A Boy of China

by Richard Loseby

With my contract over and the project completed, I retired with a few other senior agency staff, a mix of creatives and suits, to a local bar in the red-light district of Patpong. Evan was Welsh and had been in Bangkok long enough to know its seedy nightlife pretty well. Terry was English and probably the least comfortable in the surrounds we now found ourselves in. Chopper, a big Australian, had the foulest mouth on anyone I had ever encountered. Though, in saying that, Chopper could carry it off well: angels would blush when he spoke, but they would still lean in closer to hear what he had to say.

  ‘Fuck off Taff, the Chop’s getting the beers,’ he boomed when we entered the bar. Evan put his money away and Chopper disappeared into the crowd, elbowing his way through to the sole bartender. He returned a few minutes later clutching four pints of Guinness.

  ‘Blow me! Are you pricks blind? Do you see who’s up on the stage dancing?’

  In one movement we all turned our heads to the back of the bar where a flickering strobe light was illuminating the lithe frame of a topless dancer. Her white bikini briefs shone out against her dark skin as she swayed in time to the hypnotic rhythm of the music, and her long, straight hair cascaded down her slender shoulders and pert bosom. It was hard to see her clearly, but I soon recognised her from the way she moved, even before I saw her face.

  ‘It’s bloody Li,’ yelled Chopper.

  It was no great surprise in Bangkok to see one of your Thai workmates trying to earn a few extra baht. Wages weren’t great for the locals and Li’s position within the company was not a senior one. A second job was almost a necessity.

  ‘She’s amazing,’ murmured Evan.

  ‘Amazing,’ echoed Terry.

  Chopper took a large gulp of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘And nice melons to boot,’ he added, before waving at Li to catch her attention. We watched as Li smiled and waved back, then mimed downing an imaginary glass of whisky in one shot before casually tossing the glass over her shoulder, all in time with the music.

  ‘Amazing,’ repeated Terry wistfully.

  ‘Better get her ladyship a JD on the rocks, guys,’ said Chopper, heading back to the bar. ‘Looks like she’s coming over.’

  Sure enough, Li had left the stage and was pulling a white T-shirt over her head as she walked through the busy throng of drinkers, drawing admiring glances from almost all of them. Just then, the door to the pub opened behind us and a blast of hot air roared in off the street, before being beaten back by the air conditioning. One thing that wasn’t going to be beaten back, however, was Chopper’s wife, a blonde-haired pocket-battleship of a woman in baggy grey track pants, slippers and a T-shirt, the attire normally reserved for evenings in front of the TV at home. She strode in and surveyed the room disapprovingly, spotting our table within seconds.

  ‘Hi boys, seen that useless husband of mine?’

  We all looked at each other, feigning ignorance a little too enthusiastically. I noticed Li had also changed tack and was now over by the cigarette machine. Chopper meanwhile was still buried in the crowd.

  ‘Well if you see him tell him to get his arse home pronto,’ she said, quietly taking in the fact that there were four glasses at the table and only three of us. ‘And you, Terry. I thought you had a new girlfriend at home.’

  ‘I was just going actually,’ said Terry defensively, sweeping his car keys and cigarette lighter off the table.

  Suddenly Evan knocked back his drink. ‘Mind if I get a lift, mate?’ he asked, no doubt fearful that Chopper’s wife would soon be on the phone to his own partner back at his apartment.

  ‘Sure,’ replied Terry, throwing a cursory glance in my direction at the same time. I was in no hurry though, and declined the invitation to join them. They left minutes later with the pocket-battleship at the fore, her wake dragging them both out into the heady warmth of the Bangkok night.

  Chopper then reappeared and, as if by delayed reaction, suddenly seemed to realise he should be elsewhere. He deposited Li’s drink on the table and, with barely a word, headed out the door and into a waiting cab. With luck he’d beat his wife home.

  I looked towards the dispenser and saw Li was wandering over, a pack of cigarettes in one hand. She sat up on one of the high stools at the table and held up the whisky glass.

  ‘Did you hear Chen has asked me to marry him?’

  ‘Wow, that was fast,’ I replied.

  She offered me a cigarette. I said no but lit hers.

  ‘Do you think I should say yes?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘Maybe. But wouldn’t you be more interested if it was his sister who was asking?’

