One Man’s Bible

by Gao Xingjian

  “Then how did you get across?”

  “I equipped myself with two basketball bladders, basketballs used to have a rubber bladder with a tube that one blew into.”

  “I know them, children used them for floats when they were learning to swim, plastic products weren’t widely available in those days,” you say, nodding.

  “If boats came along, I’d let out the air and swim underwater. I practiced for a whole summer. I also took some drinking straws with me.” Mr. Zhou has a smile on his face but it doesn’t seem genuine. You sense that he is sad, and he no longer looks like a rich man.

  “The good thing about Hong Kong is that you can somehow get by. I suddenly got rich and now no one knows my past. I changed my name a long time ago and people only know me as Zhou such-and-such, the chairman of the board of the company.” A hint of arrogance plays at the corners of his mouth and eyes and once again he has the look of a rich man.

  You know this is not directed at you. You’re a total stranger and he hasn’t hesitated to tell you all about his background. This arrogance has developed because of his present status.

  “I liked your play but I don’t think it can really be understood by Hong Kong people,” he says.

  “When they do understand, it will be too late.” After a pause, you say, “One needs to have had a particular sort of experience.”

  “It’s like that,” he confirmed.

  “Do you like plays?” you ask.

  “I don’t usually see plays,” he says. “I go to the ballet and concerts, and I book tickets for famous singers, operas, and symphony groups from the West. I’m starting to enjoy some artistic things now, but I’ve never seen a play like yours before.”

  “I understand.” You give a laugh, then ask, “Then why did you think to come and see this play?”

  “A friend phoned and recommended it,” he says.

  “Does that mean that there are some Hong Kong people who do understand the play?”

  “It was someone from the Mainland.”

  You say that you wrote the play when you were in China but that it can only be performed outside China. The things you’re writing nowadays don’t have much to do with China.

  He says it’s much the same for him. His wife and son were both born in Hong Kong and are genuine Hong Kong people, and he’s been here for thirty years and also counts as a Hong Kong resident. His only dealings with the Mainland have been in business, and that was getting more and more difficult. However, for better or worse, he has managed to extract a big amount of capital from the place.

  “Where are you thinking of investing?” you can’t help asking.

  “Australia,” he says. “Seeing your play made me even more certain.”

  You say that your play doesn’t really have a China background, it’s about ordinary relationships between people.

  He says he knows that. Anyway, he needs somewhere to go, just in case.

  “But won’t Australia have an aversion for Chinese if masses of Hong Kong people flood there?” you say.

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “I don’t know how it is in Australia, I live in Paris,” you say.

  “Then how is it in France?” he asks, looking right at you.

  “There’s racism everywhere, and naturally it occurs also in France,” you say.

  “It’s hard for Chinese in the West. . . .” He picks up his half glass of orange juice, then puts it down again.

  You feel some sympathy for him. He says he has a small family, born and bred in Hong Kong, and his business would be able to keep operating. Of course, there’s no harm preparing for a way out.

  He says he is honored that you agreed to have this very ordinary meal with him, and that, like you as a person, your writing is very frank.

  You say, it is he who is frank. All Chinese live behind masks and it’s quite hard to take off the masks.

  “It’s probably when there’s no profit or loss for either party that people can become friends.”

  He says this incisively; he has clearly been through many ups and downs in his dealings with people.

  A journalist is to interview you at three o’clock, and you have arranged to meet at a coffee shop in Wanchai. He says he can take you, but you say he is a busy man and there is no need for him to do this. He says should you come back to Hong Kong to feel free to look him up. You thank him for his kindness, say this is probably the last time you will put on a play in Hong Kong, but that in future you are sure to meet again, though, hopefully, not until he is in Australia. He quickly says no, no, if he goes to Paris he will certainly look you up. You leave him your address and telephone number, and he immediately writes his mobile phone number on his business card and gives it to you. He says to give a call if you need any help and that he hopes there will be an opportunity to meet again.

