An International Incident

An International Incident

The guard at the gate looked ridiculously young. With smooth tanned
skin, glossy hair and flawlessly white teeth, he should have been off
taking a hike with the boy scouts rather than standing here with a
rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder. His thin plimsolls added
vulnerability, while the white gloves that came as part of the uniform
gave a bizarre echo of an airhostess.

He looked at me with interest. There weren't many Westerners in this
part of China - 2 within a one hundred and fifty mile radius, to be
exact - so it wasn't often he got the chance to scrutinise a big nose
close up. A small H appeared between his eyebrows, as it occurred to
him I might be about to cause a problem.

"Hello," I said in my best Chinese.
That was easy enough. His foot scuffled in the gritty dust slightly,
but his smile was friendly.

"I want to go to buy some cigarettes." I made an exaggerated smoking
action with my hand, like some outdated film star. His smile faltered.
I could see the calculation going on in his head, and knew I'd probably
lost already.

"No. You can't."

I planted my feet further apart - irritated, but trying hard not to
look too aggressive. There was still a chance. The street sloping down
the hill behind him was deserted, and I knew that everyone in the
college behind me would be asleep. It was siesta time, and the heat
weighing drowsily on me almost persuaded me to give up. Almost.

"Please, the shop's just there." It was five feet away, the door open,
the cool, dark interior inviting me in. I could imagine myself up the
crumbling step, facing an array of cigarette packets. The five feet
could have been a mile.

"Why do you want cigarettes?" He was genuinely puzzled. This foreigner
had been living here for ten months, and had never shown any sign of
smoking before. It was seriously out of character.

I shrugged. My Chinese was fast running out, and I was worried that I'd
get my intonation wrong and he'd think I was trying to bribe him.
Cigarettes and money sounded dangerously close in the angular
language.

The wind whipped sheets of grit up the hill, and my mouth was full of
it from smiling so hard.

"No," he said. "You can't." He gazed off into the distance, and I knew
the conversation was over. I could always go to the shop anyway - I
liked to think that his gun wasn't really for keeping me in - but I
didn't have the energy for the fuss it would cause.

I walked limply back to my flat, sandals clacking dully like a slow
handclap.
The sentry posted outside my building didn't look so fresh. His flabby
cheeks were flushed red, and the growing stains under his arms were
evidence of the fact that he took the heat as badly as I did. I
wondered half-heartedly if I smelt of sour milk, as all over-heated
Westerners were said to.

I climbed the gloomy cement stairs and let myself in. The typewriter
sat unenthusiastically in front of me.
It was here that I'd started out twenty minutes ago, and the situation
hadn't improved. I was supposed to be typing up handouts for a lesson
the following day. I was a two-finger typist at the best of times, but
at this moment two steady fingers would have been a miracle. What I had
was two shaking hands and no handouts.

I could hear gunfire from my room. Downtown somewhere. I wasn't sure
where, and the heavy security meant there wasn't much chance I'd find
out. Nobody could tell me exactly what was going on. College
authorities stuck to the line that it was a traffic jam, which, given
the fact it had lasted five days, was implausible at best. My friends
thought that it was a Muslim uprising of some sort. What everybody
knew, but nobody was saying, was that the best way to get international
coverage would be to involve a foreigner, and the only foreigner in the
town was me.

This was stressful, but not the direct cause of my shaking hands or
search for cigarettes. It was full summer - I could hear birdsong
interspersing the gunfire, smell the baking earth of the hill behind
the college. I longed to get out, stretch my tense muscles and walk
through my frustration. And for the first time in my life, I couldn't.
I was truly trapped.

I glanced out of the window. There was a man squatting on the hill,
looking straight at me over the wall. I doubted that he was dangerous -
his whole appearance from his cheap thick blue nylon jacket and
flip-flops to his walnut-tanned skin and vacant expression showed him
to be peasant farmer. He just seemed bored, and was watching his
favourite soap-opera. Me. The world crowded in a little closer to me,
and I closed the curtains. If I'd been on a tube-train, it would have
been easy to get off at the next stop, to make a break for the air. I
didn't have that luxury now, and it didn't help the shaking.

There was a knock at the door - a formality, as I always kept it open
if I was in. Two students appeared, the best friends I had in this
country. I was always pleased to see them - now even more so, and it
didn't take me long to weigh up the ethics of the situation. Westerner
glamorising a deadly habit, vs. nervous exhaustion. There was no
contest.

"Have you got a cigarette?" I asked.

They glanced at each other worriedly - they hadn't expected
this.

"Yes," Yang Tien Dong answered, in a tone of extreme caution.

"Can I have one?"

His expression cleared. He'd been expecting a lecture, but granted a
last minute reprieve. Sharing he could do - from a family of ten, it
came naturally.
"Sure."

He handed me the packet, and I recognised a brand made at the factory
down the road. They'd probably been handing out freebies again in the
hope of converts.

I accepted a light, then drew the smoke deep into my lungs. It felt
good. A first, small taste of freedom.