FRAGMENT 32
The Low Growl of a Hyena
Fragment: A Cow-Like Murmur Behind Breasts | A Low Growl Like a Hyena
Time & Location: Spring 1989 · Temple of Heaven Park, Beijing
Ordinary life continued beneath my pen until that hot season between spring and summer.
Demonstrations.
Editorials.
Editorial meetings where the air seemed frozen solid.
Strict censorship.
My ears had grown accustomed to every sound around me.
Even my weak eyesight appeared to have improved.
The lenses of my glasses had changed from pure black to dark amber.
The White Crow had been asleep for a very long time.
Then a young woman appeared before me.
I glanced at the new intern from Tibet.
Han Chinese.
Dark-skinned.
Not very tall.
Hair falling to her waist.
Breasts modest and slightly drooping.
Apricot-shaped eyes.
Full lips.
A white blouse above a Tibetan skirt that made her legs seem remarkably long.
She stood there behaving herself.
The kind of innocence that concealed temptation.
"Your surname?"
I had already forgotten what the department head had told me.
"Miao Ping."
"He just introduced me."
"You important people forget things quickly."
Together we wandered through Tiananmen Square.
Among students sprawled around the Monument.
Listening.
Observing.
Taking notes.
When we wanted answers, we drifted toward another gathering.
When we were hungry, we bought steamed buns from street vendors.
When I was thirsty, she pulled a bottle of water from her shoulder bag.
After we finished writing our story, she suggested visiting the Temple of Heaven at night.
Before we reached the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, she stopped beside a dense stand of trees.
"Teacher Bai."
"I'm tired."
"Let's sit over there for a while."
As she spoke, she pinched my fingers.
A surprisingly gentle frequency escaped my throat.
So soft it embarrassed even me.
Her hand felt warm.
Her heart was beating a little too fast.
It had been a very long time since I had touched another woman's body.
I made no attempt to calm myself.
Deep among the trees, she pushed me backward.
Then she lifted her Tibetan skirt.
A pair of pale thighs emerged from the darkness and swung across my waist.
She slowly pulled open her blouse.
Her breasts trembled slightly.
Rice dumplings beneath pale skin.
I offered no resistance.
She stripped away the distance between us with far more confidence than I possessed.
Her hands moved quickly.
Decisively.
The lights were far away.
The night was very dark.
Behind the movement of her breasts came a low murmur.
Slow.
Heavy.
Almost bovine.
Then—
"What are you doing?!"
A low growl cut through the darkness.
Like a hyena.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
A man.
Wearing a red armband.
The world flashed white before my eyes.
"We're in love."
"Mind your own business."
Miao Ping shot back immediately.
Her voice sharp.
Defiant.
"This is a public place."
"No hooliganism."
"Show me your identification."
The man's face remained hidden in darkness.
His voice dropped lower as he spoke.
FRAGMENT 33
Boom!
Fragment: Eardrums Shattered by the Blast | A Rooster Trapped in My Throat | Father's Final Silence
Time & Location: Summer 1989 · Qianmen Avenue, Beijing | Spring 1990 · Ministerial Residence, Wanshou Road &, Beijing
Miao Ping held lightly onto my arm.
Her fingers were trembling.
She did not know that I could go blind in an instant.
Nor did she know how terrified I was.
I was afraid of everything.
If the truth came out, I would lose my family.
Lose my career.
Even mediocrity itself would disappear.
My head was filled with Secretary Wang's furious voice.
That oversized pale face, completely out of proportion to his body, twisted and distorted in my memory.
He had demanded that one of my apprentices "tell the details."
Every detail.
How he and his girlfriend had made love in the office.
At that moment, the former student leader of the December Ninth Movement had shed every disguise.
He wanted only to pry.
And to be entertained by what he saw.
I stood up.
My vision began returning.
Pulling fifty yuan from my pocket, I stuffed it into the shadow's hand.
"Brother."
"Have a drink on me."
Ten days of my salary.
Enough to buy twenty-five cans of Coca-Cola.
We escaped.
Our final escape came on that morning that would later find its way into history books.
The tank tracks.
The gunfire.
The shouting.
The crying.
All of it had finally stopped.
Holding Miao Ping's hand, I followed the last group leaving the square.
We ran through a chaos of footsteps toward Qianmen Avenue.
Outside the Public Security Bureau, something dark flew toward us.
Landed beside me.
Boom!
An explosion.
A gas grenade.
Instantly, my eardrums felt shattered.
I was completely deaf.
I reached out blindly.
Searching.
No Miao Ping.
Not beside me.
Not on the ground.
Not in the air.
Nowhere.
That winter, I went to the newspaper office every day for only one purpose.
Lock the door.
Play mahjong.
Thanks to my ability with numbers, I routinely humiliated the other three players.
No White Crow.
No normal hearing.
Only a Japanese hearing aid Father had hurriedly obtained for me.
Enough to keep me connected to the world.
