by William Bell
I jabbed the cane into the dirt and pulled myself to my feet, knocking over the little stool. I hobbled as quickly as I could to the door and shoved it open. The talking stopped.
“We’re going to the embassy,” I said to Xin-hua, “and we’re taking the videos and the audio tapes and my notes with us. And,” I added, “we’re going to take more pictures along the way!”
We spent the next few hours getting ready. I wanted to leave right away, but there were two good reasons why we couldn’t. First Xiao Yang had to go back home and get his dad’s ping ban che. Second, under martial law there’s a curfew. Xin-hua and the others thought that travelling at night would be even more dangerous than in the daytime, especially when they considered the plan they had.
The plan was that Xin-hua and I would be transporting a new Peony washing machine through the city on the back of the ping ban che. It was a great idea. I liked it as soon as I heard it. In Beijing, a lot of people were buying new refrigerators and washers from the Chinese factories that had recently been set up by Japanese companies. Very few people up till now have had fridges or electric washers. Nobody had automatic dryers. Anyway, when people were able to get one of these new status symbols, which were in short supply, he or she usually hired someone with a ping ban che to transport the thing home. Every day I saw them in the city, tied carefully to the back of the che, with a proud and anxious owner often riding on the platform beside the new machine.
Xin-hua would be the delivery woman and I would be the helper. That way I could ride on the back, lying down and taking it easy like any worker who wasn’t strictly on duty until the destination had been reached. Xiao Yang’s dad had just bought a washer himself, so Xiao Yang was going back home to get the che and the empty box.
I figured I could rig up the camcorder something like the way I did on my bike. We could turn it on anytime we wanted and tape anything we passed.
So, while Xiao Yang was out, I got all my gear ready. After a big discussion in Chinese that I wasn’t allowed to join in on, it was decided that we would leave the two-way and the audio recorder behind because we wouldn’t need them. Xiao Yang would get rid of them later. It was also decided that I would wear the clothes I had on, rather than my own, because mine looked too new and not Chinese enough. Nai-nai found me a hat in the wardrobe.
The next step in the plan I wasn’t too thrilled with. Xin-hua said that she wanted to dye my hair black.
“Sunglass will hide your blue eyes,” she said, “but your hair does not look Chinese.”
So, while Xiao Nie put together a little first-aid kit for us in case my leg started to bleed again, Xinhua dyed my hair. With black shoe polish.
The polish had an evil smell and felt like someone had gobbed about a pound of margarine on my head. Xin-hua combed and combed, and gradually I changed from a blond to a dark-haired worker. When she was finished I looked in the mirror and figured that if the shoe polish ever dried and if I pulled the hat down far enough, I might get away with it.
When Xiao Yang got back I rigged up the camcorder. What I did was, I made a sort of cradle out of coat hangers so that the camera could be suspended inside the cardboard carton with the lens peeping through a small hole that I cut out right in the centre of one of the Peony logos. We put some broken bricks in the bottom to give the box stability.
By three in the morning we were ready. Nobody could sleep, so we sat around drinking tea until dawn came. On my map Xin-hua showed me the route she was planning to take to the embassy. It was basically a big circle to the west and north, then back across the top of the city. The embassy was on the east side of the city.
“We shouldn’t go this way,” she said, indicating the area east of her neighbourhood. “Too many PLA around the train station. This part of Beijing I don’t know very well. But I know the city quite well the way we will go.”
So we waited for the dawn. I was glad I was finally doing something. I wish I could say I was filled with breathless anticipation. I wasn’t. My stomach was knotted with fear and I kept wondering if I was making a foolish mistake.
The morning dawned warm, muggy, and overcast. The leaves on the poplars in the courtyard hung limp in the still air.
Xiao Yang was outside checking the che over for the thousandth time. Nai-nai was putting some rice and pickled vegetables into two metal boxes, pressing the boiled rice down with a big spoon. She put on the lids and put the boxes into Xin-hua’s canvas shoulder bag along with the first-aid kit. She added a bottle of boiled water.
