A Heart for Freedom (9 page)

In the early 1980s, a genuine spirit of reform inspired the new leadership after Mao. Even Deng wanted to know how to build true democracy and freedom in China. He commissioned Hu’s brain trust to recommend reforms for the country. True to his word, the only title Deng retained for himself was chairman of the Central Military Commission, which guaranteed him the supreme power to exercise military force. That spirit of reform and sense of hope was quickly embraced by the students at Beida and other elite universities.

On National Day, October 1, the thirty-fifth anniversary of the People’s Republic of China, Deng stood on the rampart of Tiananmen Gate, just as Chairman Mao had done many times in the past, to review the military procession on the Square and wave to the immense multitude of people assembled below. I was there with a group of students from Beida.

When night came, the Square was filled with people dancing and singing. Fireworks burst overhead and spread out in brilliant array across the sky, lighting up the hearts of millions. For the first time in years, people were happy.

When another group of college students approached Tiananmen Gate, they broke formation. Shouting, running, and waving their arms, this horde of happy kids wanted to get a close-up glimpse of Deng Xiaoping. Out of the dancing throng, the students all of a sudden lofted a large banner emblazoned with four characters visible to the whole world: “
Xiao Ping Ni Hao
” (“Hello Xiaoping”). In China, elders are never addressed by their given name, and the thought of calling the paramount leader of the Chinese people by his given name was unimaginable. Yet this simple public greeting from the students said it all: We loved our leader and thanked him for all he had done for our country. The spontaneous banner caught Deng’s eye. He smiled and waved to the students. It was the first time I had experienced the power of emotional force that such a massive gathering can arouse.

7

A Dream and a Nightmare

At the end of my junior year, I stayed at Beida during the summer break to catch up on my psychology courses and prepare for the graduate exam, which I would take after fall term. One afternoon, I took a break from my studies to swim at the campus pool. As I came out of the water in the midst of a rainstorm, there was Wang. I was surprised he was still on campus. We went to our respective locker rooms to dress, and by the time we walked out, the summer storm had ended and a beautiful rainbow appeared in the sky.

Wang said, “Do you know the meaning of the rainbow?”

“Of course,” I replied. “The humid air reflects the light and breaks it into its many parts.”

Wang looked at me as if he were going to say something, but he decided to swallow his words. “Want to take a ride?” he said instead.

“Sure.”

I was delighted. Wang represented a mysterious world I wanted to know. I felt intimidated, but my curiosity won out. We rode to Yuan Ming Yuan Park, the Garden of Perfect Splendor, just north of campus, and biked alongside the newly restored, man-made lake known as The Sea of Good Fortune.

It was a beautiful, warm summer evening. Wang pedaled, and I sat on the seat behind him as we meandered along the shady, tree-lined pathways. The fire-red sun had burst through the clouds and enflamed the western sky with blazing color. Wang stood on a boulder at the edge of the lake, arms at his side, gazing at the sunset. He looked like a bronze statue, floodlit by the last brilliance of the sun before it disappeared below the horizon.

I broke the spell. Seized by some inspiration, I leaped into the lake. The water crashed around me like sparkling diamonds. I swam out toward an island silhouetted in the middle of the lake, imagining I was a mermaid. Swimming was another thing that always made me feel free.

When I turned my head, I saw that Wang had stripped to his bathing suit and was swimming toward me. He swiftly reached my side. Fearing the darkness would be upon us before we reached the island, we turned back to be near the shore. The universe became still as we floated serenely on the surface of the water and gazed at the darkening sky. One moment it seemed close enough to touch with my fingers; the next moment it seemed unimaginably distant. Farther out, the water and sky seemed to merge. We lay on the surface of the lake like the children of earth and sky meeting at twilight. The moment was infinitesimal, yet eternal. I felt like a newborn child, innocent and peaceful.

Afterward we strolled along the deserted pathway in the half-light, and Wang told me stories of his youth. Before we knew it, we were back at my dormitory. Even though it was summer break, the dutiful old lady still guarded the door.

