China Dream Read online

  ‘You do realise that Master Wang is a frequent guest of Mayor Chen?’ Hu says with a hint of condescension.

  ‘I don’t care what you have to pay him, just make sure he comes. Tell him he’ll be my VIP guest.’ Now that Ma Daode has fixed on a plan, his five viscera and six entrails relax. He picks up a file from his desk and skims through it. It’s a report by the head of the Internet Monitoring Unit on the China Dream Bureau’s collaboration with Number 3 Jail. The Bureau pays the jail 300 yuan a month to ensure that a selected group of inmates regularly deletes any negative comments from the Bureau’s website and replaces them with positive ones. Last month, however, two of the inmates attached graphic photographs of crash victims, which they had uploaded from social media, to a short piece about a high-speed train disaster. To prevent such mistakes recurring, the report recommends that the Bureau employs one hundred administrators to regularly check the prisoners’ political records. On the report’s final page, Director Ma writes: I AGREE. SUBMIT TO THE PROPAGANDA DEPARTMENT FOR APPROVAL.

  At midday, Director Ma’s car pulls up at the exact spot where three months ago the concrete house was demolished. The Buddha Light Temple is still standing, but the rest of Yaobang has been flattened and turned into a temporary car park. Director Ma recalls again the sight of shaven-headed Genzai plummeting to his death in a cloud of concrete dust. Last week, Liu Qi gave Director Ma a red envelope containing 10,000 yuan, hoping he would help get her father, Dingguo, released from detention, as her family could not afford the 150 yuan a day the police charged for his food and lodging. But for the first time in his life Ma Daode refused to take the bribe. He wants to make sure his own future is safe before agreeing to help anyone else.

  A few elderly couples who have arrived early climb out of their limousines and go to chat with the welcoming hostesses. The bridal boutique owned by Ma Daode’s new mistress, Claire, has delivered tailor-made wedding clothes and placed them in a pile, ready to be handed out. The Golden Anniversary Dream ceremony is being held here to coincide with the grand opening of the steel bridge over the Fenshui River. In honour of today’s romantic event, the Municipal Party Committee has named it Magpie Bridge, after the legendary bridge spanning the Milky Way where two mythical lovers embrace once a year. The ribbon tied across the entrance to the bridge will be cut at the start of the ceremony.

  Director Ma is taken aback by the lavish decorations. The bridge is laid with red carpet and adorned with a huge welcome arch made of baubles and flowers that are even brighter than the blue sky above. Claire has done an excellent job. In fifty minutes’ time, the elderly couples will follow the red carpet under the arch, cross the bridge and proceed into Garden Square, which is festooned with silk garlands and colourful balloons.

  The square has been built directly above the former burial ground. A solitary willow is all that remains of the wild grove. It is an ancient tree with gnarled and jagged branches that stab out in all directions.

  Director Ma knows that beneath the concrete slabs around this willow lie the dead bodies of his parents, and of his comrades and enemies who slaughtered each other for the sake of Mao Zedong Thought. Once again he remembers hearing his father mutter wearily: ‘I’m fine – let’s all go to sleep now,’ before flicking down the light switch. As I sank into slumber on the sofa, I could still hear my mother and sister talking: ‘We should wash your father’s feet …’ ‘I’ll boil up some water, then …’ ‘Is there enough in the pot? …’ ‘Yes, there’s enough. Don’t get up …’ Ma Daode smells once more the stench of suicide. When he looks at the ancient willow basking in the October sunlight, he feels his heart grow as cold as the roots clawing into the earth.

  As the military band strikes up the song ‘You Are my Walking Stick’, a procession of elderly couples, the women in white wedding robes and the men in red brocade suits, begin to walk hand in hand beneath the ceremonial arch and continue slowly across the bridge. Some of the old women are wearing silver tiaras and red court shoes, like princesses from European fairy tales. Others are hunched over and tottering along on crutches, with thick jumpers over their white robes. The men on their right form a long strip of grey heads dotted with a few bald scalps and black top hats. Their traditional red brocade suits complement their wives’ white gowns in a harmonious union of East and West. One old woman sees a daisy from her floral headpiece fall onto the carpet and tries to reach down to pick it up, but trips on her veil and falls over, bringing her elderly husband down with her. The ceremonial arch stands before them like the gates of paradise. Ma Daode’s eyes moisten as he watches the elderly couples advance towards it. Claire and the women in red air-stewardess uniforms hand each of them a red rose as they pass.