I put on my jacket, which I was sure I wouldn’t need on such a muggy day, but the committee — Xin-hua, Xiao Nie, and Xiao Yang — insisted. I was relieved to see that the shoe polish had dried, but it left my hair stiff. I pulled my hat down as far as it would go. In the mirror I saw a strange creature with very unconvincing black hair, blue eyes, and a scratched up face with a long scab down his nose.
I had no headache that morning but my leg was stiff and sore. I gimped my way over to the table and slung on my backpack.
Xiao Nie and Xiao Yang had gone outside. I hobbled to the wardrobe where Nai-nai was rummaging around and, with my weight on my left leg, leaned the cane up against the wardrobe. I grabbed her hand and held it in both of mine, shaking it slowly and gently.
“Xie xie nin,” I said. “Ma fan nin le.” Thank you. I cause you a lot of trouble. Somehow those hackneyed words didn’t say what I wanted, but I have enough trouble expressing myself in English.
She smiled and nodded. “Bu ma fan, bu ma fan. Shan Da, xiao xin.” No trouble. Be careful, Shan Da. With that, she pressed a crumpled ball of paper into my hand.
It was money, rumpled, dirty bills.
I shook my head and tried to give it back to her but she wouldn’t take it. I thanked her again and put it into my jacket pocket.
“Zai jian,” she said softly. Goodbye.
I felt my throat thicken as I said, “Nai-nai zai jian.” I went out into the courtyard.
Nai-nai and Xin-hua talked for a minute, then Xinhua came outside. The two guys were pushing the che through the door in the wall into the alley. At the gate I turned and saw Nai-nai standing in the doorway of her house. I waved. She waved. I turned away.
Once in the alley I took off my pack and tossed it onto the flat-bed of the che. Then my cane. The camera was already in place inside the washing machine box and the box was tied down securely with thick hemp ropes. I lifted myself onto the che, dangling my legs while the committee had a last minute meeting.
Xiao Yang stepped closer, shook hands with me, and said something quickly.
“He says goodbye,” Xin-hua translated, “and hope you can come back to China someday when the bitter wind no longer is blowing.”
“Goodbye, Xiao Yang,” I said to him, “and thank you for your help. The three of you saved my life.”
He laughed and shook his head. Xiao Nie said, “Shan Da, pay close attention to your leg. If bleeding, put the bandage more tight. You have the pills?”
“Yeah.” I patted my breast pocket.
“Wish you safe journey, Shan Da. Hope you can come back someday.”
“I do too,” I said, my voice thick. And as crazy as it sounds, I was telling the truth.
Xin-hua climbed onto the seat and started pedalling. Soon Xiao Nie and Xiao Yang were lost from sight as the che rounded a curve in the hu tong.
The che must have been geared low — probably because sometimes they carried a lot of weight — because Xin-hua’s legs were going up and down pretty fast even though we moved at an easy pace. The bumps and shakes immediately started shooting arrows into my leg. I shifted my position a dozen times, finally sitting right up on the che behind Xinhua with my legs stretched out in front of me and crossed, with the wounded one on top. That way my other leg could absorb some of the shocks.
We ambled through a maze of hu tongs, most of them busy with mothers with little kids, people going to and from shopping, groups of men and women standing at the little free markets
at the intersections, talking. The neighbourhoods looked normal but I figured I could guess what they were talking about. Once, a news spreader raced past us, his loud-hailer bouncing against his back as he cycled. There were a lot of elementary-age kids playing too, which meant some schools must be closed.
A couple of times, as we crossed over wider hu tongs, we saw tanks and trucks lined up, pointing north, ready to roll to Chang An Avenue. Lots of soldiers were there, too, sitting around, playing cards, eating. We crossed those roads as fast as Xin-hua could pedal.
After half an hour of twisting and turning along the hu tongs, Xin-hua pulled up under a tree. Her forehead was damp with sweat. She took a swig from the water bottle.
“Shan Da, we are coming to dangerous place.” She pointed ahead. “Soon this alley will turn to north and go past the Central China Music Academy. After that, it meets Fu Xing Men Avenue. You know that street?”
