Dragon's Eye

by Andy Oakes

  Placing the glass down once more. A triad of water marks. Geometric. Balanced.

  “Figures … smoke through trees. What is there to dispute in figures? What is there to dispute in something that has no substance?”

  An answer heard a hundred times. A thousand times. Continuing. The negotiator’s finger travelling to the next string of type. The next bead of words.

  “Our second difficulty concerns my country’s shortfall in quality human organs for transplantation. Demand simply outstrips supply …”

  The negotiator stopped for Dun’s input. There was none. Just the glass of water to his mouth.

  “… we saw the answers to these two problems as lying firmly in your, that is, the government of the People’s Republic of China’s sphere of influence.”

  He waved a hand. Graceful in movement, as the wind is through the tall grasses. But giving a sense of a wind that would never stop, until the grasses, one by one, were all blown down.

  “Please, please continue. You are doing so well with your synopsis of what has occurred over our last five meetings. You have made it sound so like one of your soap operas.”

  Anger at the gate, but the negotiator bolting it firmly in place. Moving onto the next phase of notes.

  “We approached you with the idea of developing a meaningful partnership between our two great nations. One that would allow my own country to have a hand on the steering wheel, that will allow us to support your country in the running of your organ transplant programme through the provision of technology, expertise, and of highly-trained personnel in the key areas of production, screening, cross-matching, and quality control. We also approached your government as a prospective and major source in the provision of human organs for transplantation. A prospective source that would make up for the gaps in my nation’s needs in this area. That would reverse the shortfall that we have been experiencing.”

  Comrade Dun laughed. Controlled. A humourless grate. The negotiator had heard it before, and knew what it brought. The cane across the hand. The salt rubbed into the wound. Knowing how it would be replied to also. What words would be chosen to cushion its sting … calm its ache.

  “But, negotiator, what of your cries of moral outrage? The human rights issues? Your disgust as a nation about how my country comes by its human organs for its highly successful transplant industry?”

  Feeling it. The sting. The ache. The truth … the cane across the hand. But not showing it.

  “It’s just business, Comrade Dun. Just business … as it always is. Counting dollars. Counting yuan. Whether it’s in DC or here in Beijing. Whether it’s capitalism or communism. It’s not about human rights. In the landscape that you and I move in, comrade, there is no such thing …”

  Through the far wall of glass, carpet to ceiling, the sun high now, at its zenith.

  “And your free American press, they will see it in this way also. Just business?”

  The negotiator walked to the window. A view across the Imperial Palace, Beihai Park with its Hall of Breaking Waves, its Temple of Eternal Tranquillity. A view to Lishinanlu. Fuxingmenwai and the Military Museum of the Chinese People’s Revolution. Beyond, the Altar of the Moon and Yuyuantan Park. Their colours stolen. Washed away. Cover on cover of monochrome vistas, like white sheets drying on a hundred allies’ washing-lines.

  “Forget the press, comrade, they will not see it at all. As we have discussed, the arrangement between us will be distanced from our government, and I would suggest, your government also. An agency with no overt governmental links will be set up to handle the operation from beginning to end. Cradle to grave, so to speak …”

  Against the glare of the window, the negotiator, a negative.

  “… and if the press see something that they shouldn’t see. Know something that they shouldn’t know. We shall pressure, and all underneath a deep cover, an impenetrable blanket of denial.”

  “Denial. Yes, denial. We are good at that, are we not? The currency of the politician …”

  He laughed, a ribbon of colour mixed in with it this time. Banging his glass down onto the table. Arms outstretched. Hands demanding an answer to the question.

  “… so, we know what it is that you demand of us. The harvested organs of our executed prisoners. Clean, screened, un-infected. But what is it that we receive in return? As I have said at our previous meetings, negotiator, money is not enough for what you desire from us. In such an instance as this, we require much more than just what the mighty dollar can give us. Much more.”

  Turning from the window. Walking toward the table.

