One Man

by Gao Xingjian

  His mother at the time was still young, not even thirty. She didn't want to rear a child or be a housewife anymore, and instead whole-heartedly threw herself into the new life; she started working and didn't have time to look after him. He had no problems with school-work and immediately became a good student in the class. He wore a red scarf and didn't join the boy students in their dirty talk about girls, or in their pranks. On Children's Festival Day on June 1, he was selected by the school to take part in the city celebrations at which he presented flowers to the exemplary workers of the city.

  One after the other, his parents had been honored as exemplary workers of their work units and awarded the prizes of enamel tea mugs and notebooks printed with their names. For him, those years were also lucky years. The Youth Palace often had singing and dancing programs, and he hoped that one day he would be able to go on stage to perform.

  He attended a fiction recital, at which a teacher read a work by the Russian writer Vladimir Korolenko. The story took place on a snow-swept night, and the first-person narrator was driving a jeep on a mountain road when the brakes failed. He saw a light on the cliff and struggled up to the house where there was an old woman. In the middle of the night, the howling wind made it impossible for the narrator to fall asleep and, listening to the wind, he seemed to hear someone sighing from time to time. Thinking he might as well get up, he found the old woman sitting by the solitary lamp in the room, facing the banging door. The narrator asked the woman why she hadn't gone to bed. Was she waiting for someone? She said she was waiting for her son. The narrator indicated that he could wait instead. It was then that she said her son was dead and that it was she who had pushed him down the mountain. The narrator naturally couldn't help questioning her about it. The old woman gave a long sigh and said her son deserted during the war and came back to the village, but she did not allow her deserter son into the house.

  The story somehow moved him deeply and it made him feel that the world of adults was incomprehensible. Now it was he who had deserted. The thoughts that had circulated in his mind from childhood had determined that he would later be declared the enemy.

  However, he would never again return to the embrace of the homeland that had nurtured him.

  He also recalled that the first time he thought hard about something was probably when he was eight, because of where it had taken place; it was soon after he had written his first diary entry. He was leaning out the window of his little room upstairs when he dropped the rubber ball he was holding. It bounced a few times, then rolled into the grass under an oleander bush. He begged his young uncle who was reading below in the courtyard to throw the ball back to him.

  His young uncle said, "Lazy bones, you threw it down, so come down and pick it up yourself."

  He said his mother told him he was not to come downstairs to play until he had finished writing his first diary entry.

  His young uncle said, "But what if I pick it up and you toss it down again?"

  He said he hadn't tossed it down, that the ball had dropped by itself. His young uncle reluctantly threw the ball into his window upstairs. Still leaning out the window, he went on to ask his young uncle, "The ball dropped down, but why didn't it bounce back? If it bounced back the distance it dropped, I wouldn't have had to trouble you to get it."

  The young uncle said, "It's all very well for you to say so, but this has to do with physics."

  He then asked, "What's physics?"

  "It has to do with a basic theory and you wouldn't be able to understand."

  His young uncle at the time was a middle-school student and greatly inspired his respect, especially with his talk of physics and some basic theory. He remembered these words and terms and thought that while the world looked ordinary, everything in fact was profound and unfathomable.

  Afterward, his mother bought him a set of children's books, Ten Thousand Whys. He read through every volume but nothing impressed him, except for the question about the beginning of the world, which has always remained in his mind.

  Remote childhood is hazy, but some bright spots float up in memories. When you pick up one end of a thread, memories that have been submerged by time gradually appear and, like a net emerging from the water, they are interconnected and infinite. The more you pull, the more threads seem to appear and disappear. Now that you have picked up one end and again pulled up a whole mass of happenings from different times, you can't start anywhere, can't find a thread to follow. It's impossible to sort them to put them into some sort of order. Human life is a net, you want to undo it a knot at a time, but only succeed in creating a tangled mess. Life is a muddled account that you can't work out.

  6

  A man you don't know has invited you for lunch at noon. The secretary said on the phone, "Our chairman of the board, Mr. Zhou, will pick you up punctually in the hotel lobby."

  You arrive in the lobby, and, immediately, a fashionably dressed man walks up to you; he has broad shoulders and a solid build, a broad face and a square jaw. He presents his business card to you in both hands.

  "I've been wanting to meet you for a long time." The man says he's seen your play and has boldly ventured to take up a bit of your time by inviting you to share a meal with him.

  You get in his big Mercedes limousine, an obvious sign of wealth.

  The chairman of the board drives the car himself and asks what you would like to eat.

  "Anything's fine. Hong Kong is a paradise for food," you say.

  "It's different in Paris, the women there are all so wonderful."

  Mr. Zhou is smiling as he drives along.

  "Not all are, some in the subways are tramps," you say. You start believing that the man really is a boss.

  The car drives past the bay and enters the long underwater tunnel to Kowloon.

  Mr. Zhou says, "We'll go to the racecourse, it'll be quiet at lunchtime and good for talking. It's not the racing season. Normally, if you go there for a meal, you have to be a member of the Jockey Club."

  So, a wealthy man in Hong Kong likes your play. You start feeling curious.

  The two of you are seated, and Mr. Zhou orders some plain food, stops joking about women, and becomes serious. Only a few of the tables are occupied in this spacious, comfortable dining room, and the waiters stand some way off quietly in the courtyard. It's not like most Hong Kong restaurants that are bustling and packed with customers all the time.

  "I'm not bluffing. I swam here illegally from the Mainland. During the Cultural Revolution, I was doing hard labor on a military farm in Guangdong province. I had finished middle school, I wasn't stupid, and I wasn't going to sacrifice myself like that for the whole of my life."

  "But crossing illegally was dangerous."

  "Of course. At the time, both my parents were in prison, the house had been ransacked, and whichever way you looked at it, I was a mongrel offspring of the Five Black Categories."

  "What if you came across sharks-"

  "That wouldn't have been so bad, at least I'd have had a chance to fight it out to see if I was lucky. It was people I was frightened of, the searchlights of the patrol boats were sweeping the water all the time. When they found anyone trying to cross illegally, they'd just open fire."

  "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 Zho
u 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 fight, 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. Th
e 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.