China Dream Read online

  As he swallows some more claret, Director Ma sees his childhood sweetheart, Pan Hua, appear in his mind’s eye, dressed in a khaki army jacket with a white, sewn-on collar. ‘Be kind to your mother when you get home,’ she told me before I left the headquarters. ‘Take my copy of Mao’s Little Red Book with you. It will keep you safe on your journey.’ My heart started beating so fast, all I could say in reply was: ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ But my parents committed suicide that night, and when I returned to the East is Red headquarters a week later, I learned that Pan Hua had been killed in a battle … Director Ma feels a cold draught blow across his spine. He wraps his legs around Number 8’s waist and sits up, trying to pull his fat belly in.

  Through half-open eyes he watches Number 8’s naked breasts wobble up and down as she rubs his jade stalk with a hot flannel. ‘What time do you go home?’ he asks, staring now at a lock of hennaed hair dangling across her face.

  ‘I clock off at midnight, Chief, and start again at seven in the morning. Would you like another service from me?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t screwed you yet. But why don’t we have a chat first. Come and sit next to me and let’s get to know each other a little better. Now, you will be Comrade Pan Hua.’

  ‘Fine, Chief. Which club does Pan Hua work in? Does she look like me? I’m one metre seventy tall.’

  ‘She’s in … Heaven.’ He leans back in the armchair and looks up at the ceiling.

  ‘I know that place – the Heaven on Earth Club. All the girls who work there have college degrees.’ Her lock of hennaed hair is now sticking up like a red cockscomb.

  ‘I mean she’s in Heaven, not on Earth.’ In a grandfatherly tone he continues: ‘I loved the film Battle for Yan’an and the Russian novel, Anna Karenina. But Pan Hua had never read a book in her life – she only liked magazines.’ He downs another glass of claret, puts a few raisins in his mouth and feels a craving for a cigarette. The subtitles of another song appear on the screen: I DONATE MY PETROLEUM TO THE MOTHERLAND. / AS IT GUSHES FROM MY WELLS, FLOWERS OF JOY BLOOM FROM MY HEART.

  I don’t know whether Pan Hua ever sang these songs. I don’t even know how tall she was. I do know that she wore her hair in two plaits tied with red wool, and, just like Number 8 here, had a Chairman Mao badge on her chest, a red armband on her sleeve and a military belt buckled tightly around her waist. She also wore a red scarf. But I have no idea what her fingers, feet, neck or breasts looked like. We were both members of East is Red and even drank from the same Thermos flask, but the truth is I knew very little about her … Ma Daode feels light-headed now that the alcohol is coursing through his bloodstream … My family and I lived in Yaobang for only six months during the Great Famine, and I was just eight years old. But some memories of that time are still vivid. I remember seeing villagers peeling the bark from trees and eating it to fend off starvation. And I remember seeing a woman sitting on her porch, stone dead, her hands still gripping an empty bowl. If my father hadn’t been called back to Ziyang to oversee research into protein-rich algae, I doubt our family would have survived.

  Fondling Number 8’s breasts with one hand, Director Ma scrolls through his messages with the other. He finds one from his daughter in England: HI DAD, GUESS WHO I SAW IN LONDON TODAY? ONLY OUR PRESIDENT, PAPA XI, AND HIS WIFE, MAMA PENG! WHEN THEY PASSED BY IN THE QUEEN’S GOLDEN CARRIAGE, MY FRIENDS AND I HELD UP HUGE CHINESE FLAGS OVER SOME PLACARDS ABOUT THE SO-CALLED TIANANMEN MASSACRE. THEY WERE FULL OF LIES, OF COURSE, COOKED UP BY FOREIGN REACTIONARIES SEEKING TO HAMPER CHINA’S RISE. THERE WERE SOME TIBETANS THERE AS WELL, WAVING SEPARATIST FLAGS. AND THE ENGLISH POLICE DIDN’T EVEN TRY TO ARREST THEM. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? Ma Daode combs his fingers through Number 8’s hair and pushes her head back down between his legs. Then he leans back, turns up the volume with the remote control and sings along with the revolutionary song, tapping out the rhythm on Number 8’s back: ‘“The Communist Party summons us to join the revolution. Gladly we seize the whip and strike our enemies down …”’ Recalling what a flat arse he had as a young man, he takes Number 8’s hand and presses it against his buttocks. ‘Feel this arse of mine. Isn’t it fat? Isn’t it round? I’m just so fucking perfect!’ Thinking back to his youth again, he says: ‘My wife was perfect as well. She was as beautiful as a lotus flower. I used to gladly finish off the baked potato skins she’d leave on the side of her plate.’