  The journalist is a young woman wearing glasses. She gets up from a seat by the window overlooking the water as soon as you enter and waves to you. She takes off her glasses and says, “I normally don’t wear glasses, but I’ve only seen your photographs in the papers and was afraid I wouldn’t recognize you.”

  She puts her glasses into her handbag, takes out a tape recorder and asks, “Is it all right to use a tape recorder?”

  You say that it doesn’t bother you.

  “When I interview, I insist on the accuracy of what I quote,” she says. “Many journalists in Hong Kong will write anything. Sometimes Mainland writers get so angry that they demand corrections. Of course, I understand their situation. Anyway, I know that you’re different, even if you do come from the Mainland.”

  “I don’t have any superiors,” you say with a smile.

  She says her editor in chief is very good and generally doesn’t touch what she writes, and whatever she writes is published. She can’t stand restrictions; after 1997—there’s that 1997 again—if she can’t take it, she’ll just leave.

  “Where will you go, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  She says she holds a British passport for Hong Kong residents, so she can’t get residence in England. She doesn’t like England anyway. She’s thinking of going to America but would prefer to go to Spain.

  “Why Spain and not America?”

  She bites her lip, smiles, and says she had a Spanish boyfriend. She met him when she went to Spain but they have broken off. Her present boyfriend is from Hong Kong. He’s an architect and he doesn’t want to leave.

  “It’s hard getting work elsewhere,” she says. “Of course, I like Hong Kong best.” She says she has been to many countries and that it’s fun traveling, but it would be hard living in those places. Not so in Hong Kong, she and her parents were born in Hong Kong, she is a one-hundred-percent Hong Kong person. She has also done special research on Hong Kong history, literature, and changes in cultural practices. She’s thinking of writing a book.

  “What would you do if you went to America?” you ask.

  “Further studies. I’ve already corresponded with a university.”

  “To study for a Ph.D.?”

  “To study and maybe also to look for some work.”

  “What about your boyfriend?”

  “I might get married before leaving, or . . . Actually, I don’t know what to do.” She doesn’t seem to be nearsighted but her eyes have a faraway look. “Am I interviewing you or are you interviewing me?”

  She pulls herself together and puts on the tape recorder. “All right, now please say something about your views on cultural policies after Hong Kong reverts to the Mainland, will plays in Hong Kong be affected? Such issues preoccupy the Hong Kong cultural world. You are from the Mainland, could you give your views about this?”

  After the interview, you again take the ferry back to Kowloon to give instructions to the performers at the Cultural Centre Playhouse. When the play begins, you can return to the hotel to have a leisurely meal with Margarethe.

  The sun is shining at an angle through the clouds onto the
sea, and glistening waves lace the blue water, the cool breeze is better than the air-conditioning indoors. On Hong Kong Island on the other side of the water, the lush green mountains are densely crowded with tall buildings. As the sounds of the bustling city recede, a rhythmic clanging on the water becomes distinct. You turn and notice that the sound is coming from the construction site of the auditorium being built for the handover ceremony between Britain and China in 1997. The banging of pneumatic hammers reminds you that, at this very moment, Hong Kong is by the minute and second unstoppably becoming China. The glare of the sun on the waves makes you squint and you feel drowsy, the China that you thought you had left continues to perplex you, you must make a clean break with it. You want to go with Margarethe to that very European little street in Lan Kwai Fong, to find a bar with some jazz where you can get drunk.

  7

  Boom! Boom! Pneumatic hammers again and again, unhurried, spaced at three- or four-second intervals. The great, glorious, correct Party! More correct, more glorious, greater than God! Forever correct! Forever glorious! Forever great!

  “Comrades, I’m here representing Chairman Mao and the Party Center!”