Barely.
Until soldiers knocked it from my ear.
Until Father brought me another one outside the detention center.
The sound of that blast was soon drowned out by a song echoing through every street in Beijing.
"Asian Pride."
The anthem prepared for the Beijing Asian Games by Wei Wei and Liu Huan.
Officially, it celebrated the rise of Asia.
Unofficially, everyone seemed to be holding their breath.
Preparing to compete in humanity's most solemn game.
Determined to finish first.
The news that arrived later made me laugh.
After the violence, Chen Dashan began living with Miao Ping.
Having heard rumors about her history with me, he became furiously jealous.
First he subjected the girl to endless verbal abuse.
Then he reported me to the authorities.
His reward came quickly.
For reporting me.
For publishing increasingly radical political commentaries.
Chen Dashan was promoted to department director.
According to the rumors, he continued living with Miao Ping.
He always looked exhausted.
Half-asleep.
I suspected the woman had worn him out.
The rooster in my throat crowed twice.
Then fell silent.
FRAGMENT 34
Becoming a Block of Ice
Fragment: Eardrums Shattered by a Blast | A Rooster Trapped in the Throat | My Father's Final Silence
Time & Location: Summer 1989 · Qianmen Avenue, Beijing | Spring 1990 · Ministerial Residence, Wanshou Road & Public Security Hospital, Beijing
My aunt called.
"You should come home more often."
"Your father is terminal."
I returned to the ministerial apartments on Wanshou Road.
The red carpet had been worn down by decades of footsteps.
Along the edges, the fabric had frayed into a gray, exhausted fringe.
The lights were off.
The apartment smelled heavily of medicine.
A pair of Kenwood speakers, more than twenty years old, were playing The Long March Suite.
Father sat sunk deep into the sofa.
The broad frame that had once seemed indestructible had collapsed into a sharp, bony angle.
The military shirt he had worn for more than a decade hung loosely from his shoulders.
A deep hollow above his collarbone collected shadows.
He did not look at me.
His eyes remained fixed on the row of cedars outside the window.
"Gao Yong came by."
He spoke suddenly.
His voice sounded like metal scraping across gravel.
"Two boxes of wild ginseng.”
I lowered myself quietly into the seat beside him.
Gao Yong's attentiveness toward elders had always been famous in Compound No. 7.
Every major holiday, he made the rounds.
Visiting retired officials and powerful families.
My father was usually his first stop.
"I told him to get lost."
Father finally turned.
Moonlight traced the hollows around his eyes.
Inside them lingered a faint trace of wildness.
"He's become an actor."
"Talking to me about opportunities."
"About the future of the nation."
"Bullshit."
"So damn fake."
"There's a rooster living in his throat."
"The sound that comes out never lands on the ground."
Suddenly he began coughing.
His body folded inward.
Shaking violently.
I rushed forward to support him.
My hand touched his back.
It felt like a length of pig iron buried in frozen earth.
At that moment, a faint scratching sound came from the balcony.
Something with claws was scraping against the aluminum window frame.
Scratch.
Scratch.
I walked over and pulled aside the curtain.
A crow.
The tips of its wings carried an unhealthy gray-white coloring.
Its head tilted.
Its black eyes remained fixed on me.
It never cawed.
It simply pecked at the glass.
Again.
And again.
As though the glass were my chest.
Father watched the bird.
Something stirred inside his clouded eyes.
"That thing..."
"It didn't come from Compound No. 7, did it?"
The instincts of the old intelligence officer had begun slipping into hallucination.
One week later, my aunt ordered me to come immediately to the Public Security Hospital.
Father opened his eyes.
The sharp, watchful gaze that had accompanied me my entire life had become two black pills.
I took his hand.
"Dad."
"I have a question."
"Go ahead."
His strength was fading.
"Why did you give me the name Bai Ying?"
"Cough..."
"When you were born..."
"...your eyes looked like an eagle's."
A trace of affection crossed his face.
"Back then..."
"I hadn't spent much time studying crows.”
His hand grew colder.
The curtains were beginning to fall on his eyes.
"Dad."
"Dad."
"When did you know?”
He gave no answer.
He was gradually becoming a block of ice.
The human radio that had accompanied me for thirty-two years fell completely silent.
My aunt collapsed beside the bed.
Large tears splashed onto his dried, lifeless arm.
I did not cry.
I stood motionless at the bedside.
Removed my glasses.
I wanted to kiss that piece of iron.
The iron that had never rusted.
Bang.
The Kenwood speakers short-circuited.
Dawn was breaking.
The crow returned.
It pecked at the window several times.
Then flew away.
Had it come on behalf of generations of crows?
To thank the man who had raised me alone?
The thought flashed through my mind.
And suddenly I broke.
I wept uncontrollably.
Clutching Father's portrait against my chest.
From the television came a familiar song.
"Asian Pride."
Again.
I collapsed onto the carpet.
