Prologue
The guys come in by the south
gate, off Chengfu Lu. A dozen of them, balancing
carefully in the early evening dark as
plummeting temperatures turn the snow-melt to
ice under the slithering tyres of their
bicycles. The only thing that can dampen their
spirits ahead of tomorrow's competition is the
death that lies in silent wait for them just
minutes away.
But for now, the guys' only
focus ahead is the warm chlorine-filled air,
water slipping easily over sleek, toned muscles,
the rasp of lungs pumping air in the vast
echoing chamber of the pool. A final training
session before confrontation tomorrow with the
Americans. A flutter of fear in the stomach, a
rush of adrenaline that accompanies the thought.
So much riding on them. The aspirations of a
nation. China. More than a billion people
investing their hopes in the efforts of this
chosen few. An onerous responsibility.
They wave at the guard who
glares sullenly at them as they cycle past. He
stamps frozen feet and hugs his fur-lined grey
coat tighter for warmth, icy breath clouding
around his head like smoke.
Turning right, by pink
accommodation blocks, the guys shout their
exuberance into the clearest of night skies, the
foggy vapour of their breath clearing in their
wake like the pollution the authorities have
promised to sweep from Beijing's summer skies
before the world finally descends for the
Greatest Show on Earth. Past the towering
columns of the Department of Mechanics, legs
pumping in unison, they slew into the main drag.
Ahead of them, the ten lit storeys of the master
building shine coldly in the darkness. On their
right, the floodlit concrete angles of the
Department of Technology. On their left, the
imposing steps of the Department of Law. The
vast, sprawling campus of Qinghua University,
called by one American vice-President the MIT of
China, is laid out before them, delineated in
the dark by light reflecting off piles of swept
snow. But it is not a reputation for excellence
in science and technology which has brought them
here. It is another kind of excellence. In
sport. For it was here that John Ma inspired the
rebirth of Chinese sport more than seventy years
before, building the first modern sports complex
in China. Snow rests now on his head and
shoulders, gathering also in his lap, a cold
stone statue by a frozen lake somewhere away to
their left.
But they are not even aware
of this nugget of history, of the statue, of the
old pool where Mao used to swim in splendid
isolation while the building was ringed by armed
guards. They are interested only in the lights,
beyond the gymnasium and the running track, of
the natatorium. For it is here they have spent
these last weeks, burning muscles, pushing
themselves to the limits of pain and endurance,
urged on by the relentless hoarse barking of
their coach.
As they pass beneath the
shadow of the athletics stand, a handful of
students bounce a ball around a floodlit
basketball court scraped clear of snow, sport
for them a recreation. Their only pressure is
academic, and failure will disappoint only their
families and friends.
The guys park up among the
hundreds of bicycles stacked in rows beneath the
student apartments. Washed clothes left hanging
on balconies are already frozen stiff like
boards. They trot across the concourse, swinging
arms to keep warm, and push open the double
doors of the east entrance, warm air stinging
cold skin. Down deserted corridors to the locker
room which has become so drably familiar,
synonymous with the pain of the training which
they hope will reap its rewards in just a few
intense minutes of competition. The hundred
metres butterfly. The two hundred metres crawl.
The backstroke, the freestyle. The relay.
It is only as they strip and
drag on costumes that they notice he is missing.
'Hey, where's Sui?'
'Said he'd meet us here,'
someone replies.
'You see him when we came
in?'
'No...' Heads shake. No one
has seen him. He isn't here. Which is unusual.
Because if anything, Sui is the keenest of them.
Certainly the fastest, and the most likely to
beat the Americans. The best prospect for the
Olympics.
'He probably got held up by
the weather.'
They pass through the
disinfectant foot bath and climb steps leading
up to the pool, excited voices echoing between
the rows of empty blue seats in the auditorium,
wet feet slapping on dry tiles. The electronic
clock above the north end of the pool shows ten
to seven.
When they first see him, they
are slow to understand. A moment of
incomprehension, a silly joke, and then a
silence not broken even by breathing as they
realise, finally, what it is they are
witnessing.
Sui is naked, his long,
finely sculpted body turning slowly in a
movement forced by air conditioning. He has
fine, broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist.
He has no hips to speak of, but his thighs
beneath them are curved and powerful, built to
propel him through water faster than any other
living human. Except that he is no longer
living. His head is twisted at an unnatural
angle where the rope around his neck has broken
his fall and snapped his neck. He dangles almost
midway between the highest of the diving
platforms above and the still waters of the
diving pool below. He is flanked on either side
by tall strips of white fabric, red letters
counting off the metres up to ten, recording
that he died at five.
It takes all of the guys, the
team-mates who had known him best, several
moments to realise who he is. For his head of
thick, black hair has been shaved to the scalp,
and in death he looks oddly unfamiliar.