  ‘And look how big and hard this is,’ Number 8 says, weighing his penis in her hand, trying to prolong the conversation so as to give her mouth a rest. ‘What’s that?’ she asks, touching a scar on his chest. ‘Did you have an operation?’

  ‘See, there’s another one here, and here. I was stabbed three times by the Red Guards.’

  ‘So you really are a hero of the revolution!’ Number 8 exclaims, looking up with wonder. Her face is slightly darker than her shoulders.

  ‘My wife’s brother was a Red Guard. He belonged to a rival faction. In one battle we stole four of their jeeps. Huh, who would have guessed I’d end up marrying his little sister …’ Ma Daode feels his guard lowering further now that the alcohol has fully kicked in. ‘Let’s turn on the news,’ he says, ‘Well, look at that headline: “Former Party Secretary of Chongqing, Bo Xilai, has today been sentenced to life in prison for bribery, embezzlement and abuse of power.” Fuck me! That old Red Guard’s had it this time!’ Ma Daode looks like a stout, hairless pig now, as he sits slouched in the armchair, sucking on a cigarette, his knees knocking together.

  ‘My mouth is sore, Chief. Can’t you just finish off inside me?’ Although Number 8 is exhausted, she still manages a placating smile.

  ‘All right, my dear Pan Hua, I’ll take care of you.’ Without further ado, he heaves himself out of the chair, presses her against the sofa and pulls off her black nylon tights. Then he grabs a breast in each hand and gently rocks her from side to side in the ‘wandering dragon toys with the phoenix’ position. The old photograph of Chairman Mao on the wall in front of him sways from left to right. ‘My darling Pan Hua, were you just a dream, or am I dreaming now?’ Sliding into a half-trance, he starts to pull her back and forth as though rowing a boat, first with leisurely strokes, then with increasing force until, brimming with desire and gasping for breath, he discharges into her, his legs jolting spasmodically like an ejaculating stud horse.

  Ma Daode only started being unfaithful to his wife after he became County Propaganda Chief. Before long, he was sleeping with a different woman every night, as though he was working his way through a tray of regional snacks. At first, he took cuttings of their pubic hair to keep as souvenirs, but soon collected so many that he couldn’t tell which ones belonged to whom, so he locked them all up in a drawer and abandoned the habit. Now that the years have caught up with him, he has resolved to have just twelve mistresses at any one time, and has even considered limiting himself to six, because making love every day takes its toll on his health.

  Director Ma sniffs the smell of Number 8’s sweat on his fingers and gazes at her white teeth sparkling behind her ruffled hair. ‘Bet not even you enjoyed such a blissful time as this, Chairman Mao!’ he says with a grin, his breath pungent with alcohol. ‘Quick! Tell the boss to send me two more!’

  Moments later, five girls enter the room. Without being asked, two of them approach Director Ma and stroke his shoulders and pot belly. ‘Fine, I’ll have these two: Number Six and Number Ten. Take your clothes off and lie down over there.’ He points to the large sofa on which Number 8 is sitting. The three girls who weren’t chosen quietly leave the room.

  ‘Why don’t we book a hotel room instead, Chief?’ asks Number 10. ‘It will be quieter there.’

  ‘You’re afraid the police will raid the club? Don’t worry. In Ziyang, what I say goes. Now hurry up and strip.’ For a few minutes he sits on the armchair and watches the undulating curves of six soft breasts dance before his eyes. Then, unable to restrain himself, he crawls over, kneels on the rug and inserts himself repeatedly into the dark thicket between Num
ber 8’s legs, using the ancient thrusting method of ‘nine shallow, one deep’. Resting his head on Number 6’s thighs, he slides his right hand up Number 10’s plump belly and traces circles around her nipple with his fingertips. When he hears her moan, he withdraws his jade stalk from Number 8 and thrusts it into Number 10’s peony blossom, opening the petals with his fingers to ease it in, then quickly pushes his left hand, adorned with a Swiss watch, back into Number 8’s thicket. Moving his right hand over to caress Number 6’s pink crevice, he extracts his shaft, moistens it with a drop of saliva, then rams it into Number 8 again, entering her in upward and downward strokes, then in a winding, circular pattern, each time venturing deeper into the dark interior of her jade-white body until, ascending to a peak of pleasure, shuddering and groaning, he ejects another batch of his vital essence. His energy spent, he leans over for another glug of wine, then curls up like a prawn on a hot grill, nestling himself between Number 8’s willowy waist and Number 10’s plump belly.

  ‘What a stud you are, Chief, spurting one load after another, at your age!’ says Number 8, clenching her thighs together. The beige nylon bra she is clutching looks like a bunch of withered flowers.

