Eight Rooms

by Various

  Amazingly, Miahua made the journey to visit me in my new camp. I’d told her not to but here she was, the fifth visitor to the camp in a month, the second relative to visit in two. The other three visitors had been officials. Families didn’t visit relatives out here. It’s too far, too expensive, and far too devastating. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I saw her. “Whatever are you doing here? ”

  “Visiting my husband. ”

  Her voice was firm, her expression stout, and if I didn’t know her well, I would have thought her unmoved. There were no tears, but in the depths of her eyes I caught a shadow drifting, like a dying fish.

  “Oh, Miahua …”

  She’d aged, as I suppose I must have, and silver threaded her hair. She wanted to hold hands, but I didn’t want her to see the dirt engrained in my pores, or feel how my skin was dry and flaky like the empty husk of a cicada. She insisted. Her skin felt incredibly soft, her hand as small and delicate as mouse bones. When I raised her fingers to my mouth, I caught a dift of her fragrance, and the next second I was at home, sitting on our balcony at the end of a long day as I usually did, unwinding with the newspaper, some tea, and a lot of grumbling about our neighbour’s too-loud TV. The sun was a heavy pink through the pollution, the buildings soft-edged grey in the haze. Traffic was growling outside, horns honking and beeping, the stench of diesel fumes mingling with frying rice, steamed greens, garlic chicken …

  The vision was so intense that for a couple of minutes I couldn’t speak.

  “Are you okay?” She immediately turned her head away, biting her lip, “Sorry, stupid question. ”

  “No, I’m fine. I was just wondering how our neighbours “are. ”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nothing changes. I mean, of course things do, I’m sorry, of course I didn’t mean …”

  She was flustered and I put a finger up to halt her, saying gently, “Shhh. I know what you mean, okay? I’m glad nothing changes.”

  It was impossible to have a normal conversation, although we tried. She told me Fang Dongmei had managed to find someone to take on my practise, a cousin of hers who’d been displaced from Fuling – one of the towns that had part of it purposely flooded in order to create the Three Gorges Dam – and although my patients missed me, they were quite taken by the new doctor. I felt a stab of jealousy. Knowing I’d want to menatally stick pins into them later, I said, “What’s their name? ”

  “Hui Zhong. ”

  “ I was startled. “It’s a woman? ”

  “Yes. ”

  I wondered if she lived up to her name. Hui Zong meant beautiful on the inside and smart on the outside. I didn’t dare ask. I didn’t want to be outshon by a woman. I’m not a misongynist, but I’d much rather have had a nearly blind old man with halitosis than an intelligent, bright young thing that would make everyone forget I ever existed. I can’t help myself. “Is she pretty? ”

  Amazingly, a sparkle of humour enters Miahua’s eyes. “What if she is? ”

  “Nobody will remember me, the ugly bloke from Xining. ”

  When Miahua left, my heart broke. I couldn’t see her again. “Xining. Not like this. It was an inhuman thing to do to her, and although she’s my wife, my only love, I hated her being there. I loved her for coming, don’t get me wrong, but I hated her to see me losing weight, to see my greasy hair, my blackening teeth and filthy fingernails.

  Although I tried to be upbeat, I’d seen how it tore at her. I had no news, nothing to tell her except our dreary routine: up at 6:00 a.m. for a slice of cornbread and if we’re lucky, some salted carrot. Before the prisoners are marshalled into the factory at 7:00 a.m., I authorise any sick prisoners to either remain in barracks – the place is run like a military camp – or go to work. Our camp has barely any safety measures or barriers, and the prisoners often get hands or fingers crushed. I spend the day caring for them and any guards that are ailing, before a fifteen minute break for lunch, during which we slurp whatever pathetic slop we’ve been given. Then it’s back to work until 7:00 p.m., after which you’re locked back inside your barracks to sleep as best you can until you awake the next day to go through the whole dreary routine again.