  Although everything is going to plan, Ma Daode is breaking into a nervous sweat, not because Claire, Yuyu and his wife are all present and observing him closely, but because since these one hundred elderly couples have begun to parade past him, his other self has started assaulting his mind with slogans and scenes from his youth.

  In the middle of the night, my sister and I dragged my parents’ coffin all the way from Ziyang in a rickety wooden handcart. When we finally arrived here, my sister fell to her knees in exhaustion. We dug into the earth below the trees until we reached the water level. The coffin was too heavy for us to lift off the cart. We thought of pulling my mother’s body out and burying her first, but we couldn’t unclasp her fingers from my father’s hand, so in the end we pushed the coffin into the grave with both bodies squashed inside it. The scene replays so vividly before Director Ma’s eyes that he is convinced this place is still haunted by the spirits of the dead.

  He slowly climbs onto the podium, then lifts his head to the blue sky and commences his speech: ‘Like the autumn breeze, now warm, now cold, life has its joys and sorrows. Today, though, is a beautiful day. The glorious China Dream has at last become a reality. Look at the magnificent ceremonial arch. It must be the largest of its kind in the world. And look at this multitude of elderly, wrinkled faces, beaming with hope and joy!’ After a brief pause, he bellows: ‘Let the Golden Anniversary Dream begin!’ Thank goodness my past self didn’t mess that up, he says to himself, then repeats his mantra: You’re not me. Go away. You’re not me. Go away …

  While the military band strikes up again, leaders from every level of the Municipal Party Committee together with foreign businessmen from the Yaobang Industrial Park take their seats on the podium. The Buddha Light Temple on the opposite bank is encased in scaffolding and plastic sheeting. From a distance it looks like the excavation site of an ancient tomb. Arching above it like a bloodstained rainbow is a red banner proclaiming: THE ONLY WAY TO MAKE THE CHINA DREAM COME TRUE IS TO FAITHFULLY FOLLOW THE CHINESE COMMUNIST PARTY. One elderly couple after another, now accompanied on each side by a child, circles a giant wedding cake encrusted with fondant roses, then steps onto the podium to receive a souvenir badge from Mayor Chen.

  An elderly man who has been chosen to speak on behalf of the participating couples says into the microphone: ‘Honoured guests, I am eighty-one years old, and my wife here is seventy-six. We have walked through life together for fifty-two years. On our wedding day, we had a simple meal with some close friends and received one bed, two bedspreads, three jin of pumpkin seeds and four jin of sweets – and that was the end of it. Never in our wildest dreams could we have imagined that when we reached our golden anniversary, we would be treated to such a sumptuous, Western-style wedding. If only our daughter were here, everything would be perfect.’

  His wife, dressed in a dazzling white gown and with pink rouge on her cheeks, walks over to the microphone and interjects: ‘I am overwhelmed with emotion. We always dreamed of giving our only child a grand wedding like this. Since she died, my husband and I have suffered years of grief. So we can’t believe our good fortune that today we are able to participate in this beautiful, romantic ceremony.’

  His eyes welling up, Director Ma walks over to these two kind souls and says: ‘My d
earest mother and father, you have woken up inside the China Dream and have returned to me at last!’ Then he pinches himself and says: ‘What I mean is: you may have lost your only child, but don’t be sad, because now you are parents to us all!’ Before asking this couple to speak today, he checked their political backgrounds to ensure that they are both reliable Party members.

  When the old man slips a gold ring onto his wife’s wrinkled finger, she cries out: ‘My dream has come true!’ and the crowd bursts into applause.