  “This will be sent to your Politburo at the completion of our meeting. If we are able to agree upon details …”

  “Details?”

  Steel, the negotiator’s face. Pressed, de-burred and buffed.

  “The price for which you will sell to us the organs for transplantation.”

  Again, the laugh.

  “Ah, there we have it. What price a kidney, a cornea. What price a human heart?”

  The negotiator pushed the bound file across the table. Its travel smearing the four linked rings of watermarks.

  “This is what the United States of America is prepared to offer the People’s Republic of China in return, Comrade Dun …”

  Sitting. Opening the file to its first page. The seal of the United States of America. The Vice-President’s signature. The next pages. The deal. What we get, what you get. Point by point, taking the comrade through them.

  “… in return for what I have outlined, a high degree of control in your organ procurement programme, especially in the areas of quality control and screening, and for a large quota of these human organs to be exported to the United States of America for use in its own transplant programme. The numbers that we require being as itemised on pages six and seven of Appendix A …”

  Comrade Dun turning pages. Fingers moving carefully down lists of numbers. Human organs. Tapping the bottom of the page. A thin, long, slow whistle escaping from his lips. It saying nothing, and saying everything.

  “… the Vice-President, on behalf of the government of the United States of America is prepared to offer the government of the People’s Republic of China the following. Firstly, we will lend our full support in denying the illegitimate regime of Nationalist Taiwan membership of the United Nations. If necessary, through our use of the veto in the Security Council. Secondly, we pledge our full support to the People’s Republic of China in its dealings with Tibet. Immediate recognition will be given by our country to the twelve year old boy, Gyaincain Norbu, as the reincarnation of the revered Panchen Lama, as sponsored by the People’s Republic of China … in preference to the child, Gedhun Choekyi Nyima, who is supported by the exiled Dalai Lama and his faction …”

  Not a word or its deepest meaning lost upon Dun. Quite a prize, the wresting of the spiritual control of Tibet, once and for all, from the exiled Dalai Lama. Turning more pages, the comrade pulling the smile inward.

  “… thirdly, we will use our best endeavours to bring the People’s Republic of China into a more liberal focus in the eyes of the American people and world opinion. Particularly in the area of human rights, and your remarkable progress in the field of organ transplantation …”

  Saying nothing. His fingers moving across the embossed state seal. Stars, eagles, stripes … flowing under their tips.

  “… fourthly. The post of Head of the Secretariat of the United Nations, the Secretary General, is a position that is held for a term of five years. It is appointed by the General Assembly on the recommendations of the Security Council. The Secretary General of the United Nations is soon to start the last year of his term of office. The new Secretary General of the United Nations, we guarantee, will be a citizen of the People’s Republic of China …”

  Dun’s fingers gliding from the embossed seal to the signature of the Vice- President.

  “… fifthly, finally. Your controversial application to host the Olympic Games here in Beijing.
The Olympic Committee, as you know, is due to vote upon this matter very shortly …”

  The negotiator gently closing the bound file and fully meeting the comrade’s gaze.

  “… we can guarantee that your bid will be successful.”

  The ink of the Vice-President’s signature flowing in swirls, tight curves, broken slashes … beneath Dun’s fingertips.

  “Tempting. So tempting. Perhaps we have the beginnings of a deal, negotiator. As you said, it’s just business. The counting of dollars and of yuan. Come, let us now talk of mere details. The price of a kidney. A cornea. The price of a human heart. Perhaps the price of ten thousand human hearts.”

  *

  A full pack of Marlboro. A carafe of water, replenished three times. Hours … in smoke. Tracing water marks on lacquer. Hours … tracing details. Together, moving from the table to the spacious side room of full length windows and leather furnishings, personal secretaries left behind. The sun, a decaying blood orange, spilling its ruby hue across the carpet, the far wall. Across the comrade’s face. As he spoke, pouring the coffee.

  “I thought that a little privacy would be welcome. These are rather delicate issues. Sugar?”

