China Dream Read online

  ‘And those drivers are pulling up to see what’s going on,’ Chief Jia shouts back. ‘Quick, Sergeant Pan, cordon off the area and arrest anyone who’s filming on their phones.’

  With a deafening crash the fake house finally caves in. Director Ma catches a final glimpse of Genzai, plummeting down in the chaos of falling concrete, his hands still clutching the national flag and the sunlight glinting on his shaven head before he disappears into the cloud of dust. He remembers that when he was digging his parents’ grave in the wild grove on the other side of the river, he was gripping a Chairman Mao badge in the palm of his right hand. He glances down and sees a ripped condom, and beside it a red badge exactly like the one he is thinking about, embossed with the golden face of Chairman Mao. A brick soars overhead and hits the windscreen of a police car. Chief Jia pulls down his visor and shouts: ‘Fucking hooligans!’

  Waves of dust roll from the bulldozers’ tracks; smells of chives and urine move through the air. Director Ma sees the middle-aged man in army camouflage being dragged towards the police van. ‘Bastards!’ the man shouts, foaming with rage. ‘If you demolish my home I’ll kill myself right here in front of you.’ He has kicked off his left shoe in his effort to break free, and is digging his bare toes into the earth. His Labrador is foaming at the mouth as well.

  ‘Fine – kill yourself if you want,’ Chief Jia shouts back, infuriated that this villager has dared wear an army uniform.

  ‘If you tear down my house, I’ll murder your mother! I’ll fight you to the death!’ As he continues to yell, officers grab hold of his barking Labrador and lock it in a cage.

  The bulldozers’ tracks clank and screech. More villagers appear from a side street hoping to mount an attack, but when they see the huge column of armed police, they drop their pitchforks and flee.

  Once the police manage to seize the villagers’ makeshift cannons and tanks, the situation calms down. The informers in red baseball caps are arrested as well so as not to arouse suspicion. Director Ma catches a whiff of perfume from one of the captured women. Her lipstick and streaks of dyed blonde hair turn his mind to the pleasures of the bedroom. She has a rope around her neck and is being shoved into the back of a police van by three officers.

  As Ma Daode turns round and heads for the Land Cruiser, a villager bashes him with a flattened bicycle, and he tumbles onto his back with quivering legs akimbo. Hu rushes over to help him up. Commander Zhao has received a blow to the head as well and is being carried to an ambulance on a stretcher. As he passes, Director Ma grabs hold of his hand and says, ‘Comrade-in-arms, give me your Little Red Book. I will take care of it. You have fallen heroically in battle. Your Red Guard armband is drenched in blood. But fear not. The East is Red flag will fly for ever over the streets of Ziyang …’

  ‘Let’s go, Director Ma!’ Hu says, trying desperately to pull him over to the car.

  ‘Think I’m your fucking slave, do you, Ma Daode?’ Commander Zhao shouts as his stretcher is pushed into the ambulance. ‘Your salary’s no higher than mine, you know! Making us tear down whole villages to pay for your fucking China Dream shows and your bloody China Dream Device. You fucking—’ He shakes a fist in anger as the ambulance doors are closed.

  ‘Yes, let’s leave, I’m not feeling at all well,’ Ma Daode says. Once inside the Land Cruiser, he takes out his mobile and reads a new text: DIRECTOR MA, DIDN’T YOU AGREE TO MEET ME FOR LUNCH AT THE PROSPERITY HOTEL? I’M WAITING FOR YOU IN ROOM 123. PLEASE HURRY UP …

  ‘Were you an East is Red member, by any chance, Director Ma?’ Hu asks. ‘I’ve noticed that the Cultural Revolution has been on your mind a lot these last days …’ This is the first time Hu has asked Director Ma about his past. Although his tone is casual, Director Ma spots a sly flicker in his eyes and suspects he knows more than he is letting on.

  Mr Tai turns on the engine, but can’t set off because the road is blocked with vehicles.