  ‘Yes, it’s my secret golden rifle,’ he mumbles with half-shut eyes, feeling his flesh spreading out like soft clay.

  ‘He’s leaked onto the rug – quick, get some paper and wipe it up,’ Number 10 says to the other two as she reaches down for her knickers. She is wearing only knee-high boots. She stands up brusquely. As she catches her breath, her breasts and belly rise and fall.

  ‘I’m sick of these red songs,’ Director Ma says. ‘Can’t you put on some pop music instead?’ Feeling drowsy and dazed, he stares at the light flashing on his mobile phone and wishes he could crawl off into some dark, faraway place he has never been before.

  ‘Chairman Mao’s private carriage only has songs from the revolution,’ says Number 10, reaching behind her back to do up her bra. The hair in her armpits reminds Ma Daode of his oldest lover Li Wei. Last time he went to bed with her he couldn’t get an erection however hard he tried.

  ‘Revolution, huh!’ he says, rousing himself a little. ‘Do you realise that in Chinese the literal meaning of the revolution is “to sever life”. Well, when I was a teenager, I severed three lives while singing revolutionary songs. That was before any of you were born.’ The screen on the wall appears to be shaking. Although he knows he has drunk too much, he still accepts another glass of wine from Number 8 and swallows half of it in one gulp. When it reaches his stomach, he sees a cloud of purple sparks.

  Number 10 drapes a khaki army coat over her shoulders, leaves the room and returns with a tray of fruit and hot flannels. Ma Daode stares at the exposed strip of skin stretching from her foot to the top of her thigh. The name of a popular rap folksong appears on the screen, and when the music starts, he sings along with the subtitles: ‘“I gaze to that magical place above the moon and wonder how many dreams are floating there …”’ Numbers 6 and 10, who are now seated on either side of him with Red Guard jackets over their shoulders, join in, singing loudly and from the heart. Number 8 is cross-legged on the rug in an unbuttoned khaki coat, a gold chain sparkling over her cleavage. Four black stilettos lie in a heap beside her.

  ‘Bring me another tray of fruit – Taiwanese mangoes and Thai lychees,’ Ma Daode commands. ‘And tell me what faction you Red Guards belong to. Tell me, or I’ll shoot you dead!’

  ‘Calm down,’ Number 6 smiles, pulling a dirty plaster from her toe. ‘We’re just regular Red Guards offering our bodies to senior officials. We don’t belong to any faction.’

  ‘Impossible!’ he says, jabbing Number 10’s armband so hard he spills his wine onto his lap. ‘Every Red Guard had to choose a side! When I was sixteen, I killed a boy who was one metre eighty tall, simply because his faction wasn’t as revolutionary as ours. Anyone who opposed us was our enemy.’

  ‘Let’s open some more claret, Chief. I’ll help you drink it.’ Ma Daode sees Number 10’s white buttocks clench as she expertly uncorks another bottle.

  ‘No more wine,’ Number 6 says to her. ‘Our guest is a wealthy CEO, didn’t you know? A big shot! Open a bottle of Maotai, and let me show him how charming I can be when I have some liquor inside me.’ Number 6 gives Ma Daode a coy smile and slips her hand between his legs. As he stares at her red lips and white teeth he catches glimpses of tender moments from his past.

  ‘I can’t tell you who I am, of course, but I am not a CEO,’ he says, trying hard to sound sober. ‘All right, open a bottle of Maotai, if you insist. It’s only eighteen thousand yuan! I know very well what you’re up to, tricking me into buying expensive drinks!’ He unzips his black purse and pulls out a wad of notes printed with the red portrait of Chairman Mao. ‘I will defend the China Dream to the death!’ he exclaims as he hands the wad to Number 8. The other two Red Guards on the sofa pounce on her, and the three of them wrestle to the floor, then start scampering about like chickens, trying to pick up the fallen notes … A paper tiger is chasing me along a dark mountain path. Its eyes blaze like torches. Just as it’s about to pounce on me, I see my father’s broad face and large ears. His mouth is wide open and twisted to one side … Ma Daode is woken by the ringing of his phone. ‘Bring me the most expensive bottle!’ he cries out into the empty room. ‘Bring me the most beautiful …’ Then he closes his eyes and sinks back into his dream.

  Life floats by like a dream

  Autumn rain splatters onto the road. The early-morning sky is bright but seems imbued with a cold misery. Director Ma, dressed in a dark blue suit, climbs into his official car. Today the ‘China Dream: Golden Anniversary Dream’ ceremony will take place in Garden Square in the newly expanded Yaobang Industrial Park. This is the most important event Ma Daode has overseen since becoming director of the China Dream Bureau. He reminds himself not to stray from his prepared speech. If he wants to retain his position until retirement, he can’t afford to let his mind wander again. He repeats the five-word mantra his mistress Li Wei taught him to banish his past self from his mind: ‘You’re not me. Go away. You’re not me. Go away.’