  Director Ma raises his microphone again to say: ‘Let us thank the relevant leaders for allowing these parents to realise their China Dream, and thank our foreign sponsors for their generous support. Fifty years ago this place was a mass grave filled with nameless bodies, but today it is a Garden Square on which we celebrate golden anniversaries! The China Dream eradicates all dreams of the past and replaces them with brand-new dreams! As I look out at your smiling faces, I can’t help think of my own mother and father who lie buried in the ground beneath us. Sadly, the relentless struggle sessions they were subjected to proved too much for them to bear, so they are not able to join us today.’ As more tears fill his eyes, he tries to snap back to his senses. ‘Of course, the past must be buried before the future can be forged. Only then can our dreams come true. Only then can young people experience the beauty of love …’

  ‘Our daughter was murdered in the violent struggles of the Cultural Revolution,’ the old man says, his voice ringing out like a bell. ‘I’m so sad she’s not here to share this day with us.’

  ‘What was her name?’ Director Ma asks through the screeching microphone, looking searchingly into the man’s eyes. He thinks he belongs to the Municipal Committee of the People’s Political Consultative Conference.

  ‘Her name was Pan Hua. I am Pan Qiang.’ The old man points to the name badge on his lapel. Every eye in the audience focuses on him.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Director Ma gasps. ‘Dear comrade, I knew your daughter well! The last time I saw her, she gave me her copy of the Little Red Book. I still have it in my drawer. We have … s-s-so much … to talk about … I …’ Director Ma stutters and stalls, struggling to express all that he wants to say. Before he has reached the end of his sentence, two security guards jump onto the podium and order him to step down. When his feet touch the ground, he suddenly catches sight of his parents’ bodies. They are not under the ancient willow after all, but further away, nearer the river. He remembers now that when he and his sister were digging the grave, it was so dark they could barely see a thing. It was only after they had buried the bodies and walked some distance through the grove that the moon briefly emerged from the clouds and he caught sight of this willow’s jagged branches stabbing the night air.

  Chief Ding takes over proceedings. ‘Dear compatriots and elders,’ he says. ‘Why are we promoting the China Dream? For a better tomorrow! And today’s Golden Anniversary Dream is one further step along our path. Now, let’s continue with the ceremony. The band will play us a final song and then the Ziyang Dance Troupe will perform their new ballet, The Qingfeng Dumpling Store. After that, you will all be invited to take your seats at the wedding banquet.’

  A man in a white suit appears on the podium and sings: ‘“Your smile is as sweet as blossom opening its petals in the spring breeze …”’ Director Ma is placed in the back of a police car. As it speeds off towards Ziyang, he rests his head on the window and listens to the Golden Anniversary Dream fade into the distance.

  Beguiled by empty pipe dreams

  A few days later, after being suspended from his job for his bizarre and erratic behaviour, and for mentioning the Cultural Revolution during the Golden Anniversary Dream ceremony, Director Ma is sitting on a green sofa in the living room of the renowned Qigong healer, Master Wang. He has seen a documentary about him on television, and knows that this is the best position from which to watch him conjure snakes from thin air. He also knows that during the 1983 campaign against ‘spiritual pollution’, Master Wang was jailed for dancing cheek to cheek with a woman.

  ‘Please help me, Master Wang,’ Director Ma says. ‘I’ll be sixty-two this year. I thought my troubles were all behind me. But in the last few months, forgotten episodes from my youth keep jumping back into my mind, disturbing me so much that my job is now under threat. When I open my mouth, I start spouting words I said when I was sixteen, and past events unfold before my eyes as though they are happening right now.’ Ma Daode has dropped the authoritative tone of voice he employs as a government leader.

  ‘You wait until you’re suspended before you seek my assistance?’ Master Wang chuckles, his small pointed chin jutting out. ‘You obviously don’t regard me very highly.’ His head is completely bald apart from a few straggly strands of hair. Against the pale skin, his thick black eyebrows look fake.

  ‘Of course I regard you highly. I asked my secretary to send you a VIP invitation to the Golden Anniversary Dream celebration, but you didn’t turn up. As a Party member and confirmed atheist, I have always been wary of the supernatural. But … experience changes people.’ Director Ma is pleased to discover that he hasn’t lost his talent for coining wise maxims.

