The Language of Solitude

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  “Why?” Yin-Yin asked suspiciously.

  “It would come to that with an environmental scandal like this—or perhaps I should call it a crime instead. Sanlitun would not be held solely responsible. The officials in the city administration of Yiwu are also involved. The party cadres of Zhejiang Province too, right up to the capital. The censorship of the media is involved. The independence of our environmental protection authorities and our courts. It involves the corruptibility of civil servants and party functionaries. It involves the position of the Communist Party. You could say it involves everything.”

  A young boy tried to sell them plastic flowers. Chen shooed him away with an abrupt wave of his hand.

  “I think what you’re taking on is too much. If you want my advice, I would say you should let the matter rest.”

  “I expected a man like you to have a more original suggestion,” Yin-Yin replied, disappointed. “My mother was a healthy woman a few weeks ago. Now she’s lying in bed at home, unable to move. She groans and gasps. She grunts like a pig. She is blind. She is deaf. She shits and pisses in bed like a baby, and you’re telling me to forget the whole thing?”

  “Your mother won’t recover regardless of the outcomes to any lawsuit.”

  “I’ve heard that enough times now,” she said angrily. “What about the dead and crippled children?”

  Chen said nothing for a while. Then he replied, choosing his words with care, “They too won’t be brought back to life or made well. I’m sorry.”

  “And what about those who are not even born yet? Do you want to sit in peace in your office drafting contracts and advising companies, knowing that, only a few hundred miles away, healthy embryos are being turned into deformed ones simply because you’re doing nothing? Could you live with that?”

  Paul thought he couldn’t be hearing right. Did Yin-Yin seriously mean what she was saying, or did she want to provoke Chen? What had made her change her mind to the opposite point of view?

  “Young woman,” the lawyer said. “Your idealism surprises me, and you will not like my reply at all. Yes, I could. If I offered you my help, under certain conditions, then it would not be because I had a bad conscience or on moral grounds; it would be because of other reasons that I will not tell you.”

  Two men crammed onto the bench with them. Chen stood up, saying, “Let’s walk on a little.”

  They strolled to the end of the promenade. “I’ll offer you this: your father can represent himself in court or submit a petition. Every Chinese person has the right to do that. I would be willing to draft a list of charges or a petition, and to advise him throughout the case, pro bono and on condition of anonymity, of course. Perhaps he’ll be lucky and Sanlitun will offer to pay damages at the start of the case, in order to avoid bad publicity. Or . . .” Chen paused for a long time, as though he wanted to make sure that they were listening carefully to every word. “Or you could try to go to the media. I could also advise you if you choose to do that.”

  “That’s impossible.” Yin-Yin shook her head in disappointment. “Mr. Leibovitz has already told you about my friend at the People’s Daily. He’s not even allowed to make inquiries.”

  “I’m not talking about state-owned newspapers or television. I’m taking about the Internet. Write everything down. Take a photograph of your mother in which it would not be possible to identify her. Go to an Internet café and post the story and the photos online anonymously. Three hundred fifty million potential readers are waiting for you there. Indignant readers who have had or have heard of similar experiences. Angry readers who can become allies.”

  Paul watched as Yin-Yin flinched and stared at the lawyer, wide-eyed.

  “A friend at work from Heilongjiang province told me about an interesting case not long ago. A factory in a small town had refused to pay for overtime worked. Several dozen workers staged a protest, including two young men, the Hu brothers. Without any warning, the factory guards started attacking them, and they beat up the younger brother so badly, on a public road, that he died that night. Although there were dozens of witnesses, the police and the authorities refused to investigate; they claimed that it had been an accident. The owner of the factory is an influential man in that town. That would normally have been the end of that. But a passerby had taken a video of the attack on his cell phone. The video appeared on the Internet two weeks later.”

  Chen held his breath for a moment before he continued. Paul saw that Yin-Yin was listening intently to every word the lawyer said.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “if the censors overlooked it, if it spread too quickly, or if there was a political motive behind it. But the local government and the company were bombarded with angry emails from all over the country. Public indignation grew from day to day. After a week, it had reached such a level that the authorities had to react. The head of the factory security team and a few of his guards were arrested, as were several officials in the town council who had covered up for him. The attacker was identified and given a heavy sentence for manslaughter. The company, if memory serves, paid the Hu family damages of a hundred thousand yuan. That is the power of the Internet. We have no idea how it will change our country.”

  Paul and Yin-Yin were silent as they processed this.

  “To be honest, I see that as your best chance.” Chen looked at his watch. “I have to rush back to the office. Think about what I’ve suggested, and let me know what you decide.”

  They picked up their things from Chen’s office. Yin-Yin had to go to a rehearsal, so they made arrangements to meet at a bar near the conservatory that evening.