  ‘Yes, I joined East is Red. Seeing Commander Zhao’s head wrapped in bandages just now took me back to the violent struggle. In January 1968, the Million Bold Warriors attacked our headquarters in the Agricultural Machinery College. All we had were twelve rifles we’d looted from the college’s military training office, but they had just been given a cannon and fifty guns by their supporters in the army. Thousands of them stormed our building and attacked us room by room, tossing hand grenades as they went. The noise was ear-splitting. When they reached the top, they tied up our vice commander and stabbed him repeatedly with two drill bits. His steaming blood and guts splattered everywhere. They called it the “Cultural Revolution”. Bullshit! It was armed warfare. If auxiliary forces hadn’t come to our rescue, the sixty of us held captive would have been killed. I still got stabbed three times in the chest, though. It was a miracle I survived.’

  ‘Why rake over the past?’ Hu replies, his bald head glistening with perspiration. ‘You’re a municipal leader now: your wish is your command. My mother died in the Cultural Revolution. She used to work for the county supply office. My father has never told me where she’s buried, and I have never asked.’ Hu’s eyes are blank but his voice is wavering.

  ‘We were teenagers, secondary-school children,’ Ma Daode continues. ‘We boycotted classes and flung ourselves into the revolution before we’d had a chance to pick sides. And once violence starts, it continues under its own momentum. First it’s fists, then it’s bricks, and before you know it, there will be guns. Look what happened here today, Hu – it was just like the violent struggle when opposing factions tried to kill each other while both pledging undying allegiance to Chairman Mao!’ Director Ma looks out of the window at the concrete house that has been reduced to a heap of rubble. Why was I not buried along with my comrades, all those years ago?

  ‘Live a worthy life and die an honourable death – that’s all we can hope for,’ Mr Tai interjects. He turns the radio to a music station and taps the beat of the song on his steering wheel.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Hu – we must forget the past. That’s why I want to develop the China Dream Device. Mr Tai, can you close the windows and switch on the air conditioning, please?’ Director Ma rubs the sweat from his neck with a tissue, leaving long red marks on his skin.

  ‘Someone in the Bureau is saying that your China Dream Device is a crazy pipe dream,’ Hu says, a hint of malice creeping into his voice. ‘He says you’re just proposing these hare-brained projects because you’ve run out of ideas.’

  ‘Don’t tell me who it is. Hey, Tai, pass me a cigarette?’ Director Ma is troubled by what Hu has just said, but wonders whether he is telling the truth. Mayor Chen offered him a month’s sabbatical last week, but he turned it down because he was afraid Hu might take over his job in his absence.

  ‘The Cultural Revolution – it was a heroic time, though, wasn’t it?’ Mr Tai says. He pulls a cigarette from the car pocket, lights it and hands it to Director Ma.

  ‘Our faith was unshakeable back then,’ Director Ma replies. ‘We believed that in life we followed Chairman Mao and in death we reunited with Karl Marx. We devoted our entire being to the Communist Party. Turn left here – the road along the river is full of potholes.’

  When Director Ma finishes the cigarette, he tosses it out of the window … I trudged for hours through dirty, broken snow. My father had sent a neighbour out to call me back home. Behind me, a man was pushing a bicycle that creaked and groaned all the way. The looted army boots I was wearing kept my feet warm. When I opened our front door I smelt chicken stew. My sister was by the stove, stirring a pot of corn gruel. There were feathers and drops of chicken blood on the floor. On a chair in the corner was a placard that said: DOWN WITH EVIL RIGHTIST MA LEI and a tall, cone-shaped dunce’s hat. My father was sitting on the bed under a lamp, writing a letter. He glanced up and noticed the bandages around my head. When we had attacked a convention of rebel factions the day before, a soldier guarding the rostrum had hit me with his rifle butt. My mother came out from under the door curtain with a ba
sin of hot water disinfected with purple potassium permanganate. She told my father to stretch out his legs. His bloodied kneecaps were splintered with fine shards of coal. My mother whispered to me: ‘Come and help hold up his knees, Daode,’ but I ignored her. She washed Father’s knees with the disinfected water until her hands were stained purple. My father shuddered at the pain, but didn’t make a sound. Through the corners of his eyes, he continued to look at the letter he was writing. That afternoon, Red Guards had forced him to kneel in hot coal ashes. But I had drawn a clear political line between myself and this old Rightist called Ma Lei, so I could not allow myself to help my mother treat his wounds.

  A hot breeze blows in through the car window. Director Ma presses the button to close it again. With the big white bandage around my head and a look of surly resentment, I knelt by the stove and pumped the bellows to keep the fire going, and glanced briefly at my father wiping his face with a flannel. ‘As long as the wounds are clean I’ll be fine,’ he said to my mother. The flannel was drenched with his blood and sweat. The more he wiped his neck with it, the dirtier his neck became.

