a water dispenser?’ asks Scarface, a man whose forehead is badly disfigured by a childhood burn. He is destitute, and can only pay for the education of his three daughters with beans adulterated with sand.
‘You know – those large plastic canisters that cadres have in their offices, filled with mineral water that’s supposed to cure a hundred illnesses. It works out at one mao a cup!’ This burly man, Kong Guo, went to Wuhan last year to work on a construction site but was arrested for not having the necessary temporary urban residence permit, fined two thousand yuan and escorted back to the village by the police.
‘So, they’re just drinking all our money away,’ says a mild, gentle man who cycles around the village every morning collecting eggs to sell in the county market. His fists are resting on the metal table, tightly clenched.
A dishevelled peasant called Wang Wu stands up, unable to contain his rage any longer. ‘They wanted twenty thousand yuan for the illegal births of my two younger daughters. I told them I don’t have enough money even to buy seeds. So they tied one end of a metal cable to the central eave of my house, the other half to their tractor. When the tractor reversed my entire roof came off. Where do those bastards expect us to live now?’
Suddenly, loud clanging thuds can be heard, the front gate swings open, and district policemen sweep inside followed by members of the family planning squad. The women in the house scurry into the kitchen and the men rush outside. Before Wang Wu gets a chance to launch into a tirade he’s bashed to the ground. Kongzi’s father steps onto a bamboo stool and shouts, ‘No fighting. No violence!’
Clutching the plastic basin containing his aborted son, Kong Qing yells, ‘Fascist slaughterers! I’ll have my revenge! A life for a life!’
Old Huan, director of the Hexi Family Planning Commission, steps out from behind the policemen. ‘I warn you, Li Peisong,’ he says, jabbing his finger aggressively. ‘If by tonight you haven’t paid the remaining nine thousand yuan for Little Fatty’s birth, we’ll confiscate your stove, pans and wok, and pull down your house!’
Kong Guo elbows his way to the front and butts in, ‘Go ahead! If you tear our houses down, we’ll just come and move in with you.’
The policemen head for Kongzi’s front door, shouting, ‘Yuanyuan was seen entering this compound. We must search the house.’
‘Step inside and I’ll kill you!’ Kongzi yells, waving a kitchen cleaver, unrecognisable when compared to the teacher in the grey nylon suit who walks to school every morning with his black briefcase. This is not his first experience of protest, however. In 1989, he travelled to Beijing to visit the man he still calls Teacher Zhou – a former urban youth who was sent to Kong Village in the Cultural Revolution and taught Kongzi in the village school. Together, he and Teacher Zhou marched through the streets of Beijing with the student protesters, waving banners and shouting slogans in support of democracy and freedom. The County Public Security Bureau has kept a detailed file of the subversive activities he engaged in during his month in the capital.
In the yard, which is only half laid with concrete, the crowd grows agitated. Villagers begin to push and shove, knocking into the date tree sapling that’s propped up with bamboo sticks. Children and barking dogs climb onto a mound of broken bricks in the corner to escape the crush.
District Party Secretary Qian, the most senior member of the squad, emerges from the crowd, accompanied by a hired thug, and shouts, ‘Kongzi, as a Party member, you have a duty to assist the squad with its efforts. If you don’t behave, we’ll fling you behind bars.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten my son, Mr Qian,’ Kongzi’s father says with quiet authority, dropping his cigarette stub and grinding it into the ground with his heel. ‘Get out of this yard.’
Kongzi goes to stand beside his father. ‘Yes, this is my home!’ he says. ‘A Kong family home, and in here, the Kongs make the decisions. I’ve committed no crime. So, get out, and take your rotten minions with you!’
‘You want to start a fight, then?’ says the shaven-headed officer who arrested Fang two days ago. ‘We’ll bury you alive.’ He throws the hired thug a glance, signalling for him to give Kongzi a beating.
But before he has a chance to strike, Kong Qing, who’s standing behind him, raises his