  The senior cadre had a medium build and a broad ruddy face. He spoke with a Sichuan accent, looked to be in good health, and his speech and movements indicated that he’d led troops and fought battles. The Cultural Revolution had just begun and the senior cadres still in power—from Mao’s wife Jiang Qing to Premier Zhou Enlai and Mao Zedong himself—all wore military uniforms. The senior cadre, accompanied by the workplace Party secretary, sat erect on the dais that was covered with red tablecloths in the auditorium. He noted the soldiers and political cadres guarding the side doors and the back door to the meeting.

  It was almost midnight. The whole workplace with its more than a thousand staff, group after group, assembled in the auditorium. No empty seats were left, and gradually even the aisles had filled with people sitting in them. A soldier-turned-political-cadre, also wearing an old army uniform, conducted the singing. “Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman” was sung daily by the troops in the ranks, but these literary people and administrative cadres couldn’t sing the straining high notes of this paean. “The East Is Red” was set to a folk song everyone knew, but even that was a shambles when it was sung.

  “I support my comrades in opening fire on the black gang opposing the Party, Socialism, and Mao Zedong Thought!”

  The meeting instantly erupted into the shouting of slogans. He couldn’t tell who started the shouting and was caught off guard, but he also involuntarily raised his arm. The slogan-shouting wasn’t uniform, and the voice of the senior cadre boomed through the amplifier even more loudly and immediately drowned out any stragglers.

  “I support my comrades in opening fire on all Ox Demons and Snake Spirits! Now, please note that I say all Ox Demons and Snake Spirits, all of those reactionary scoundrels skulking in dark corners waiting to jump out and act brazenly as soon as the climate is right. Chairman Mao put it well: ‘Those reactionaries simply aren’t going to be overthrown unless you strike them down!’ “

  At this, all around, people stood up and, with raised fists, began shouting loudly.

  “Down with all Ox Demons and Snake Spirits!”

  “Long live Chairman Mao!”

  “Long live!”

  “Long, long live!”

  This time, the slogans rose and subsided in waves, which became more uniform and forceful. After this had been repeated a few times, the whole gathering was shouting uniformly, like an all-engulfing wave, like an unstoppable tide that instilled terror in people’s hearts. He no longer dared to look around and, for the first time, perceived that these familiar slogans possessed a menacing power. Chairman Mao was not far away in Heaven, was not an idol that could be stored away, Chairman Mao had supreme power. He had to keep up with the shouting and he had to shout clearly and, moreover, absolutely without any hesitation.

  “I just don’t believe it! So many intellectuals have been crammed into this workplace of yours; can everyone assembled here really be so revolutionary? I’m not saying it’s not good to have knowledge, I didn’t say that. I’m talking about those two-faced counterrevolutionaries. In their writings, they use our revolutionary slogans, they put up the red flag to oppose the red flag, they say one thing but mean something else! I reckon, they would not have the guts to openly jump out to present themselves as counterrevolutionaries. Are there any such people at this gathering? Would any of you dare to stand up and say you oppose the Communist Party, oppose Mao Zedong Thought, and oppose Socialism? If there is, I invite you to come onto the dais to speak!”

  The gathering fell silent, breathing virtually stopped, and the air congealed. If someone had dropped a needle, it would have been heard.

  “But it is after all the world of the dictatorship of the proletariat! So they are forced to assume a disguise, take up our revolutionary slogans, and, with a shake, transform themselves. Wasn’t I just now talking about groping for fish in muddy waters? While we are engaged in the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, they are out there fanning up evil winds and lighting malicious fires, colluding with people in high positions and jumping down to work on the people below. They are intent on wrecking every level of our Party in the workplace and are making out that we are a sinister gang. They are wicked and crafty! Comrades, you must be vigilant! Look around yourselves carefully and haul out all those enemies, scheming careerists, and despicable worms inside and outside the Party who have infiltrated our ranks!”