  The scent of the chicken stew softened the room’s hard edges. I asked my sister to tell me who had done this to our father. She dropped some salt into the pot and picked up some chopped spring onions. ‘It was another struggle session, of course,’ she answered at last. ‘I hope one day that boy will know what it’s like to kneel on hot ashes with a heavy placard around his neck. Here, Mother, have this.’ She sprinkled the bowl of corn gruel with the chopped spring onions and handed it to my mother, then ladled some out for me. I drank it ravenously, blowing on each spoonful to stop it burning my mouth.

  ‘I have some spare bandages,’ I said, careful not to look at anyone in particular.

  ‘I’m fine – let’s all go to sleep now,’ my father said. ‘You’ve walked a long way. Have a quick wash, then go to bed.’ Although he didn’t raise his eyes, I knew he was talking to me. I wondered why he had called me home if it was just to have a meal and go to bed. My mother told me to take off my dirty socks and boil up some water for my father. I wanted to shout at her, but was too tired. I had spent months living on the streets, fighting endless battles, and there was seldom a chance to sleep. The Million Bold Warriors had seized control of the outskirts. We had captured four of Ziyang’s fourteen schools and most of the hospitals, post offices and department stores, but had lost many lives in clashes near the train station and the Drum Tower. As soon as I stretched out on the sofa I was overcome with exhaustion and sank into a deep sleep.

  In my dreams, I heard my father moan like an ox. My sister shook me awake and shouted: ‘Get up. Mother and Father have locked themselves in the attic!’ I ran upstairs and banged on the door. I smelt a strong whiff of pesticide seeping through the cracks. ‘Open the door,’ my sister pleaded. ‘What are you two doing in there?’ She burst into tears, and kept knocking, again and again. I heard fingernails scraping against the floorboards inside. I wanted to light a lamp. My sister groped her way downstairs in the dark and ran to the back yard. Then she called out and told me to come outside, climb up to the attic and smash the window. I did as she asked. After clambering inside, I switched on the light and saw my parents on the floor, my mother’s purple-stained hand gripping my father’s sallow hand, as their souls drifted off to the Yellow Springs of the netherworld. Beside my father lay an opened bottle of pesticide. The foul liquid that was leaking from it smelt like raw garlic and paraffin. An enamel wash bowl my mother had used to clean her face lay toppled beside her in a puddle of water.

  Director Ma feels his grief weighing down like an overripe pear that longs to drop from its branch but is afraid of smashing into pieces. The Land Cruiser approaches Drum Tower Street in the old quarter of Ziyang. White Heaven is on the next turning to the left. He will enter through the Gate of Heavenly Peace, update Propaganda Chief Ding on the morning’s events and proceed to Prosperity Hotel. After a quick talk with the general manager about the Golden Anniversary Dream, he will then check into a room and make love to his new mistress. She is a young woman who has returned from America with a business degree, and now calls herself ‘Claire’. He met her ten days ago when she came to the China Dream Bureau and proposed to help them set up a giant advertising screen somewhere in the city centre.

  Dreaming your life away in a drunken haze

  Director Ma walks into the reception hall of the Red Guard Nightclub. Pink and red lanterns cast a rosy glow over Maoist propaganda boards and Red Guard flags. Young hostesses wearing the green military uniforms and red armbands of the Cultural Revolution line up in front of him. His pulse quickens; he feels sixteen again. He removes his sunglasses, goes over to Number 8 and nods. After she has informed him that her measurements are 80, 60, 75, he takes her hand, says: ‘I’ll have you tonight,’ and leads her to Chairman Mao’s private compartment. He spotted the name of this club on a list of establishments targeted in a recent campaign against pornography, and decided to try it out himself tonight instead of sleeping with one of his many mistresses.

  ‘What’s the hurry, Chief? Sit down and have a drink with me. I’ll open this bottle of French claret to welcome you to our club.’ Number 8 squeezes Director Ma’s hand, half cajoling him, half pushing him away. This room is a mock-up of an official train compartment used by Mao Zedong. There is a desk with pencils, a fountain pen and an ashtray; a hanging scroll inscribed with a line of Mao’s poetry: A CAVE CREATED FOR IMMORTALS, / FROM THE PEAKS THE VIEW IS SUBLIME; a sofa, an armchair, a pair of slippers and a silk dressing gown. It even has a replica carriage window that looks out onto a large coloured poster of the green terraced rice fields of Mao’s model village, Dazhai.