“Yes.” Fu Xing Men Avenue is the name Chang An Avenue takes once you pass Xi Dan Street going west. Fu Xing Men is the street the Min Zu Hotel and the Yan Jing Hotel are on, the places where the American reporter was transmitting over the two-way. It was the route the PLA had used for the main assault on the square.
“Can’t we go another way? There’s bound to be millions of PLA around there.”
Right after I said that I felt stupid. After all, we wanted to get the PLA on video. Before I could correct the impression I had given her, she explained.
“We have to cross Fu Xing Men somewhere. This way we can cross it and get across Second Ring Road almost at same time.”
I knew what she meant. The Second Ring Road and Fu Xing Men intersected within a half mile of where we were. The Second Ring Road, which follows the line of the old torn-down city wall, is the road the Twenty-seventh Army seemed to be defending against attack from outside the city. They were deployed at major intersections.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s do it.” I pulled off the top of the box, reached down inside, and turned on the camera. Carefully, I fitted the top back on.
“Remember these things, Shan Da. Before we get to Fu Xing Men, you should lying down, pretend to sleep. Don’t talk, even if we are stopped.”
Xin-hua turned back around and began to pedal. Soon the hu tong widened, then curved to the right. After the curve, on the left, was the gate for the Central China Music Academy. As we passed the gate I saw a soldier scraping a big character poster off the wall beside the gates. The gates were open, but I didn’t see any students.
The hu tong straightened out and far ahead was the intersection with Fu Xing Men Avenue. On the left was a line of six tanks. On the right, three armoured personnel carriers. The centre of the road was clear and bike traffic moved past the military vehicles.
“Lie down now, Shan Da.”
I stretched out along the che’s bed, pretending to sleep, but with my face to the street and my eyes wide open behind the mirror sunglasses that Xiao Yang had given me. The che slowed. I could hear Xin-hua’s breathing as she pedalled.
A moment later the tracks of a tank loomed up beside me, then the torso of a soldier with an AK 47 slung across his chest. I was so close I could make out the buckle on the Sam Browne belt around his waist and the action of the AK 47. His eyes followed us as we passed him. As he slipped out of view the turret of the tank appeared over his shoulder. The hatch on the tank turret was open and the big machine gun beside it was wrapped in canvas. The turret had a large red star on it.
We got past the tanks without a problem. They didn’t look very exciting close up — not like the plastic model American tank on my dresser. These were dark ugly wicked machines, with huge bogey wheels inside wide tracks that would chew a pavement to bits when the tank turned or crush a bicycle like a stick.
We moved out onto Fu Xing Men Avenue westbound bike lane. I continued to lie as if asleep, my head on my arm, as we zig-zagged along.
I wasn’t ready for what I saw. The pavement was littered with rocks and bricks, broken glass, even brass shell casings — that must be why Xin-hua was zig-zagging around. To avoid all the debris. In places the road surface was ripped up. That would be the tanks. In other places there were burn spots. That would be from molotov cocktails. We passed a solitary shoe. A hat. A smashed pair of glasses. The cement and pipe standards that separated the bike lanes from the main avenue were scattered all over the place, sometimes in piles to form barricades, sometimes mangled and smashed where tanks or armoured personnel carriers had run them over. The avenue looked like a war zone.
We passed a city bus, burned, lying on its side like a dead insect. Then a convoy of crippled troop trucks, tires flat, doors hanging on their hinges, windshields smashed — truck after burned-out truck, still smoking.
All this within about four hundred metres.
“Shan Da! Roadblock ahead. Tanks on bridge. Lots of PLA. Don’t moving!”
I sucked in a big breath and let it out slowly. We must be drawing near to the intersection with the Ring Road, I thought. Actually, it wasn’t an intersection. It was a bridge, with the Ring Road passing underneath. I began to rehearse what I would say if forced to. Or should I pretend to be dumb? Xin-hua had said not to talk, and she was right. Even if I could think up some Chinese to say to a soldier at the roadblock — and I hadn’t thought of anything yet — my accent would give me away. I remembered Teacher Huang criticizing me for being sloppy with my tones. I decided to act as if I couldn’t speak.