  After the senior cadre departed, everyone quietly filed out, nobody daring to look at anyone else for fear of showing the terror in one’s heart. But, back at the offices where all the lights were on, people came face to face with one another and everyone went through hurdles of confession and remorse. People all requested individual sessions, at which everyone, sobbing and weeping, reported their misdeeds to the Party. People were easily manipulated. They were softer than dough when they wanted to make themselves pure, although they were vicious when it came to exposing others. Around midnight, people were most vulnerable, wanting the comfort of their partner in bed, and it was at this particular time that the interrogations and confessions took place.

  Some hours earlier, at the after-work political study session, everyone had a copy of Mao’s Selected Works on the desk as they browsed through the newspapers or pretended to be doing something to fill in the two hours before they would go home, laughing and joking. Revolution was seething in the upper echelons of the Party but hadn’t yet fallen onto the heads of the masses. When the person from the political department came into the office to tell people to stay for the all-staff meeting, it was already eight o’clock at night. Another two hours were wasted, and still there was no sign of people being assembled. Old Liu, the department chief, kept tamping more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, and someone asked him how many more pipes he’d need to smoke. Old Liu smiled without replying, but it could be seen that he was deeply worried. Old Liu was normally not officious, and the fact that he had put up a poster about the Party committee had endeared him to everyone. However, when someone said you couldn’t go wrong if you followed Old Liu, he immediately raised his pipe and corrected him, “We must follow Chairman Mao!” Everyone laughed. Right until then, it seemed that no one wanted this class struggle to erupt among colleagues in the same office. Furthermore, Old Liu was an old Party member from the time of the War of Resistance against Japan, and this was reflected in his salary and rank. And as for that curved leather chair with armrests in his department chief’s office, not just anyone was entitled to it. His room that smelled of his pipe tobacco with its chocolate aroma still had a relaxed feeling.

  After midnight the political cadres and the staid, expressionless Party secretaries separately ensconced themselves in their own offices. One after another, people went through the cycle of confession, remorse, crying if they wanted to, and then entered the phase of informing on one another. Big
Sister Huang, in charge of receiving and dispatching documents, had her turn to speak ahead of him. Her husband, who had worked for the Nationalist Government, had abandoned her to run off with his mistress to Taiwan. The old woman said that the Party had given her a new life and, whimpering uncontrollably, took out her handkerchief to dry her eyes and nose. She was so frightened she was crying. He did not cry, but only he knew that sweat was running down his back.

  The year he started university, when he was just seventeen and virtually still a child, he attended a struggle session against rightist senior students. It was in a lecture room with stairs, and new students had to sit on the floor at the front for their initiation in political education. As a name was called, the rightist student stood up, walked to the bottom of the stairs, and, head bowed, faced everyone. Sweat on the forehead and nose, tears and mucus splashing on the floor, the student would be absolutely wretched, just like a dog floundering in water. Those who came forward were fellow students, and, one by one, they went through the emotional routine of listing their anti-Party crimes. Some time later, these rightist students who never said anything and always sat at a separate table, leaving as soon as they had eaten, disappeared from the big dining hall. No one ever mentioned them again. It was as if they had never existed.

  It was not until after he graduated that he heard the expression “reform through labor,” there seemed to have been a taboo on any mention of it. He didn’t know that his father had been investigated and sent to a reform-through-labor farm, he had only heard a few vague remarks about it from his mother. He had already left home and was in Beijing studying at university, and his mother had written about it in a letter, but as “labor training.” When he returned home during summer vacation a year later, his father had returned from the farm and had been reinstated in his job but he had been smeared as a rightist. His parents kept all this from him and it was not until the Cultural Revolution, when he asked his father, that he found out that he had been implicated because of his old revolutionary maternal uncle. His father’s workplace had a much higher percentage of rightists than the quota, so his father was not branded a rightist, instead he only had a salary cut and a record made in his file. His father’s problem was that he had written a hundred-character piece on the news blackboard where he “spoke freely” in response to the Party’s call for people to freely voice their views to help the Party improve people’s work habits. At the time his father did not know that this was called “luring snakes out of their lairs.”