Miss Chopsticks (28 page)

‘You might think the Open Policy was intended to make things better for you, but think again. When laws are
changed, it's the officials who benefit, not the peasants. Forget what you've heard about foreign countries, and how people there can influence the law. Don't be so childish! Can someone who works in the fields sit in a big fancy Hall of State making laws? It's all people with power and influence playing games to deceive the common people …'

Uncle Two thought about his gangmaster on the building site, who owed him three years' wages. Some of his fellow workers had tried to sue the man, but the court had sent them packing because they didn't have contracts. Then a few of the workers whispered that the court had been paid a bribe and said they should go out on strike, but their bosses had warned them off. They were working on a key State project, they said, and any strike action would be considered anti-Party and anti-State. Who would risk that kind of charge?

Ever since Uncle Two had gone out into the world, he had prided himself on his caution. He'd watched fellow workers get into difficulties and listened to their complaints, thinking all the time that they were foolish not to learn how to do things the city people's way … But here he was, arrested for waiting at a door. Who would have thought
that
could be a crime?

A piercing howl of police sirens roused Uncle Two from his reverie, and a fifteen-seater minibus screeched to a halt in front of him. ‘Get in the back of the van!' said the policeman as he opened the door.

Inside, the minibus had been divided into two sections: the front two rows of seats were for the five policemen, while those they had arrested were crammed into the back behind an iron grille. Uncle Two clambered in and squatted down by the door with his back to the others. He could hardly move, the bus was so full. He couldn't see exactly how many people were behind him, but he could smell them: the sweaty armpits of people who hadn't
washed for many days, the fishy reek of feet, that dusty, smoky smell found only in the hair of migrant workers, and the terrible odour of bad breath that came in great gusts every time anyone opened their mouth. Uncle Two had never been able to understand how it was that country people could brush their teeth every day and still have such bad breath, but it was the case – and never more so than now. Crouched in the back of that van, just one of a stinking mass of bodies, Uncle Two felt overwhelmed with despair. He had no idea where his three nieces were, and his wife and family had no idea where he was. How could this have happened? Although he tried to suppress them, great sobs began rising up in his chest.

‘Quiet there! No noise!' one of the police bellowed from the front. This gave Uncle Two such a start that he choked, and started hiccupping.

‘Fuck it, I told you to shut up. Which one of you bastards is being courageous enough to ignore me?'

‘I'm … hic … sorry … hic … I … can't … hic … stop,' wept Uncle Two.

‘Leave him,' came the voice of the policeman who had arrested him. ‘If heaven doesn't rain on us, the people fart at us. Just let him get on with it.'

Before long the van stopped and the back door was opened by a policeman who shouted, ‘Out, hurry up, everybody stand by the wall over there, bring your stuff, stand properly, don't shuffle about, get in a proper line! Move it!'

Uncle Two practically fell out of the bus into the small courtyard as the people behind him began to push to get out. This meant that he was the first in the queue for questioning. He was led into a small interview room, which just had space for a small table and two chairs. As Uncle Two was sitting down, the policeman who had arrested him came in to talk to the man behind the table.

‘I've put them all into the other interview rooms, Officer
Huang, because it's so cold out. When you need someone else for questioning, go via the back door, rather than getting chilled to the bone. I'm off out again. Who's to know if we're not saving a life or two today: you could die being out in this weather. Are these bloody ignorant peasants trying to kill themselves?'

‘If you put the ones we've questioned with those we haven't, how am I supposed to tell who's who?' asked the policeman called Huang crossly.

‘Just look in your notebook to see who you've talked to. There are eleven more to go after this one.' The policeman opened the door to leave.

‘And when you bring in even more, where are we supposed to put them, eh? The second half of the night's going to be even colder. We can't just make people stand in the yard!'

‘Fit 'em in somehow,' said the policeman, who evidently wanted the conversation to finish. Officer Huang shivered in the chilly draught from the open door.

‘That's all very well, but how am I supposed to question them all?'

‘Put in some overtime …' And with that, the policeman walked away.

Uncle Two watched nervously as Officer Huang leafed impatiently through his notebook: ‘Come on then. Name? Age? Where are you from?'

