He jumped from the third floor. That’s what the papers said the next day. He threw all his money out of the window and then himself. I wondered whether he watched the people below, grabbing at the money as it blew along the lane. Renminbi from heaven, falling like autumn leaves, scooped up by grateful neighbours.
Neighbours. Living in his neighbourhood. Seeing him come and go to the market, seeing his washing hanging out of the window. A polite ‘Hello’ perhaps or a nod of the head. Neighbours who now clutched his life savings in their hands. Savings he wouldn’t need now there was no life to spend it in.
I wondered what sound his falling body made when it hit the ground. I wondered how much money he had. I wondered where his family was and whether he had anyone to miss him. But mostly I wondered how he had known that the third floor would be high enough. I looked up and it didn’t seem very high to me. How many times had he leaned out of the window before he calculated that a fall from that height would do the trick? Had he worried about only breaking his legs? What was his plan B if plan A didn’t work?
When I first saw the throng I thought they were watching a street performance. I saw them further down the lane, standing in a circle 3 or 4 deep straining to catch a glimpse of something going on in the centre. It was so quiet. That’s what made me think it was a mime artist. Not that I have ever seen a mime artist in China but I couldn’t think what else would keep a large crowd silent.
I arrived at the edge of the group and eased myself forward until I was close enough to see properly. Nobody took any notice of me; their attention was focussed only downwards.
He had arrived at street level in a star formation, a thin plastic sheet exposing only his hands and feet. I was thankful. It was a shock and I was glad I couldn’t see his face. My upbringing told me I shouldn’t stare but I was transfixed. A dead body lying on the street, I was fascinated. We were all fascinated.
His hands told me he was old. They were white, so white and thin, the skin almost translucent, palms facing upwards tow ards the sky. I remember thinking it was better this way than lying face down on the pavement because if God does exist, I am sure he is more likely to be found in the sky than in the pavement.
Some time had passed since his death – enough time for two of the locals to pop home and get their video cameras. They moved around the body, zooming in on the hands and the feet and panning out to get a wider view of the tragic scene.
The lack of dignity shown by these men was only outdone by the police who had posted two of its finest officers to guard the body. And there they stood, smoking and chatting to each other relishing the heightened sense of importance their unusual task had given them. If part of their duties was to afford the man dignity in death, they had failed.
A few people began to break away from the throng and wander off down the lane. The officers, sensing that interest in the corpse was waning, decided to reignite the public’s curiosity by removing the plastic sheet. The crowd surged forward as one, to get a better look as I quickly moved in the opposite direction.
I remember thinking that the skinny body which had carried him through eighty years or so, had barely made an impression under the plastic. He wouldn’t be difficult to lift into the ambulance.
This man was more interesting in death than he was alive. I didn’t know him; I still don’t know his name or anything about him except what I saw of him in death. I imagined him walking through the market with his well-worn shopping bag, shuffling along the street, like an onion wrapped in layer upon layer of winter clothes. In his neighbourhood, on the bus, on the street, were people oblivious to him? Was he one of the many who move ghost-like through our city, unseen by the young and undisturbed by his neighbours?
Thanks to the quick-thinking amateur film-makers, the indignity of his demise can be digitally replayed on demand for the amusement of the bored and the curious.
We have become a nation of photographers and reporters, capturing the detail of our life and posting it online for all to see. Citizen journalism has an important role to play today, not least in the rapid communication of important world events, but the tragic death of an old man on a winter’s afternoon is less citizen journalism, and more digital delinquency.
Just because we can film everything doesn’t mean we should. The reports of the death of Dignity have not been exaggerated. It seems there is an impulsion today to record and distribute footage of the unfortunate, the destitute, the stupid and the dead for the entertainment of an online audience.