  Again came the sexy grin. It was automatic with Li. She just had a smile that gladdened the hearts of men. How cruel God could be sometimes, to confer such a gift upon someone who had no use for it.

  ‘You know he’s been telling me quite a lot about his family.’

  I leant in a little closer as she stirred her drink with a straw then raised it to her lips.

  ‘I think you might be interested.’

  What Li had to say was fascinating. Chen was from a village in Jiangxi province, near a town called Ganzhou, where the Communist Party had first taken root in the late 1920s. Early on, his parents were actively involved in recruiting for the Party, something they had progressively less trouble doing, as the peasants were growing increasingly dissatisfied with their treatment by landowners. However, the landowners got wind of Chen’s parents’ activities and forced them from their home, sending them permanently into exile. That was how they had come to Thailand.

  Nevertheless, they kept up a regular correspondence with the Party chairman in that region, a man known simply as Xiao, and, over the years, learnt of the gradual rise of Mao Tse-tung through the Party ranks. Xiao became a loyal follower of Mao and, some said, a confidant. He knew things that even those higher up in the Party may not have been aware of, such was the closeness of the relationship.

  Of course Mao was not universally loved in political circles. Feared was probably closer to the truth, for Mao was known for a sudden and irrational temper that could spell doom for anyone unlucky enough to be caught up in it. Purges within the Party were common, and often senseless in their brutality. His treatment of local tribal leaders was unforgiving at times also. That brought Mao more enemies than friends — enemies who waited patiently for the moment when they could attack him. Indeed, in 1930 Mao’s second wife, Yang Kahui, and her son Mao Anying were captured by a local warlord and handed on a plate to the Nationalist forces of Chiang Kai-shek, who wanted her to publicly renounce Mao and the Communists. Despite being tortured, she refused and was therefore executed by firing squad, watched by her son. Later, He Zizhen narrowly avoided capture and possibly a similar fate. But by then Mao was wise to the threat and took the necessary measures to protect her.

  According to what Li had learnt from Chen, when the Long March began in Yudu and Mao and He Zizhen were forced to leave Mao An Hong behind, it was Xiao who took charge. He arranged for the boy to be entrusted to Mao’s younger brother, Mao Zetan, who secretly hid the child for safe keeping, without telling anyone where. However, in the months of fighting that followed, Mao Zetan was killed by the Nationalists. All knowledge of the boy’s whereabouts then appeared to be lost.

  ‘So what do you think happened to him?’ I asked.

  An older woman had seen us and was walking over. It was the mama-san, the owner of the bar and the one who ‘ran’ the girls.

  Li answered in a slightly lower voice. ‘One thing I do know. In China, people don’t move far from their local villages. So if he is still alive, he’ll probably be in the same area of Yudu that Mao Zetan hid him in.’

  The mama-san stopped beside Li and stroked her dark hair, smiling at me. Li on the other hand wasn’t smiling.

  ‘You like?’ she asked in a shrill voice.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Li. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’

  I got down off my stool but Li hadn’t moved
. She was looking down at the table, tracing a finger through the ring of condensation left behind by her empty glass.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t go until someone pays my bar fine.’

  ‘Five hundred baht,’ squealed the mama-san expectantly. She had come round to my side and was holding out a chubby hand. It wasn’t a lot of money. I fumbled in my wallet for the notes and paid for Li’s freedom. As we left I saw the mama-san laughing, hands on hips, thrusting her pelvis in and out.

  Outside in the humid streets of Patpong, Bangkok’s infamous red-light district was still humming with people and traffic. I looked at my watch — it was 2 a.m. We’d been talking for hours. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back.

  ‘What now?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m getting you a taxi home, that’s what.’

  A cab arrived in seconds and as she jumped in I gave her a few hundred baht. It was a small amount, nothing compared to what she would have earned if I’d been taking her home.

  ‘For the taxi fare,’ I said.

  She nodded sweetly. ‘Good luck finding the boy. You’ll need it. In Jiangxi alone there are nearly 50 million people.’

  A quarter of all humankind calls China home. The thought of finding any one person, or even a group of people was mindboggling. Added to that was the fact that any trail leading to Little Mao was almost 80 years old. Chen’s story was a start, but somehow I doubted its reliability. It could be true, but in all honesty I just didn’t know. The official version said little when it came to Mao An Hong: ‘Whereabouts unknown. No further information available’. It was quite possibly the greatest and most frustrating full stop in history. The only way to even get close to finding out was to return to China, to the places where Little Mao had last been seen. And that’s what I decided to do. With my contract finished, I was a free man, with time on my side.