  Mr Tai, the driver, switches on the radio: ‘Thanks to the new spirit of enterprise fostered by Yaobang Industrial Park, Golden Cow Dairy Company has won first prize in the county’s technological innovation competition …’

  ‘Turn it down, I want to check my voicemails,’ says Director Ma, flicking through his phone. The first message informs him that Xu An, head of Ziyang Complaints Department, has committed suicide in his office, and that the public have started discussion threads about his death in the comment section of the China Dream Bureau website. Director Ma knows that this kind of negative news item must be suppressed immediately. The second message relays the disappointing news that finance for the China Dream Device has still not been approved. ‘Have we hit a traffic jam?’ he asks, without looking up. ‘Put the siren on the roof.’

  ‘No, that won’t help,’ Mr Tai answers. ‘Mayor Chen is cycling to work this morning and the road ahead’s been closed for him since eight o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, yes – how could I forget? The police did a security sweep last night to make sure his route is safe.’ A second later, Director Ma hears a loud siren and sees eight beautiful policewomen on motorbikes drive slowly past. Then Mayor Chen himself appears, pedalling along in shorts and a white Aertex shirt, his plump belly bulging like a penguin’s, flanked on both sides by four more policewomen and followed by an ambulance and a television camera van. The people who have gathered to watch gasp with disbelief and beam with admiration, amazed by his vitality and vigour.

  ‘What a happy scene – a great example of positive interaction between the leaders and the masses,’ Director Ma says to Mr Tai. Immediately he remembers the euphoric crowd who paraded down this road in the Cultural Revolution, holding aloft huge mangoes made of papier mâché, in honour of the mangoes that Chairman Mao had given days before to a group of Beijing factory workers who had pacifie
d overzealous Red Guards at Qinghua University. The jubilant crowd understood that Mao’s gift of fruit signified the end of the violent struggle. Director Ma pushes that scene out of his mind, looks out through the window again and says: ‘So, Mr Tai, do you think I will have to cycle to work from now on?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mr Tai replies, starting up the engine. ‘Mayor Chen’s just doing this for show. It will be all over the evening news tonight, then he’ll be back in his chauffeured limousine tomorrow.’ He too is gazing at the three policewomen on motorbikes driving in front of them as they follow the Mayor’s cavalcade all the way to White Heaven.

  As soon as Ma Daode enters the lift, a long-forgotten quote returns to him: ‘At the first sound of gunfire, I will charge. Today, I will perish on the battlefield …’ Why has that quotation from Marshall Lin Biao wormed its way back into my mind? I remember kneeling on a street, head bowed, in front of a Red Guard who was in a class above me at school, blubbering: ‘I surrender, big brother.’ But the boy next to him still bashed me on the head with a club and shouted: ‘I’ll murder you, you son of a Rightist dog.’

  ‘Are you dreaming you’re back on the battlefield, Ma Daode?’ Song Bin asks with a mocking sneer. His face always looks sallow and puffy in the morning. Ma Daode has heard that Song Bin’s wife wants to open a branch of the Qingfeng Dumpling Store. ‘Looks like the China Dream really is producing miracles!’ Song Bin says to the others in the lift. ‘Our Director Ma here keeps composing the most wonderful dream poems. Look at this one he’s just posted on WeChat: FORGETTING IS THE ALLY OF REAL DREAMS. / REAL DREAMS ARE THE ENEMY OF FORGETTING. / YOU ARE THE DREAM WITHIN MY DREAM. I AM THE—’

  Director Ma flashes Song Bin a frosty smile and walks out through the opening doors. Then he hurries to his office, closes the door, sinks into the black leather sofa and buries his head in his hands.

  He wants a few moments of peace to decide what to do about his conflicting selves. Yes, I must kill one of them off. My past self, of course. But how do I eradicate the past? My China Dream Device won’t be in production for months. I can’t wait that long: these two Ma Daodes are locked in combat and will destroy each other before then. As far as I know, only the dead are able to permanently forget the past, when they drink Old Lady Dream’s Broth of Amnesia in the netherworld, before they are reincarnated in a new body. Of course! That’s what I need. I must get the recipe at once … ‘Broth of Amnesia!’ Director Ma cries out, looking as though he’s just woken from a long sleep. ‘Come into my office, Hu! I want you to call Master Wang Lin, the snake-conjurer and Qigong healer, and invite him to this afternoon’s Golden Anniversary Dream.’ When Ma Daode’s protruding eyes are wide open, he looks exactly like a toad.