  ‘Tonight, young lady, you will play the part of my first love. Let me look at you. Ah, hands as slender as blades of grass, skin as yielding as congealed fat, neck white as a maggot, eyebrows delicate as the wings of a black moth …’ With great delight, Director Ma removes the hostess’s red-starred military cap, sinks into the armchair and fills two glasses with claret.

  ‘I’m like moths and maggots?’ Number 8 says indignantly. She watches Ma Daode swig back his drink, then downs hers in one as well.

  ‘I’m quoting a poem from the Book of Odes,’ Ma Daode answers, gazing up at the ceiling light. ‘It’s a eulogy of a beautiful woman. You should read more widely.’

  ‘But moths and maggots – that’s a bit disgusting, isn’t it?’ Number 8 wrinkles her nose and tucks her hair behind her ears. Under the glow of the red lamp her face looks plastic.

  ‘With decoration like this, I expect they’ll charge me two thousand five hundred yuan for the room, two thousand to sleep with you, and another thousand if I don’t use a condom,’ Ma Daode says. Then raising his eyebrows suggestively he whispers: ‘The sluttier you behave the larger your tip!’ He strokes her hair, then puts a lock of it in his mouth and sucks. ‘Mm. You’ve just washed it, haven’t you? Delicious!’ Then he unbuttons her green army jacket and snaps open her bra. ‘Ah, so round and ample. Two pillows of pale pink alabaster …’ A wave of pleasure surges to his throat. ‘Come, let your vermilion lips blow my amethyst flute …’

  He pushes her head to his groin and drips some claret onto her lips. ‘Tonight I will be Ximen Qing, the corrupt and lustful merchant from The Plum in the Golden Vase. That’s a book you should read. It’s a classic work of erotic fiction. Lots of explicit passages. In the Cultural Revolution, Mao only allowed high officials to read the unabridged version …’ He observes her for a while, then leans back, stretches out his legs and reads the subtitles of the karaoke video showing on the flat screen attached to the wall: DEAREST CHAIRMAN MAO, YOU ARE ALWAYS IN OUR HEARTS. WHEN WE ARE LOST, YOU SHOW US THE WAY. WHEN WE ARE PLUNGED IN DARKNESS, YOU LIGHT UP OUR PATH … He turns up the volume, closes his eyes and mumbles: ‘With her gentle teeth, soft tongue and delicate hands she caresses the jade stalk … Now I am Chairman Mao sitting in his private carriage, and you are Zhang Yufeng, his personal train a
ttendant.’

  Kneeling in front of the armchair, Number 8 raises her head and with a look of misty admiration says: ‘Yes, Chief. Every day you attend to countless state affairs for the sake of humanity. It is our revolutionary duty to ensure that tonight you enjoy a good rest.’

  ‘Sounds like you know a lot about the Cultural Revolution, then?’ Director Ma asks, dropping his official tone. He looks at the Mao portrait and feels proud to have gained admission to the Chairman’s private space. A stream of pleasure flows through his veins.

  ‘Not really – what was it exactly?’ Number 8 asks, looking up again, a pubic hair stuck to the corner of her mouth and her lipstick smudged up to her nostrils.

  ‘The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. Surely your parents have mentioned it to you!’ Now that Director Ma has removed all of his clothes, his voice has acquired a playful, sing-song tone.

  ‘Well, I know this uniform’s from the Cultural Revolution, isn’t it?’ She leans down over his crotch again, and her black hair sways about as her head moves back and forth, back and forth.

  ‘Yes, that’s a Red Guard uniform. But you should have the name of your faction on your armband. “East is Red Combat Team”, for example. The Red Guards were not much younger than you. Mao saw them as his little soldiers and told them to “create great disorder under Heaven”. When factory workers joined the movement, they split into rival factions and the violence spiralled out of control …’ As soon as Director Ma starts pontificating, his penis goes soft. Number 8 removes it from her mouth and slowly rubs it back to life with her pink manicured fingers.

  ‘I don’t care if I’m wearing the correct uniform or not. Our boss told us we are all the heirs of Communism.’