It was late, but the pathway outside the dorm was illumined by lights shining out from the windows. Under the harsh glare, everything seemed common and ordinary, no longer lyrical. The magic aura of the night vanished.

Wang stood next to the bicycle, gazing at me as if he could read my troubled thoughts and knew I had a big crush on him. Perhaps he could see how helpless I felt and how upset I was. I wished all this could have happened before I met Qing, before all that had transpired, so I could start fresh and whole again.

“You remind me of when I was young,” he said. “Once, I was really attached to a girl, but when I got to know her, I was disappointed. The sadness I felt was close to despair. I’m afraid you, too, might be hurt by a rude awakening.” Then, abruptly, he pulled out of his heavy mood and began to laugh. “Little Chai Ling, you’re still in the monsoon season.”

“Monsoon season?”

“That’s right. From the story by San Mao. It’s about a girl who gets turned upside down by love. She finally shakes the rain and teardrops from her hair and marches forward in great strides. And the monsoons never come back.” He looked at me and said, “I am old, Chai Ling. I’ve experienced too much.”

For a few moments, I didn’t know what to do. My lips trembled as I tried to think of something to say. Fearing I might do something embarrassing and regretful, I blurted out, “Good-bye, then,” and turned and ran into the brightly lit doorway. Back in my room, I poured out my feelings in my diary.

The next morning, I went for a ride on my bicycle. I wanted to know what attracted me so much to Wang—the source of his tranquility. I visited a church near campus, where I saw an older man in a black robe. I sat in one of pews and waited. I didn’t feel anything.

Not quite ready to give up, I put on a straw hat and rode my bike outside the city limits. I was hoping to have an encounter like Wang had had in the countryside. Despite being harassed by some young men along the way, I managed to ride all the way to Miyun Reservoir, about fifty miles outside Beijing and the city’s largest water source. It was as big as the ocean to me. In the afternoon sun, I sat on the shore, looking across the immense expanse of water, and quietly recited a poem in my heart.

Either it was the distant waves of the sea

Or a mother’s call to her child in the twilight

When they asked me what this is all about

I could not give them your name

I could not give them your name

When they asked me what this is all about

Either it was a mother’s call to her child in the twilight

Or the distant waves of the sea

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Was it Wang or the spirit I sensed in him? In my imagination, I pictured a woman nursing her child, full of grace and peace, while surrounded by the chaos and clamor of a sinking ship. For some reason, that picture made me think of Wang and his calm demeanor. As I rode back to Beida in the early evening hours, I sensed I should leave campus before I could get into trouble with Wang. As soon as my classes were finished, I bought a train ticket and went home to see my family.

* * *

Soon the fall term arrived, my last year at Beida. Shortly after I arrived, Qing came over to help me with some laundry. Under my pillow, he found my diary and read the part about Wang. He later wrote me a note saying that after reflecting on our relationship during our time apart, he was ready for us to start over again, but when he read my diary, his heart became like a flowing stream that suddenly dried up. I felt bad about it, but I could no longer deny my attraction to the light Wang represented to me. I wanted to know what it was.

A friend told me that another classmate of ours, Shen Liang, who had also transferred to the psychology department, happened to be from Wang’s hometown. With my typical, naive directness, I told Shen Liang I would like to know more about Wang and would appreciate anything he could share with me. He looked at me as if he could not believe I would be interested in Wang. In some ways, I almost hoped he would tell me something bad about Wang—something to knock him off his pedestal so I could move on with my life. But Shen Liang didn’t offer anything useful.

One day I ran into Shen on campus and noticed he looked more pale than usual. When I asked him if everything was all right, he told me his grandmother had died and that he was feeling torn up. I asked if I could help in any way. At the time, we were both under extreme pressure to pass a difficult exam to determine whether we could continue our studies in a graduate program.