The che slowed. I saw troop trucks — at least ten of them — lined up across the roadway so that nothing could pass them going east.
“Soldiers, Shan Da!” Xin-hua hissed.
The che stopped. I kept pretending to sleep, unmoving, heart pounding. Over by the trucks a soldier walked past, holding a mess tin. A man spoke rapidly, and harshly. Xin-hua answered. She sounded as if she was begging for something.
Silence for a moment. The male voice asked a question, not so nasty this time. I could tell it was a question from the ma at the end. Xin-hua laughed — a forced laugh, like a bad actor might give out. She talked some more. The man laughed.
“Hao!” said the soldier, and the che began to move away. Xin-hua swung to the right in a gradual curve. As we turned I got a good view of the roadblock. Two PLA stood at the end of the bridge with AK 47s in their hands. Beyond them, on the bridge, I counted six tanks, deployed to fend off attack from the west or from the Ring Road below on either side. These guys weren’t kidding around.
The che picked up speed, bumping down the wide ramp to the Second Ring Road. Xin-hua took us north for fifty yards or so to an intersection then did a U-turn — which was easy because there was no traffic on the road except for a few bikes — and headed south. I lifted my head and looked ahead. When we got back to the bridge she went under and used the momentum from our descent, swinging onto the ramp and pedalling furiously to get up it. Two-thirds of the way up she was puffing like mad and the che almost stopped. She jumped off, grabbed the che, one hand on the bars, one behind the seat, and heaved, trotting alongside. I’ve never felt so useless in my life, watching that small woman shove the heavy vehicle up the curved ramp. I knew it would be pointless for me to try to help.
When we got back on Fu Xing Men, Xin-hu jumped on again and pumped the pedals. Her breath rasped in and out. I knew she didn’t want to stop for fear of attracting too much attention. We were still very close to the tanks.
We crossed the avenue and turned west again. The avenue on this side of the bridge was only a little less like a war zone. To my relief, the che turned right onto a tree-lined street — a bumpy street. It was strange. Suddenly the world looked normal again. A few people walked along the sidewalk. More bikes appeared. Now that we were past the roadblock and I was feeling only scared instead of terrified, my leg began to remind me that there was a groove torn out of my calf. I sat back up again. We passed an intersection with a hu tong and I saw a road sign. We were on Zhan Lan Lu. Exhibition Street.
We turned into a littl
e alley and stopped.
Xin Hua’s chest was still heaving and the back of her coat was wet through. I was soaked too, but not from working.
“Let’s take a short rest,” she puffed. I handed her the water bottle.
“I think I’ll turn off the camera, now.”
She nodded, gulping down the water.
I inched myself to the edge of the che and let my legs dangle over the side, facing the street. To my left, I could see Fu Xing Men Avenue about a hundred metres away. Across the road was a movie theatre with a big billboard beside it advertising a Gong Fu movie, Bruce Lee style. There were three guys pictured, with fierce faces and sparkling teeth as they sneered, one of them in mid-flight of a flying kick. To the side stood a beautiful woman wearing a long dress with a slit up the leg. She looked scared and helpless and excited, all at the same time.
I looked from her to Xin-hua, squatting on the sidewalk, her breathing regular now, holding the water bottle. Her cotton shoes were frayed at the soles and she had patches on both knees of her slacks. She looked at me and smiled. I think it was then that I understood her courage and how terrified she was.
Standing, she held out the water bottle. “Thirsty, Shan Da?”
“Thanks.” I took a pull at the bottle and offered it back to her. She shook her head and began to back the che out into the street. I put the bottle into her bag with our food tins.
Xin-hua mounted the che and started pedalling. We bumped along, continuing north on Exhibition Street. Above the trees that lined the street the grey sky threatened rain. It was quiet, almost peaceful. Xin-hua puffed rhythmically, the che creaked, the long bicycle chain from the pedal sprocket to the rear axle rattled softly. Bikes slipped past us, once in a while another che.