  I wrote to Fang Dongmei and told her I didn’t want Miahua to visit again. I didn’t give a lengthy explanation as I knew my mother-in-law would grab this with both hands to ensure her precious daughter wouldn’t sully herself any longer with her no-good husband. All I said was that Miahua needed to move forward with her life and that she couldn’t do that with the millstone of me hanging around her neck. I also wrote to Miahua saying the same thing, and adding that if she did come out again, I wouldn’t see her. Just as I never saw Lia any more.

  It makes me sound holier-than-thou, doesn’t it? Being supposedly so unselfish? But the simple fact is it made me feel better doing the right thing. It almost absolved me, in a peculiar way. I won’t lie and say it wasn’t hard, because after sending those letters my blood seemed to drain away, my heart begin to atrophy. I had terrible dreams too, of Miahua and Lia in terrible danger and needing me and I’m unable to help.

  They wrote, though, both of them, week after week. I almost rescinded my decision on several occasions, but as my physical condition deteriorated, my hair falling out, my teeth loosening, my skin sagging over my bones, I knew I couldn’t let them see me like this. Far better for them to have the memory of when I had a chubby face and a roll of fat over my belly from good eating.

  After Miahua’s visit, I didn’t expect to see anyone from the outside again. So you can imagine my surprise when a month later I was escorted to the visitor’s room, a damp space with no windows wedged between the guard’s office and a row of storerooms. I just about fell over to see the bent figure swathed in robes of black sitting waiting for me. Her expression was as sour as usual, as though she’d just swallowed a pile of rotting fish intestines. If I’d expected any sympathy from my mother-in-law, however, it was banished the second she opened her mouth. I gave as good as I got, needless to say. Worse, in fact. I had no idea I had so much rage in me. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. The vitriol poured out of me like a rushing tide of black filth. I was frenzied, almost frothing at the mouth, shouting, blaming her for everything. It was, I yelled, entirely her fault I was here.

  If it hadn’t been for the guard standing over us, I might have hit her, strangled her, bashed her head against the wall. I know I’m a doctor, supposedly incapable of causing harm, but at that moment I honestly felt as though I could happily kill the witch. I hated her, and I had no doubt it showed. I looked into her cold black eyes while I ranted, cursing her to hell and back, and couldn’t see a drop of emotion, let alone any empathy for my plight. Impassive, she sat there like a big black bat.

  Eventually I ran out of steam. She didn’t say a word. We spent the last five minutes of the visit in silence. When the guard said our time was up, she got to her feet and shuffled off without a backward glance. I reckoned that would be the last of it. But no. The old harridan visited me every four months, come rain, hail or shine. Oddly, I even came to look forward to seeing her, especially since I didn’t have to make any effort. She’d be rude to me, and I’d be rude back. She’d tell me I was a useless good-for-nothing and I’d tell her she was an ugly old bag. I’d moan about the food and she’d grumble about her bunions. I didn’t waste valuable energy trying to hide my misery. It wasn’t as if she could give me a hard time about it over the next family dinner.

  During one visit, I remember her banging on about Lia, how it was my fault she lived abroad, miles away from her family. For no reason, I drifted off, picturing Lia and her smile. Not as she is now, but when she was four or five years old and I could tickle her, lift her in the air, hug her and tell her stories that would leave her wide-eyed and bursting with questions. Fang Dongmei got annoyed that I wasn’t listening to her diatribe and demanded to know what I was thinking. So I told her. She said, “Miahua was the same at that age.

  It was the closest she ever got to admi
tting she might love her daughter as much as I loved mine.

  We’ve reached the end of the main thoroughfare. I sneak a look at the policeman’s watch, which isn’t a cheap rip-off copy like most cops’ but a shiny chrome Seiko, the real thing – I wonder if his parents bought it for him? Or his girlfriend? – and when I see it’s past eleven and that we’re nearing the end of our journey, I feel that same crushing weight on my chest I’ve felt for the past few weeks. My legs weaken and my breath falters. My mouth dries up. I want to fall to my knees and sob and howl and bang my fists against the wooden planking, but I don’t. Instead, I close my eyes and haul air into my lungs. I’ve taught enough patients to know that breathing fully and deeply right into the bottom of your belly helps calm you, no matter what’s happening around you. What did I use to say? When you relax the body, you relax the mind.