  The negotiator declined.

  “May I say how refreshed you are looking after your visit to my country just a few months ago, negotiator. Our climate obviously agreed with you. Welcome back to the People’s Republic of China. Let us hope that it agrees with you this time also?”

  “You know that I visited Shanghai?”

  “Of course, negotiator, of course. A pleasant trip. A productive one?”

  The American government official, Barbara Hayes, sat, crossing her legs.

  “Yes, it’s been a long time since I took a vacation.”

  “Good, good. A holiday. Everybody should have holidays. Next time that you are in Shanghai you must visit my family. Our house overlooks the Huangpu River, the Bund. Beautiful. Beautiful. It is a very fascinating city, changing dramatically, as dramatically as you women change your minds and your faces …”

  Passing her a coffee, even though she had declined. Sipping his own, while watching her.

  Yellow eyes above a fondant ice porcelain horizon.

  “… so, negotiator, it would seem that your country wishes to have a full involvement in our transplant industry and also in our organ procurement programme. A ‘window of opportunity’, as you Americans like to call it, seems to have arisen. And as we are going through much change ourselves with our programme at present, it would appear that the timing could not be better. Perhaps you had heard, the main driving force and architect of my countries transplant industry has now, regrettably, moved on. Our esteemed Comrade Minister Kang Zhu.”

  “Yes, I had heard.”

  Suprising herself. Words without the narrowing of the eyes. Words, without a blush.

  “A window of opportunity, negotiator. Yes, a window of opportunity.”

  His eyes not leaving her. The comrade placing his coffee cup and saucer back onto the table. Bone china on wood. The sound seeming to jar the room. Standing, walking to the window. Filling a fresh cup.

  “But what of you, negotiator. How would I, we, be certain of your commitment to the objectives you have so eloquently outlined. You will understand, I am sure, that we need more than words on little pieces of paper …”

  He tapped his attaché case. Inside, the price of ten thousand human hearts.

  “… what are words, but words after all. With meanings that as yet we do not know. And with other words in long queues, waiting, ready to replace them. We need something more solid. We need someone in a position of authority who will view us in a positive light and who will express this in all of our future negotiations …”

  Not bothering to sit. His shadow, across the room, across her.

  “… in this area, I felt that you might need, now how shall I say this without offending you? A little more involvement. A little more incentive?”

  A snare tightening. Circle of shiny steel wire about to snap closed. She could feel it.

  “But of course you are involved, aren’t you? How silly of me. A government official of the United States of America who has had such an intimate relationship with a Senior Investigator in the PSB. And an Investigator, who, I might add, remains a major suspect in several very violent murders, including that of his own Chief, our esteemed Comrade Liping. A Senior Investigator who has very complex links, through his wife, to our late esteemed Comrade Minister Kang Zhu. Such a government official as this is very involved. Look at the implications. The interpretations. People can be so cruel, especially in politics. People can be so keen to make judgements …”

  Saying nothing. Her heart in free-fall, but saying nothing.

  “… and what are we, as his masters, to make of such a Senior Investigator as this? Obviously, such a man as this we must keep at arm’s length …”

  A whisper, fused with caffeine and garlic breath.

  “… or keep him so close to our bosom that we know even when it is that he breathes.”

  The move. The snare. Feeling it trip. Feeling it bite.

  “… well, negotiator, let me inform you. We hear his breaths, we hear his exhalations. He was arrested some days ago, and held in the custody of the People’s Republic of China. But do not worry, your Senior Investigator, he is safe. Even protected. Protected by an old man’s authority that reached even beyond the grave. Protected by words on pieces of paper …”

  Comrade Dun, moving from the window toward her. She had not realised how ugly he was, not until this moment. And with it, reflections … how ugly she had become?

  “… but as I have already said, words are fragile. Pieces of paper could be blown away. And there are accidents to consider. Who can legislate for accidents. Serious accidents that might befall a prisoner?”