  Paul strolled alongside the Huangpu River toward the hotel. He took his time looking at the famous façades on the Bund: an unusual but impressive mixture of European architectural styles—neobaroque, neogothic, neoclassical, neorenaissance, with a little beaux arts and art deco. That was how the West had demonstrated its power in the past, and constructed a monument to itself. This row of buildings, over half a mile long, used to be the most famous sight in Shanghai. He realized that the tourists were turning their back on the Bund now. They were standing on the promenade and, almost without exception, looking across at the other bank of the river, at Shanghai’s symbol of the twenty-first century, the towering skyscrapers of Pudong. The few visitors who were admiring the Bund were not Chinese.

  * * *

  They met in the Face Bar in the garden of the Ruijin Hotel, which was laid out like a park with several grand buildings in it; a British newspaper baron had built it for himself and his family in the 1920s.

  Yin-Yin was already sitting on the terrace under a tree whose mighty branches, hung with lit lanterns, arched over her like an umbrella. They ordered two glasses of white wine.

  “My brother’s joining us later. Is that okay?”

  Paul nodded. “Have you told him anything?”

  She inclined her head as if to shake it.

  “Did you mean to provoke Chen this morning?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “When you said that he would be responsible for the deaths of children if he did nothing. That was the gist of my argument, but you and your brother—”

  She interrupted him. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Three days,” he retorted.

  “That’s just what I said,” she replied, smiling. “That’s a long time in Shanghai.”

  “What’s changed in that time?”

  “A lot,” Yin-Yin said. The laughter had vanished from her face. “Something inside me. I thought a long time about it this afternoon. It’s a feeling that I can’t put into words.”

  “Grief?”

  She shook her head.

  “Rage?”

  “Not that either.”

  “Duty?”

  “No, I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “What then?”

  “I’ve no idea. I see images: my mother in her bed. My friend Feng. Her wonderful fit of giggles when we hid
from my brother in the shed and he didn’t find us. The tears that streamed down her rosy cheeks as she laughed. The way she carried my schoolbag when it was soaked through with rain and my arms and shoulders were so tired and achy from practicing the violin. The small green jade cat that she gave me as a talisman when I moved to Shanghai to study, which I lost shortly after. I see her in the hospital with her dead child in her arms. It’s the feelings about the little things that help us to understand the feelings about the big things. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Love,” he said, without giving it much thought.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I can’t think of a better word.”

  Yin-Yin gave him an uncomprehending look. She wanted to object—he saw it in her body language, the way her back stiffened—but at the last moment she stopped and sat back in her chair, looking pensive instead.

  The waiter brought the wine, peanuts, and a dish of olives. They clinked glasses in silence.

  After his second sip of wine, Paul asked, “Is your boyfriend coming too? What’s his name again?”

  “Weidenfeller. Johann Sebastian. No, he can’t make it.”

  “Have you spoken to him already?”

  “Only briefly. He couldn’t understand at all why we met with Wang and Gao in Yiwu. When I told him that we were having dinner this evening he got really annoyed.”

  “Why?”

  Yin-Yin shrugged. “Sometimes I ask myself if I’m only in love with him for his name.”

  “Johann Sebastian? Do you find the name so beautiful?” Paul wondered out loud.

  “No. But I love Bach.”

  Paul smiled.

  “I don’t even know what kind of relationship he has with his parents.”

  “Why does that interest you?”

  “That’s what’s most important!” she said, astonished. “If I know how he treats his parents, then I’ll know how he’ll treat me in the future.”

  “If you think like that, we would never get married,” Paul responded, amused.

  “Is that up for debate?” she asked seriously.

  How often had that happened to him? The Chinese did not get his humor; they never knew exactly when he was joking or not. “No,” he replied, clearing his throat. “That was a joke.”

  Paul picked up his glass and clinked it against hers one more time. She took only a tiny sip.

  “What do you think of Chen’s idea about the Internet?” she asked, lowering her voice to a near whisper even though no one was sitting within earshot.

  “I think it’s a good idea. After everything that we’ve found out, it gives us the best chance of achieving something without taking a huge risk. I’m not sure if your father would be able to represent himself in court.”

  Yin-Yin chewed away at an olive as she thought. Her cell phone rang, but when she answered the call it was cut off. “I forgot to take out the battery again,” she said, startled. “I think I’m starting to get paranoid about being followed.”

  “Oh yes, even paranoid people have enemies,” Paul said, smiling.

  “Is that meant to be reassuring?”

  “No, just another bad joke. Sorry.”

  They saw Xiao Hu walking through the garden coming toward them. He was on the phone. He greeted them with a nod and walked away again.

  “Ever since he became head of the legal department he’s been ridiculously busy,” Yin-Yin said, as though she had to apologize for her brother. “He’s hoping for a promotion to the head office in Beijing.”

  Xiao Hu reappeared at their table shortly after, smiling. He was wearing a gray suit and a white shirt, and looked as though he had come straight from the office. But he seemed friendlier and more relaxed than at their previous meeting.

