‘Did you kiss Lu Ping or not?’
‘No, she just came to my house to pose for the photographs.’
‘And why did she take her clothes off?’
‘I told you — my old work unit commissioned me to take the pictures last year for a product catalogue. It was all above board. Anyway, you couldn’t see her body, only her hands and the candle were in focus.’
‘Still, you don’t need naked women to advertise candles. What happened after you took the pictures?’
‘She put her clothes on and said, "That was quick." ‘
‘And what did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Wipe that smirk off your face, you smug bastard. You think you’re something special with your long hair and denim jeans. Well, you can’t get away with that here! If you were such an upstanding citizen, how come we have received so many reports on you? We released you two years ago to give you a chance to prove yourself. But look what I have here: "Long-haired man, about forty, visited him twice in his office. . A woman seen sauntering in and out of his house all day." Can you explain why the people have chosen to pick on you in particular?’
‘That was my sister they were talking about. She often stays with me. The neighbours must have seen her using the tap in my yard.’
‘Stop lying! Stand straight! I don’t want to lose any more sleep talking to a hooligan like you. Give me the names of every layabout who’s walked through your door. Tell me who they are and where you met them.’
‘My address book is in front of you — you can check the names yourself,’ I said, still clutching my trousers. ‘Why not ask me about the notice I pinned up at work. I have nothing to hide.’
‘Don’t try to play politics, young man. This isn’t the work unit. It’s where we lock criminals up.’
They gave me nothing to eat or drink, so when the interrogator stepped into the back room I took a quick gulp from his jar of tea. I hated to watch him drink from it because each time he finished a jar he would go for a piss and make me stand by the wall with my hands in the air. One time I rested my hands on the wall and got a sharp kick in the back as he walked through the door.
The truck’s cabin is very cold, but the seats are more comfortable than the cement floor I slept on for the last three nights. The cell they locked me in had a double steel door and a small window that let some light in during the day and a faint breeze at night. There was a urine-streaked bucket in the corner, the walls above it were smeared with shit. In the daylight you could read the messages daubed in blood: ‘Fuck you, Lili!. . The Party gave me a heart of steel. . Sorry, Mum. . The people’s police kill the people. . On with the revolution!’
At one point the hatch of the inner door opened and two faces peered in. It was too dark for them to see me, so they shouted ‘Stand up, Ma Jian!’ I grabbed the metal bars and breathed onto their faces, and they quickly stepped back. ‘They won’t let you off so lightly this time. Your name is on the list. It’s nothing to do with us though, we’ve just come to say hello. I’d own up though if I were you — they’re bound to get you sooner or later.’
They closed the window, but the square of light still flashed before my eyes. I recognised them as the two policemen who arrested me two years ago. The short one, Officer Wu, liked to smoke and kick people about. I confessed to attending a dance party at a friend’s house, and the next day he pushed me into a police van and drove me around Beijing demanding I direct him to the homes of every other guest at the party. I regretted my initial confession and was determined not to make the same mistake again, so I said I had forgotten the addresses. Officer Wu kicked me in the chest and shouted, ‘So you want to play games do you? You little fuck!’
I can hear more and more bicycles go by. It must be getting light. I sit up, climb off the truck and resume my journey home.
I walk as slowly as possible, afraid that if I get home too early I will wake my mother up. When she heard I was in trouble at work, she packed her bags and caught the first train to Beijing. She has been looking after me for nearly two months now. I feel bad for all the worry I have caused her.
Bicycle chains and bus brakes grind and screech. Two men shout outside a grocery store as they unload crates of beer and fizzy orange from the back of a tricycle. ‘Their soya milk has gone up again, I won’t buy it from them any more.’ The man kicking the crates across the pavement has a piercing voice, the one bending over to open the door speaks more softly. ‘Doesn’t matter where you buy it, it all tastes the same. They make it from powder. In the old days they would stay up all night grinding beans for the morning.’ The roar of a pneumatic drill a few streets away pounds through the soot in the air.
The sky ahead begins to redden. It is caught between the walls of a long narrow lane. Through the criss-cross of branches and telephone wires it looks like a pane of broken glass. The clock tower on the left is still dark. As I draw closer, I notice the thick layer of dust on its eaves. Crows flit back and forth between the treetops and the roof.
When I reach my gate I stop and walk back to the latrines.
The men squatting over the holes puff steam into the air like warm teapots. My neighbour Old Liu shakes his dick dry. ‘Eaten yet?’ he says. ‘Yes, thanks.’ When I see his face I always think of his daughter’s long teeth.
I stand at the urinal. The graffiti scribbled on the wall a few days ago—’Mount the piece of flesh, squeeze into her thighs, up and down we go, it’s just like paradise!’—is now hidden under a layer of whitewash. Outside the chicken-wire window a stack of wooden planks is propped against a wall. Women shout in the toilets next door. I can hear the clink of their metal buttons and belts. A song blares from a nearby street stall. ‘Tibetans stop drinking barley wine and churning butter tea, and cry with tears of joy at the sight of the People’s Liberation Army. .’
I push through my gate. The yard is strewn with fallen leaves and pigeon shit. I open the front door and see my mother sitting up in bed smoking. Her eyes seem to want to nail me to the spot.
‘So they’ve let you out then?’ She frowns and flattens the quilt.
‘For the time being.’
I sit down. My desk is piled with the upturned contents of my drawers: letters, newspapers, photo albums, negatives, notebooks. The paintings have been ripped from the walls and flung to the ground. The little watercolour I gave my mother is perched on the top of the heap.
‘I’ll start sorting this out.’ My mother turns away to clean her glasses. I notice her wipe a tear from her eyes. ‘This is what comes of talking back to your leaders. I told you it would end badly. Did they hit you?’
‘No. Stop smoking so much. It’s not good for you.’
She pokes the fire. There is a kettle on the stove and some sesame cakes she brought from Qingdao. Her back is more hunched than ever. ‘What do you want to eat? There’s some pork jelly, if you like.’
‘I’m not hungry, I’ll just have some tea.’ There are holes in my paper ceiling, I can see through to the beams. Mice love to scuttle across them. I imagine one now, running along, then falling through a hole with a petrified look on its face.
‘Why did they tear the ceiling?’
‘Don’t ask me. They emptied the drawers. Four of them came in the night. One was quite nice, said she knew you — tall woman. Said, "Don’t worry old lady, we’ve just come to check things out. I’m from Ma Jian’s work unit. If he’s done nothing wrong, he’ll be out in no time." ‘
I remember the policeman taking the door keys from my pocket.
‘What did they take?’
‘Don’t know — some documents, I think.’
‘What about the envelope I gave you?’