  He leant over her. Close. Smelling of ambition and a spent ocean of sperm.

  “… to advance, negotiator, we would need you, how do you say it … in our pocket. Perhaps this is now the case, yes?”

  The negotiator, Barbara Hayes, pushed the cup and saucer aside. Coffee in a swirled grainy spill over the cup’s brim and across the saucer. Opening her attaché case. Hand automatically finding the thin file. Opening it. One by one placing the ten by eight inch monochrome prints on the table. By now, knowing them intimately herself. Watching the comrade’s eyes as he discovered them for himself. The fades and washes of his irises. The dilations and contractions of his pupils. Almost tasting how he would feel. The balances and weighing up that would be tethering his every thought. How, in a thousand random, hijacked seconds, she had rehearsed this moment … again, again, again. Tasting how he would feel. Watching the ordered procession of his gaze. Photographs from the apartment on Dong Hua Men Street. The suite in the Xinqiao Hotel. Dun and the young man merging together in pepper grain. The comrade’s hands on the boy’s body, like leather on silk. Pushing him down. In the boy’s fingers, the buckle of Comrade Dun’s belt. The zip of his flies. Pants, around his thighs, knees, to his ankles. The boy’s head pushed down. Down. In his hand, in his mouth … the limpness of Dun’s cock warming hard, hot.

  “He’s eighteen, the same age as your daughter. His name is Lo, but you call him by a girl’s name, Lihua. Which I believe means, ‘Strength for China’? He’s a student at the university where you occasionally lecture. What is he studying Comrade Dun?”

  A polite cough. Recovering himself. The passions pushed back into place, but in his eyes, razor wire. His pain, his anger, almost tangible. She could smell it on him, aching through his every pore.

  “What is he studying?”

  “He is a first year student in politics.”

  “Politics …”

  Feeling herself smile.

  “… you seem to be giving him a very apt lesson, comrade. If you’re going into politics its good to know what its like to be fucked beforehand …”

  Drinking his coffee, the colour returning to his face in a grad
ual wash, but the reek of pain and anger, unabating. Tough talking. Shit. Never enough. She pulled a small envelope from the file, opening it. Handing the document to him. The balm after the burn.

  “… it is already deposited in Taipei, the Bank of Taiwan on the Chungching Road. The account number is enclosed.”

  So many noughts following a single number. He had never seen so many noughts. Comrade Dun looked up, catching the blaze of her eyes.

  “Tell me, what is it that you require, negotiator?”

  ‘Require’ … a strange word from a politician. She knew the lesson. Require nothing. ‘Insist’.

  The note was already prepared. So much, coming to this moment. Two names, as simple as that, scratched in ink. Black on white. The comrade would know why they were on the slip of paper. Words not necessary. Letters would only fog, syllables confuse. He would know what to do about them. Two names.

  CHARLES HAVEN. SUN PIAO.

  She stood, sliding it across to him. Fastening her attaché case. Knowing that inside of it she already had the price of a human heart … the price of ten thousand human hearts. Waiting an instant as he read the note. Noting the recognition in his eyes, like a bushfire moving through trees. Walking toward the door. Toward the elevator. The dying sun, tangled in her hair.

  “I’ll be in touch comrade, about what else I ‘require’,” she said. The lift doors trembling shut.

  *

  Barbara refused the comfort of the open doored limousine and walked. And walked. Chang’anjie. Jiaominxiang. Chang’andongjie. Park of the People’s Culture. Nanhai. The Jade Basin. Onto the footpath that hugs the Beihai, the North Lake. Day revolving into night … and everything left with a subtle brush of gold. At one point thinking that she had seen Bobby, naked, wet, on the other bank of the lake near the Five Dragon Summerhouse. Walking the footpath toward the Screen of Iron. Looking at her. Staring. Where his eyes had been, nothing. Just tears of blood.

  Dreaming … just dreaming.

  Chapter 44