Half the World Away - страница 40

My first encounter with Tom as I drummed up petition signatures and publicized our vigil. His prediction: ‘When the Chinese government have had enough, they’ll clear the lot of them out. Water cannon or whatever. None of this will make a bit of difference. Put money on it – the protest is quashed, the Commies carry on and you have a drink with me.’

‘You want me to bet on people’s lives? Talk about shallow.’

Then the horror unfolding. The tank man with his shopping bag. The ruthless slaughter.

Our first date.

‘So you’re saying we’re not free agents?’ Tom’s got his knees crossed and swings his foot. It reminds me of a cat waving its tail, a sign of mounting aggression.

‘I’d be lying if I told you otherwise,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘I’m a diplomat, and that’s what I’m here for, to make communication, co-operation, work as well as possible. I promise I’ll do everything I can to get the action we want from the PSB and the media.’

His phone beeps and he answers, speaks briefly in Chinese, then tells us the car is ready.

The air is almost solid, a thick, steamy heat, as we step outside and walk to where the car waits. The haze remains thick over everything. Inside, the big, black SUV is comfortable and pleasantly cool.

Peter Dunne sits up front with the driver and we are in the back. The journey is slow, erratic. Short bursts of speed are curtailed by sudden braking and long waits until we lurch forward again. A stop-go, stop-go, stop rhythm. The traffic is bumper-to-bumper and scooters and bikes weave in and out. There are lots of taxis, green saloons. We draw up beside one and I can see, painted on the bonnet, a picture of a panda clutching bamboo. The cab driver is shaving. We race away and then we’re flung forward when our driver hits the brakes to avoid a car cutting in from the left. A chorus of horns screams. My hands are gripped in my lap, my stomach tense – I’m not a great back-seat passenger at the best of times. An emergency siren starts up, a lazy chime that rises and falls as though someone had slowed down a British version to 33 revs per minute and channelled it through an ice-cream van.

‘This is the second ring road,’ says Peter Dunne, pointing to the overhead bridge that crosses the junction. ‘It was completed with these new elevated sections last year.’

‘Lori posted pictures of it,’ I say. ‘She can see it from where she lives.’

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘There’s a bus service on the ring road – it’s a good way of getting about. It connects to the Metro, which is closer to the city centre.’

‘How long have you been in China?’ I say.

‘Fifteen years,’ Peter Dunne says.

‘It must have changed a lot,’ Tom says.

‘Beyond recognition,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘with the explosion in economic growth, construction, infrastructure. Immigration here is mainly Chinese, coming in from the countryside and smaller towns in their thousands. The population’s seven million in the city itself, fourteen million in the municipality, and growing.’

An industrial revolution for the twenty-first century. Not unlike what happened in Manchester in the nineteenth but at a far greater pace and on a much bigger scale. Through the window I watch the crowds on the streets and think of the massive changes they’re living through, coming from paddy-fields and apple orchards, from rearing pigs and chickens to a world of marble-floored shopping malls and the Metro, to disposable income and the daily commute.

We turn left and the traffic halts again. In the shadow of the flyover, under the ramp, there is a paved area with some planters around the edge and, in the middle, half a dozen people are moving in formation, one arm slowly lifting, elbow bent, hand cupped, head bowed. Tai chi perhaps. Then we sprint forward and they are gone.

The car makes its way down a narrow, tree-lined street, with shops at ground level. The buildings here are older, five or six storeys high, clad with coloured tiles. Most of the balconies are hung with laundry. A man with a conical hat is sweeping the pavement with a broom.