‘Li Zhongjia, forty-two, Chuzhou Prefecture, Anhui Province.'

‘How do I write that? Li as in the fruit tree? Zhong as in loyalty? Jia as in family?'

‘That's it,' stammered Uncle Two. ‘My elder brother is Zhongguo – Loyal to the Nation. My father said that after loyalty to the nation comes loyalty to the family.'

Officer Huang seemed to find this way of naming sons amusing because he gave a little chuckle.

‘Do you have papers?'

‘Yes, these are my identity papers, this is my work permit, this is the letter of introduction from my local government …' Uncle Two pulled out the big envelope from his breast pocket, and once again unfolded the papers with their big red official seals.

‘And have you got a temporary residence permit for Nanjing?' asked Officer Huang sorting casually through the papers, and making a couple of ticks in his notebook.

‘For Nanjing?' asked Uncle in confusion.

‘The permit that allows you to reside or stay in Nanjing.'

‘But I wasn't planning on staying here. I'm just passing through on my way home. I get the bus here. I was waiting to see someone.'

‘So when did you arrive in Nanjing and who were you waiting to see?'

‘I got off the train yesterday and went home with someone who'd been travelling with me …' Uncle Two did his best to remember every detail, for fear that the policeman would accuse him of not admitting to something.

But Huang interrupted him. ‘I've no time to listen to your petty details. Who were you waiting for and can they vouch for you?'

‘Well … his name is Mr Guan …'

‘Telephone number?'

‘I … I don't know …'

‘You don't know? Then how can we find him to bear witness for you? Is there anyone else who can confirm your story? If there isn't, you can forget about going home for Spring Festival!'

Uncle Two was filled with horror at the idea that he might never escape this place. ‘Perhaps …' he stammered. ‘… Everyone under the willow tree knows Mr Guan. He helps lots of country people find work …'

‘Are you talking about the job centre near the big willow tree?' Huang asked.

‘Yes, that's the place!'

‘Is that where you were arrested?'

‘Yes, yes,' said Uncle Two eagerly.

‘So tell me about this woman's coat you had on you … Where did you get it?'

‘I bought it second hand, for my wife.'

‘Receipt?'

‘Do I need a receipt when I buy clothes?'

‘Of course! If you don't have a receipt, how can you prove you haven't stolen the goods?'

‘Honestly, I've never taken other people's things! May Heaven strike me down if I tell a lie!' begged Uncle Two, pointing to the top of his head in desperation.

Uncle Two's agitation seemed to make Officer Huang very frustrated.

‘All right, I've finished with you. Go and wait for sentencing.'

‘Sentencing?' exclaimed Uncle Two, his knees going weak. ‘Sentencing for a crime?'

‘What do you think we brought you in for, if not to sentence you?' said Officer Huang, escorting Uncle Two into the other interview room. Though it was crammed full of people, there was not a sound to be heard. Huang pointed to another prisoner, asked his name, and took him away for questioning.

Uncle Two sat down in the tiny space the man had just vacated and tried to find somewhere to put his bags. The man next to him gave a shove.

‘Bloody hell, who d'you think you are coming into prison with all your luggage?'

‘Sorry, sorry.' Uncle Two didn't know what to do.

‘You can put one of those bags on my knees,' a voice said from beside him.

‘Thank you, Brother!' said Uncle Two, trying unsuccessfully to turn round to look at the good-hearted person.

‘It's natural for companions in adversity to help each other out,' the voice said wanly.

‘Are you all right?' asked Uncle Two quietly. ‘You sound rough …'

‘It's nothing … A row with the missus. I went out to drown my sorrows, had a few too many, and mistook a police car for a taxi on the way home. As if that wasn't enough, I laid into the cop inside thinking he was the taxi driver …'

The man was just about to continue his story when the door flew open and a stern voice called out, ‘Quiet! No talking allowed! The next one to speak will stand in the yard!'

