Anwher scrambled into a corner, but Fatty Bo was all over him. With a great sweeping arc he raised the stick above his head, then brought it smashing down on Anwherâs back. âThis is unnecessary,â Fatty Bo said to no one in particular. Beatings no longer interested him the way they once had. But a man did his duty.
He hit Anwher until the Uyghur stopped struggling, and by that time his own back was starting to seize up. It took all of his concentration to ignore the pain. He tried to swing from the hips to minimize the cramps.
He directed some shots to Anwherâs head, the baton reverberating sharply in his hand. Then he stopped and looked at Omar. Omar met his gaze but said nothing.
Anwher was making noises. It could have been an apology, but Fatty Boâs back was killing him, the muscles yanking like someone snapping out a wet cloth, and he couldnât think about anything but the cramps. He tore open his jacket to reveal a sweat-stained T-shirt underneath and attacked with a dull furor, the blows momentous, every one a raging earthquake. Anwherâs hands crept over the floor, as if he were trying to drag his ravaged body out of the cell, out of the station, away from Beijing entirely. In his homeland, a man could walk in a deep valley for days without encountering another soul.
âWhy?â Anwher cried, his voice suddenly clear.
Fatty Bo stopped long enough for Omar to respond to his grandson. When the old man said nothing, Fatty Bo looked up. âThis can go on indefinitely,â he said.
Omar knew it could.
âSo be it,â Omar said. âShow us what youâre made of.â
Â
MOUNTAIN OF SWORDS, SEA OF FIRE
Â
Someone had hung an enormous red banner across the back of the newsroom that read âFarewell and Long Life, Li Pai!â The man of the hour had positioned himself at a metal folding table directly beneath it. Young reporters came with his memoirs open to the title page, then solemnly presented letters of recommendation they had written for themselves. Li Pai signed them all. Ning had spent the morning watching from his cubicle as they filed by, so worshipful, so eager to drink from the font of the great oneâs knowledge. The whole damn thing turned his stomach. Had anyone asked, Ning had no quarrel with him: Li Pai was a treasure. But Ning wasnât one for celebrations.
There was to be a party that night at the Green Room. Just thinking about it made Ning cringe. He knew how it would play out. Fang, the economics editor, would kick things off by delivering a speech listing her own accomplishments and thanking Li Pai for his contributions to her stratospheric rise, and old Bang Wen would stutter his way through a selection of Du Fuâs poetry. The chief would grunt out whatever heâd written on his BlackBerry on the way over, while everyone, arms crossed, stared at the floor and listened for their cues to laugh. The toasts would go on so long Ning would begin to fantasize, like a man crawling across the Gobi, about a single drop of lukewarm beer. And by the time every editor in the place had said his piece, the drunks from the copydesk and production would feel compelled to chime in. But, much as he wanted to, Ning couldnât escape it. He was the only one old enough to have known Li Pai from the beginning, and the chiefâs assistant had been hounding him for weeks about his speech.
Like Li Pai, Ning was in his sixties, and for longer than he could remember, he had marked time by the various injustices the thoughtless world visited upon him, the speech being one. Another prime example occurred just after lunch, when one of Li Paiâs acolytes called across the newsroom, âHey, Ning! Great news! You just got scooped by the Baby Reds!â
Ah, perfection, he thought. Heâd taken some extra time to do some deep research, and here was his reward. If heâd been younger, heâd have hopped a bus over to the China
He hit Anwher until the Uyghur stopped struggling, and by that time his own back was starting to seize up. It took all of his concentration to ignore the pain. He tried to swing from the hips to minimize the cramps.
He directed some shots to Anwherâs head, the baton reverberating sharply in his hand. Then he stopped and looked at Omar. Omar met his gaze but said nothing.
Anwher was making noises. It could have been an apology, but Fatty Boâs back was killing him, the muscles yanking like someone snapping out a wet cloth, and he couldnât think about anything but the cramps. He tore open his jacket to reveal a sweat-stained T-shirt underneath and attacked with a dull furor, the blows momentous, every one a raging earthquake. Anwherâs hands crept over the floor, as if he were trying to drag his ravaged body out of the cell, out of the station, away from Beijing entirely. In his homeland, a man could walk in a deep valley for days without encountering another soul.
âWhy?â Anwher cried, his voice suddenly clear.
Fatty Bo stopped long enough for Omar to respond to his grandson. When the old man said nothing, Fatty Bo looked up. âThis can go on indefinitely,â he said.
Omar knew it could.
âSo be it,â Omar said. âShow us what youâre made of.â
Â
MOUNTAIN OF SWORDS, SEA OF FIRE
Â
Someone had hung an enormous red banner across the back of the newsroom that read âFarewell and Long Life, Li Pai!â The man of the hour had positioned himself at a metal folding table directly beneath it. Young reporters came with his memoirs open to the title page, then solemnly presented letters of recommendation they had written for themselves. Li Pai signed them all. Ning had spent the morning watching from his cubicle as they filed by, so worshipful, so eager to drink from the font of the great oneâs knowledge. The whole damn thing turned his stomach. Had anyone asked, Ning had no quarrel with him: Li Pai was a treasure. But Ning wasnât one for celebrations.
There was to be a party that night at the Green Room. Just thinking about it made Ning cringe. He knew how it would play out. Fang, the economics editor, would kick things off by delivering a speech listing her own accomplishments and thanking Li Pai for his contributions to her stratospheric rise, and old Bang Wen would stutter his way through a selection of Du Fuâs poetry. The chief would grunt out whatever heâd written on his BlackBerry on the way over, while everyone, arms crossed, stared at the floor and listened for their cues to laugh. The toasts would go on so long Ning would begin to fantasize, like a man crawling across the Gobi, about a single drop of lukewarm beer. And by the time every editor in the place had said his piece, the drunks from the copydesk and production would feel compelled to chime in. But, much as he wanted to, Ning couldnât escape it. He was the only one old enough to have known Li Pai from the beginning, and the chiefâs assistant had been hounding him for weeks about his speech.
Like Li Pai, Ning was in his sixties, and for longer than he could remember, he had marked time by the various injustices the thoughtless world visited upon him, the speech being one. Another prime example occurred just after lunch, when one of Li Paiâs acolytes called across the newsroom, âHey, Ning! Great news! You just got scooped by the Baby Reds!â
Ah, perfection, he thought. Heâd taken some extra time to do some deep research, and here was his reward. If heâd been younger, heâd have hopped a bus over to the China
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