  ‘They say you’re a bit of a womaniser, Old Ma. Is that what’s got you in trouble? Here, have some tea – it’s Iron Goddess of Mercy, grown especially for top government leaders.’ Master Wang appears to consider this job beneath him. He fingers his rosary beads for a few seconds, then his thick eyebrows dart up, his eyes sparkle and he pronounces his diagnosis: ‘Your vital essence has been dissipated and your original spirit ruptured. There is an intruder in your soul. Calamity is inevitable.’

  Director Ma can see that Master Wang is an unusual character, so decides to get straight to the point. ‘I need some of Old Lady Dream’s Broth of Amnesia,’ he says, looking intently into his eyes. ‘I’ve heard you own the secret recipe.’

  ‘No, I don’t. If anyone needs it, I have to travel to the netherworld, cross the Yellow Springs and have a private chat with Old Lady Dream. She’s a fickle deity though, and doesn’t always oblige. More people than hairs on an ox’s back have begged me to give them the recipe, desperate to forget their past. But my journeys to the netherworld are not easy, you know. I put my life in mortal danger.’ Master Wang’s mouth curves into a cynical smile.

  ‘Of course, I understand. If you want help from the deities, you must reward them generously. I will pay whatever it costs, I promise.’ Suddenly Yao Jian’s square face, slashed at the cheek, flashes before his eyes. After his warm blood spurted onto my cheeks, he leaned over and spluttered: ‘Long live Chairman Mao’, before finally choking to death. Beads of sweat begin to seep from Director Ma’s bald scalp.

  ‘Old Lady Dream is even more powerful than you, Mr China Dream! One bowl of her broth, and you’ll forget everything – the greatest thinkers, most famous bloggers, your dearest companions. You’ll even forget who you are. It’s a shame she only serves her broth to the dead, otherwise your China Dream Bureau could sell it to the world, then every country on the planet would embrace the China Dream and obey the orders of the Chinese Communist Party! Ha!’ Master Wang cackles loudly and rests his cup of tea on a side table.

  ‘All I want is to delete my past and get back to my job,’ Ma Daode says with a shrug. ‘I don’t care about the China Dream or the Global Dream any more.’

  ‘But if life becomes disconnected from the past, it loses all meaning: “History is the chicken soup of the soul”, after all.’ Master Wang gives Director Ma a knowing wink. He clearly wants to ingratiate himself with this disgraced leader and con him out of as much money as he can.

  ‘But that’s the title of one of my books!’ Ma Daode says, his eyes popping in disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me you bought a copy!’

  ‘How could I not buy the book of a top official like you? Look, here it is. Would you do me the honour of signing it?’ Before Director Ma’s arrival, Master Wang had made sure to place the book close to hand. ‘Now tell me,
from what age do you want to forget?’

  ‘From the age of fifteen, when I joined the Red Guards. No, from the age of sixteen, when I joined the violent struggle. Wait – my parents died that year, so I’d like to keep my last memories of them, if possible?’ The thought of permanently losing a memory of his parents suddenly makes Ma Daode feel faint.

  ‘You think nothing of deleting other people’s dreams and memories. I’ve heard you’ve even considered deleting mine. But when it comes to erasing your own, you hesitate! So, tell me, how old were your parents when they passed away?’ Master Wang is still wearing his pyjamas and slippers. He doesn’t like visitors to stay too long.

  ‘They committed suicide together on 8 February 1968. My father Ma Lei was forty-six and my mother Zhu Mei was forty-five. I suppose I really should erase that terrible night from my mind.’ As he utters these words, he feels a sharp pain in his fingers and sees the cheap plywood coffin in which he buried his parents. His hands got so cold that night when he dug the grave that his fingers ached for days afterwards.

  ‘Well, if you want to forget that night, you’ll have to wipe out the entire Cultural Revolution, I’m afraid,’ says Master Wang, closing his eyes meditatively.