  Yin-Yin told him what they had done and found out in the last few days. Her voice rose and fell to great effect several times as she talked, sounding indignant and angry, then pleading for his understanding in a gentle tone, and asking for his help.

  Over the past thirty years, Paul had learned to read the faces of Chinese people; he did not understand why some foreigners claimed that the Chinese were inscrutable. Sad people looked sad. Happy people happy. Lonely people lonely. The expression of emotion in their features was merely a little more restrained, more proper, more subtle. Like so much else in this country. Shadows flitted over Xiao Hu’s face; he blinked nervously and his lips thinned into two straight lines; he sank deeper and deeper into his chair. Yin-Yin was so worked up that she did not notice; when she finished her tale, she looked him in the eye expectantly and not without pride. The look of a little sister.

  “You’re both crazy,” Xiao Hu said immediately. Paul could not tell if these words were uttered accusingly, despairingly, or in astonishment. “What do you plan to do next?”

  Paul could see from Yin-Yin’s face that she took her brother’s question as a recognition of their efforts and as encouragement. “I think it would be best to take Chen’s advice. I’ll write something and put it on the Internet.”

  “Under no circumstances are you doing that,” Xiao Hu said, sitting up straight.

  Yin-Yin flinched. Little sister, big brother.

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’ll get you.”

  “But I wanted to . . . I mean . . . anonymously . . . and . . .”

  “Do you know how many officials are monitoring the Internet? Tens of thousands of them! They’re everywhere. On websites. In forums. In blogs. Chat rooms. Email inboxes. There’s no anonymity there.”

  “But Chen said . . .” Yin-Yin was close to tears.

  “Chen has no idea. The story he told you about might have turned out that way. What about the others that didn’t work out so well? When bloggers were sent to work camps, to psychiatric units, or to prison? They get everyone.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “The party.” He leaned over the table and repeated the words, whispering. “The party, which I’m a member of.”

  His sister sank back into her chair and fell silent.

  A light breeze had risen and blew the lanterns above them this way and that. A leaf floated down and landed on the olives. Paul could see that Yin-Yin no longer had the energy to argue with her brother. What was Xiao-Hu thinking? He had put aside the cold detachment of his reaction a few days ago at the Thai restaurant; now the story had become his story too. In the flickering light of the lanterns, Paul could see that red spots had appeared on his neck.

  “What do you suggest instead?” Paul asked carefully. He did not wish to provoke Xiao Hu.

  “That I handle it.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I have good contacts with a few party compatriots in Hangzhou. I’m going there in a few weeks for training. I’ll ask around then. After everything that you’ve told me, I’m sure the authorities know about it already and have taken action. But they’re hardly going to publicize it. If I’m not wrong, it’s no longer out of the question that Sanlitun might be open to negotiations about paying some small damages.”

  Paul noted the doubt in Yin-Yin’s eyes.

  “Promise me that you won’t do anything,” Xiao Hu said sternly to his sister. “You wouldn’t achieve anything and you’d endanger everyone: yourself, Papa, Mama. We’ll see what happens when I’m back from Hangzhou. And not a word of this to Papa, understood?”

  Yin-Yin nodded. She said that the day had been very long and that she was tired and would like to go home and get to bed. Xiao Hu seemed quite happy with that. He paid the bill, and they walked to Ruijin Lu together to get taxis. At Yin-Yin’s insistence, her brother took the first taxi.

  “I’ll walk,” Yin-Yin said when he had gone.

  “Should I walk you home?” Paul offered.

  “No, it’s not far.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Have a good night’s sl
eep first.”

  “And then?”

  Yin-Yin shrugged.

  Paul took a pencil and paper out of his backpack and wrote down his email address and telephone number in Hong Kong for her. “Write to me or call if you need help. Or someone to talk to. If necessary, I’ll come over again for a few days.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled him to her and hugged him.

  Feeling her body in his arms, Paul was shocked by how thin and fragile it felt.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  Before Paul could ask “What for?” she let him go, smiled in farewell, turned around, and walked down the street without looking back.

  * * *

  In the hotel, Paul fell into bed, dead tired. Even in the taxi he had noticed that the final remnants of energy were draining from his body like water in a sink that someone had pulled the plug out of. He felt nothing but exhaustion and a deep happiness that he would be flying back to Hong Kong the next day. The longing for Christine grew with every breath, as though he had suppressed the feeling for the last few days and it was seizing him with even greater force now.

  Paul flopped across the wide mattress to get to the telephone. He could hardly wait to hear her voice.

  She sounded sleepy but a little less weak. “Hurry,” she whispered. “Tell the pilot he should fly as fast as he can. I have to tell you something.”

  “Just say it. I’m listening.”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “What is it?” he asked, curious. “Come on.”

  “A surprise.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  “A big one.”

  “How big?”

  “Big. Huge. Bigger than you and me together. It doesn’t get any bigger.”