  I haul in another breath, right down to my toes. Then another. I can feel the policeman’s eyes on me but I don’t turn to look at him. If he looks at me with contempt it wouldn’t be a problem, but I couldn’t bear to see sympathy. I’d collapse if I did.

  I try not to think where I’m going. Instead I force myself to concentrate on the vibration of the truck’s engine from the floor and into the soles of my shoes, up my legs and through my spine, to the top of my head. I’m reasonably tall for a Chinese, which, Miahua told me, gave me an advantage over the other doctors. My height apparently made me more authoritative, but in camp, being taller means I attracted more attention, most of it the unwelcome type.

  I can see the stadium. My blood pressure goes into free fall and I know I’m as pale as chalk.

  I wish I had a faith, someone or something to pray to, but I have nothing really. My faith is in my family, Miahua and Lia. I told Fang Dongmei to make sure they didn’t know about today, until it was all over. I’d given her letters to hand to them, long letters of love, tenderness, warmth and devotion, and as many jokes as I could remember. I took a long time writing those letters, multitudes of drafts; until I believed I’d struck the right balance. I imagined them reading and rereading them and I didn’t want a single word to drag my girls down.

  I can feel every shake and judder the truck makes through my whole body, right to my fingertips. I can see the pale outline of the sun, still struggling with the blanket of pollution.

  I force myself to look at the stadium. It isn’t that big. It looks as though it was built forty or fifty years ago, and the concrete has great cracks running through it. The whole place is shabby and dirty and if I was a spectator I wouldn’t feel very safe, the building looks as though it might crumble at any moment.

  I try and swallow but I have no saliva. It’s as though I’ve got cotton wool balled in my throat. How long have I got? Minutes now, not hours. I begin to tremble.

  Then I see the other trucks. Six of them, diverging to the stadium. I count fifteen prisoners. The trucks, like my own, are stuffed with military cops and bristling with guns. No chance of anyone making a break for it. As we close in, heading for the stadium’s entrance, I stare at a skinny man with almost no hair. He stares back. He looks defiant, almost cocky. My blood slackens and I feel lightheaded. It’s almost as though I’m looking at myself.

  Two more trucks join us, three prisoners in each, and for a moment, my brain stalls. I look away, desperately hoping I’m seeing things. I can feel my blood humming in my ears and an oily snake writhing in my stomach. I swallow drily and look back.

  It’s almost five years since I’ve seen them and although their appearances have changed – they’re wearing pale blue smocks and, like myself, are pale and thin – a doctor never forgets a patient.

  There’s little Mei Ting, who had trouble with her nerves, Zhi Peng – not an ounce of fat on him any more – and Ri Feng, who is silently weeping. Miao Tian is also crying, but Xui Li has her chin held high. She’s holding SuLyn’s hand.

  Their boards all say the same as mine.

  Active Falun Gong member, subversive planning violence and disobedience against the State.

  They’re here because of me. They’re going to die because I introduced them to callisthenics. My chest tightens so much I can barely breathe. I can’t stop looking at them, their skeletal frames, their gaunt faces coloured like a frog’s underbelly. I hear someone making a deep, agonised groaning noise, like an animal that’s been shot and is in its death throes, and realise it’s me. Tears are pouring down my face but I’m not sobbing.

  The trucks turn into the stadium. Our truck follows them. People are still gathering inside, ushering one another into their seats. It’s half full. The grass is scuffed and half starved. The sky is the colour of dirty pearls.

  The trucks pull into a line and switch off their engines.

  My breathing turns shallow.

  I hear the tailgate drop with a clang. The military cops jump out, taking the woman prisoner with them. The policeman next to me says, “Out. ”

  I have to hold the side of the truck to stop myself falling. My legs feel soft, boneless. I look into his eyes. They’re an unusual soft, pale brown, like unprocessed sugar. I have to work my mouth before I can ask him. “Will you be the one? ”

  He looks away, then down at the ground. He shrugs. I glance over at the neighbouring truck. SuLyn tries to smile at me but her lips are trembling so hard it’s nothing but a grimace of fear. Zhi Peng is sobbing. Mei Ting is trying to comfort him.