“Maybe you can help me,” Shen said. “I’m so distracted I can’t concentrate. Why don’t you come to my dorm on Friday so we can study together. My roommate won’t be there, and we can study all day to catch up.”

This sounded like a good idea, so I agreed.

When I showed up first thing Friday morning at his dorm, Shen seemed restored to his old self. He was a thin, bookish student who wore glasses and wasn’t at all in Wang’s league, though they had grown up together in the same factory unit and learned martial arts in the same club.

He offered me some of his “power drink,” a white, creamy beverage that had a funny taste. After a few sips, I stopped drinking it. Soon I began to feel sleepy and asked Shen if he had any tea. He said he did not, but he happened to have on hand a medicine that would give me energy like tea or coffee. “Why don’t you try some of that?” he said. “These are what I take when I get sleepy. They are supposed to be for children, so you should take about six of them.”

Shen opened a small bottle, shook out six little white pills and offered them to me on the palm of his extended hand. I took the pills without a second thought, just as I had when I was a little girl and my mother or father, both doctors, told me to take medicine when I wasn’t feeling well.

Instead of perking up, though, I soon felt overwhelmed by drowsiness. I told Shen I had to leave, and I prepared to go back to my dorm. But he grabbed my bag before I could pack up my books, and said, “Just take a nap here. I’ll wake you up in half an hour.”

“Okay,” I said. “But make sure it’s just half an hour.”

I dropped onto the bed with my coat on and fell into a deep sleep.

When I woke up, I couldn’t breathe. A towel was stuffed in my mouth, some kind of blindfold was covering my eyes, and I was being held down on the side by a heavy weight. I thrashed my body against the weight, and this loosened the towel enough so I could shout. All at once, the weight lifted. I sat up and tore off the strip of cloth tied around my head. Shen was standing over me.

“I was just playing with you,” he said. “That’s all.”

I heard laughter floating up from the campus. When I glanced outside, I saw students coming in and out of the dining hall. It was noon. I grabbed my bag and went straight to my dorm room, where I collapsed again on my bed and slept.

I gradually regained my equilibrium about forty-eight hours later, on Sunday afternoon. When I went out on the street, I felt disoriented, like an alien wandering among busy people who were shopping and chatting. I couldn’t make any sense out of what was going on. By sunset my mind began to clear, and I tried to understand exactly what Shen had done to me.

Physically, I felt no pain. When I had awakened, my clothing was still intact and my coat was still on. There were no marks or other evidence to suggest Shen had done anything, but I began to think he had intended to rape me. Even if he hadn’t succeeded, I knew he had done something evil to me just by drugging me and pinning me to the bed with a gag and a blindfold.

That evening, I went to the movies with some friends. One of them brought an acquaintance who turned out to be a police officer. He was at Beida for a special training course.

Without revealing I was the real victim, I told the officer what had happened. He listened and started telling me about the dark side of society. He told me he had once heard of a man who had drugged and raped a girl. The girl and her single mother were so ashamed, they never reported the incident. Instead, they drowned themselves in a river.

This was how I learned that women who are raped in China try to hide their pain because society assumes they must have invited the rape with seductive behavior.

I had heard about the dark side of society, but my world had been so sheltered that I’d never experienced it firsthand. I thought about Shen and what he had done, and I wondered whether I had the courage to report him or if I should just forget the incident and avoid the whole humiliating ordeal.

Shen wrote me a letter, which I found when I got back to my room. He told me he was sorry and explained that he’d been under psychological pressure. He hoped, since we were both psychology students, I would understand how this worked and just let it go.

The phrase “psychological pressure” got to me. How could that excuse his criminal behavior? I understood that human beings have certain basic needs, so I was not judgmental about that, but how did that justify what he had done? His letter wasn’t a confession, actually. He just wanted me to keep the incident between us.

“Ling Ling,” my mother used to tell me, “people in our family are too simple and naive. If you aren’t careful, you’ll be taken advantage of in the real world.”