That night, Uncle Two went over his life as if he were standing in front of the gates of Hell. Even if he escaped this nightmare, he would never be able to hold his head high again. It had taken him years to achieve the respect of his fellow villagers. Although during the first decade of his life he had given his parents great joy merely by being a boy, after that no one would respect him unless he proved himself a man. It had not been easy. People considered him a ‘weak seed' because he had no sons. He had carried his unhappiness around with him, unable to find a solution to his problems, like a teapot without a spout. Eventually, he had carved out a living by leaving his home and labouring with the sweat of his brow, but this incident in prison was going to send him right back down to the bottom of the heap. Even if by some miracle he got home, wouldn't the people in the village revile him? Nobody would believe he'd been falsely accused. In the eyes of the villagers, the police had a god-given authority. He remembered how the older generation had revered Chairman Mao. To them, he knew everything there was to know: Chairman Mao could build a house, turn a seam, hang a dog, or dry sweet potatoes in the most economical way. Well, the police were like Chairman Mao to the current generation: never wrong. There was no getting round it, he was done for. As his
wife said, the tongues of the people in the village could chew a person to death!

As fish-belly white leached into the sky, and a shaft of weak sunshine came into the room where Uncle Two was incarcerated, he heard a groan beside him.

‘This is the season for executions …'

Uncle Two's blood froze. ‘What are you saying, Brother?'

‘I'm saying,' said the low voice, ‘that a lot of us here are going to be a New Year gift for Yama, king of the dead.'

Uncle Two shivered. He remembered stories about the ghosts of wrongly accused men who had died unjust deaths. When, next year, the Ghost Festival came on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, would he too be one of those wronged ghosts? He would never see his wife and daughters again! Or his friends from the village! Or his brothers … Suddenly Uncle Two realised just what the muddy lanes and fields of his tiny village meant to him: the tender green shoots of spring, the scents of summer, the gold of autumn and the lazy pleasures of winter … He recalled how even villagers who had made trouble for him, occasionally showed him kindness – like his sister-in-law who, though she cursed him endlessly, had also once given him two bulls' penises to ‘strengthen his
yang
energy'. Nobody was really that bad … ‘If I get out of this alive,' thought Uncle Two to himself, ‘I'll never get angry again. No matter how much people shout at me, I won't mind. Anger and laughter are part of being alive! Is anything more important than living? Let me live …'

Uncle Two prayed to all the gods he could think of, from the Christian Jesus and Virgin Mary to the Bodhisattvas, Guanyin and the Tibetan Master of Zangmi. He even prayed to Chairman Mao, Jiang Zemin and that new leader, Hu Jintao, saying their names over and over again. But when the iron door finally opened, and a figure in a peaked cap stood tall before him in the bright light, the
gods that had sustained Uncle Two's courage disappeared without a trace, leaving behind nothing but his heart, which was pounding so hard he thought it would jump out of his mouth.

The policeman read out a list of names and told those to whom they belonged to go and stand by the door. When he read out the name ‘Li Zhongjia', no one answered.

‘Li Zhongjia? Aren't you Li Zhongjia?' the policeman asked, coming up to Uncle Two.

Uncle Two saw the gates of Hell before him. ‘I … I don't want to die!' he whispered, his face deathly white and his teeth chattering.

‘Go and stand outside,' said the policeman in a neutral tone. ‘In a short while we'll let you go home.'

When he heard the words ‘go home', Uncle Two thought of films he had seen where the bad guys said, ‘I'll see you home' and then murdered their victim. He flung himself at the policeman's feet. ‘Kind sir, I implore you … I haven't stolen anything …'

‘Hey, what are you doing?' said the policeman stepping back. ‘Stand up. We're sending you back home, what more do you want? Your family's come to fetch you. Get along with you, outside!'

It wasn't until Uncle Two saw Six waiting for him that he realised he had left the gates of Hell far behind him.

Guan Buyu, Shu Tian and Six listened to Uncle Two's sobs and tried to imagine what he was thinking. It seemed strange that he should cry when he'd been released. Surely he should be happy? Shu Tian and Guan Buyu had only ever heard sinister stories about the police, so they were relieved that he bore no visible traces of ill-treatment; Six thought him a bit weak for weeping over a short night in prison. None of them had any inkling of what this honest country man had endured, or the sleepless nights he would continue to suffer for months to come.