts. Then, when a national uprising similar to the 1989 protests breaks out, you’ll be able to take advantage of the chaos and launch your attack.’

Mother walks out of the bamboo hut, leans against a tree beside the creek and pisses into the water. Noticing the lamp still shining in the cabin, she shouts, ‘Kongzi, go to sleep! The sun’s almost up.’

KEYWORDS:
chrysalids, crow’s nest, motherwort, spindly tree, pelvic inflammatory disease.

MEILI HERDS THE
ducks up the muddy path that curls through the lychee grove towards the terraced hill. She wanted them to stay on the lower terrace, but the duck at the front catches a scent and climbs a steep track, and the whole flock soon follows behind, shaking their snow-white tails. There are thirty-two of them. The remaining ten are roosting in the hutch or are too sick to come out. Meili wants them to forage for earthworms and snails while she looks for the water chickweed flowers she likes to add to egg soup.

The July sunlight has softened the earth. Steam is rising from the clumps of willows and eucalyptus trees and bags of rubbish scattered over the fallow field. The heat seeps into Meili’s flesh. Inside her belly, the fetus extends its legs and excretes fluids into the amniotic sac. As she crosses the field, her pulse racing and her head dizzy from the heat, she feels as though the ground beneath her feet is supporting her like a strong and dependable man. She sees a peony bush, buries her nose in a pink bloom, and inhales. The subtle, mysterious scent makes her lose her balance. She undoes the lower buttons of her shirt, and, breathing deeply, lowers herself onto the grass. As her pulse returns to a slow, steady pace, a Tang poem drifts into her mind: ‘Idly I sit while osmanthus flowers fall. / Tranquil is the spring night on the deserted hill. / The moon rises, startling the mountain birds. / All night they call out from the ravine.’ Kongzi once copied this poem for her on bamboo paper in graceful ‘grass style’ calligraphy, and she put it in the wooden box containing the jade earrings her grandmother gave her . . . For an instant, time seems to lose all meaning. She stares at a pink flower in the grass below and tries to remember its name, then looks at the ducks foraging for food in the irrigation ditches, their necks stretching out and shrinking back again. A drake mounts a female duck and waggles its tail as it ejaculates. She saw that pair mate two days ago. As soon as the egg is laid, she’ll have to collect it and place it in the hutch for the duck to incubate. Thinking of the eggs makes Meili’s belly tighten. As she rubs her bamboo herding pole, she remembers Kongzi making love to her on their honeymoon in Beijing, while Teacher Zhou was out at work. The bed had a soft, sprung mattress. He shook her about in a sweaty fervour for hours. By the end, she was drenched and listless, and her groin was scorched and inflamed. For the rest of the honeymoon, the burning between her legs made it painful for her to walk. When she stepped onto Tiananmen Square on their last day, it hurt so much that she had to sit down and rest on the concrete paving stones. As soon as Weiwei gripped her hand on the boat, the memory of that pain came back to her. She hates thinking of Weiwei now, and still hasn’t taken a look at the tortoiseshell glasses she snatched from him . . . She glances up and sees hanging down from the leaves of a shrub, three grey butterfly chrysalids. She hopes that one day she too will be able to break out of her shell and fly. During these last nine months, she’s barely had a moment to think of her own future. Sharp spikes of motherwort prick into her ankles. On the broad Huai River far away, boats are docked below a petrol station and large cargos are being unloaded. One boat has a triangular flag, indicating it can sail on foreign waters. Last week, Kongzi transported cargos of security doors and glass panels. He was paid thirty-five yuan a day, but after the cost of fuel was deducted, he was left with only twenty. He spent two hundred yuan when Kong Qing visited, taking him out for meals at the village restaurant. Meili was excluded from their secret discussions, but from the little she overheard she gathered they’re planning to set up a company to provide family planning information. Meili asked Kong Qing whether his wife suffered any after-effects from the forced abortion, and he said she contracted a pelvic inflammatory disease which has left her infertile. He said that women subjected to such abortions often develop this disease, and even if they do manage to conceive later, the babies are either miscarried or born with birth defects. He said the government deliberately chooses to perform forced abortions and IUD insertions in primitive places such as village schools, so that women will contract illnesses that will render them barren. Meili is relieved that although she suffered from cramps and heavy bleeding for a while after her abortion, she didn’t develop any serious complications. She runs her hands through the grass, searching for her favourite bitter-tasting wolfberry leaves, and for snails to feed to her ducks. For the first time in months, she feels safe and at peace.