  My pulse is thudding, roaring in my ears.

  A woman in the crowd is shouting something but I don’t hear what she says. I’m trembling head to toe. She shouts again, screaming so hard her voice cracks. The policeman says, “Look. ”

  I turn to see an old woman in the front row, dressed head to toe in black. She’s waving her arms. For a moment I think it’s the mad woman from the street who couldn’t read my board earlier, but then my brain catches up. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s Fang Dongmei and she’s shouting so hard to gain my attention her face is swollen red, her black eyes alive and urgent.

  She’s holding up a poster, a cheap toothpaste advertisement that shows a line of snowy mountains in the background, and in her other hand is a dress Lia used to wear years ago, when she was a little girl. Miahua made it for her and its pink and white, with daisies dotted all over it. It was Lia’s favourite dress until she grew out of it.

  Fang Dongmei has stopped yelling and is standing there, sobbing, rivulets of tears pouring down her face, pooling into canyons of wrinkles.

  I’m filled with a rush of love for my mother-in-law that’s so strong I nearly topple over.

  She shouts again, telling me to concentrate. I do as she says and I look carefully at the picture of snowy mountains and then fix my gaze on Lia’s pink and white dress and suddenly I’m no longer in the stadium. I can’t feel the policeman’s hands on me, urging me out of the truck to kneel with the others because I’m no longer here. I’m in the mountains and walking home, tired after a day’s work. Sheep are grazing and there are wildflowers sprinkled everywhere.

  Lia’s running towards me, her face beaming, “Papa! ”

  I scoop her up and swing her high before greeting Miahua. She puts an arm around my waist, and with Lia’s chubby arms around my neck, we go into our little stone house where Fang Dongmei is preparing our evening meal. I grin at my mother-in-law and she scowls back. Miahua joins me on the stoop to sip tea. Lia comes to sit on her lap. I lean back and gaze at the jagged peaks cutting into the purple evening skies. I breathe in air as clear as …

  2

  Rebecca Strong

  It all started a few months ago. For a long time – in fact, for all the time that preceded – I had no thoughts at all. And then, in the darkness, a whisper of a thought sparked and I was moving, on a wave, further into what now seems like eternity. Something carried me beyond any control I could conceive: air, wind, liquid, and motion, colluded to push me where they wanted me to go. Aside from these factors, these natural conspirators, nothing, and no one, was aware that I was h
ere.

  I heard, and felt, and saw nothing. No conscious thought had yet invaded me, but from within this nothingness, I knew what I must do. That has been my mantra: if I am here, ipso facto, I know what to do. I floated, for a while, deciding what to become, or indeed, whether to become at all. Never in my fleeting life had I had so much power, and never shall I again.

  I was intrigued as to where this was going, so I took the plunge, and before long I was stuck fast, stuck to a surface that in time I came to both love and hate. I waited, confused and immature, to see what would happen next. There was, and remains, only me in this environment, this chamber that I am magnificently affecting. It was dark but expansive, yet I remained bound, and after a while the immobility became a comfort. I christened myself “I”, for then I became.

  I heard nothing but the rush of blood. I began to feed off my environment, growing bones, organs, cells dividing and multiplying, DNA and chromosomes and blood that coursed through me, awash with life. Over the weeks I became stronger, able to turn my head and seek out this newness that surrounded me, this great plain that was mine to explore. I curled and uncurled, clenched and retracted, flexed and unflexed until I became fully aware of my limits, pushing the boundaries of my physical capabilities until I was satisfied I could do no more. I took command of my space, floating hypnotically in a liquid so unique it became my water and my waste, my pool and my drowning. I could not see myself, or even feel my parts, but I used them all the same. I was caught in a rhythmic trance timed with the constant drumbeat that metered my growth.