  ‘And hey,’ came Li’s voice from inside the cab.

  I bent down and looked in through the open window.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said happily, still clutching the money. ‘I owe you one.’

  As the cab pulled away she smiled her devastating smile and winked mischievously.

  ‘No Li’, I thought, watching the taillights disappear around the next corner, ‘I definitely owe you.’

  THREE

  THE CHINESE WERE PRACTISING FOR THE ARRIVAL OF THEIR Olympic guests by behaving in a thoroughly Western fashion: the queues for tickets within the cement-and-marble interior of Shanghai’s main train station were long and orderly. But only up to a certain point. All pretences of decorum and social civility were thrown out when it mattered most: at the ticket window. From that moment on, it was a return to the age-old Oriental custom of pushing and shoving.

  Window Seven was no different. A short distance ahead of me in the queue, as many as three to four people were trying to squeeze in front of the glass partition that separated them from the glum-faced girl selling tickets. She dealt with each and every one of them in a way that underlined her position of superiority, and their inferiority. One impolite word from anyone wanting a ticket risked a cold shoulder and a return to the back of the line, so while they elbowed each other and struggled to get some part of their body in front of her, they were desperately trying to be nice to her too.

  Twenty metres back, in a relative oasis of calm, I surveyed the giant map of China that hung on the wall above all the ticket windows. Convention and logic suggested that one should begin looking for someone where they were last seen. Indeed it might be unnecessary to go any further than this geographical bull’s-eye. In this case, that would be near the town of Yudu in Jiangxi province, to the southwest of where I presently stood. However, I had decided to throw convention out the window. I would begin the journey at the end, so to speak. The Long March had finished near the provinces of Gansu and Shaanxi to the northwest, on the edge of the Gobi Desert. By beginning my journey there and following the march in reverse, I would give myself time to acclimatise to the altitude, improve my rusty Mandarin and hopefully meet up with some interesting people along the way. The only question was which town to travel to first.

  Quite surprisingly, however, that decision was made for me by a most unlikely candidate: a 210-centimetre-tall Chinese basketball player named Shenzhen Liu.

  I reached the window in due course and stuck an arm through the gap beneath the glass partition. In my hand I held out a couple of red 100-yuan notes. Unfortunately, my arm wasn’t the only one competing for the attention of the disinterested ticket seller. Many others waved fistfuls of cash frantically in front of her face, accompanied by pleading voices asking a myriad of questions. My own voice was drowned out; besides, she had already seen me and decided I looked too much like hard work. It was just then that a shadow was cast over the increasingly frenetic transactions. The ticket seller stopped taking money, the jabbering of voices quietened to a murmur and the swarm of hopeful travellers craned their necks skywards in hushed awe.

  He was huge. So much so that the top of his red tracksuit trousers soared well past the level of the counter. The rest of him, which was adorned in a red jacket with white stripes on the sleeves, rose up to a height that made the ceiling appear lower. His face was wide and brown, with the high cheekbones of someone with Mongol ancestry, and bore an expression that was somewhat impassive, as if the commotion he was now causing was something he was not entirely easy with. He reached down and slid some money under the glass partition because his hand was too big to fit through, and in a deep voice requested a ticket. By now everyone had stood back to give him room — all except for one. I still had my arm under the glass and it was this that drew his attention. He eyed the money between my fingers, took in my jeans and old walking boots, the worn khaki shoulder bag at my feet and, most probably, the slight look of exasperation in my eyes, then spoke a few words of broken English that would eventually prove to be more than significant.

  ‘Can I help?’ he asked.

  With a nod I explained how I was trying to find out what time the next train was leaving for the northwest. He spoke briefly with the ticket seller then turned back to me.

  ‘You wish to go today?’

  ‘If possible,’ I replied.

  He then looked at his own ticket, which seemed so small in his hand, and pointed a long finger at the line of Chinese characters at the top.

  ‘This is a hard-sleeper ticket to Xining, leaving in two hours. One way.’

  Xining is the provincial capital of Qinghai province, a highland town of over a million people perched on the edge of the Tibetan plateau, and a major jumping-off point on the northwestern rail line. I’d been there once before, years ago, and from memory it was brown, dusty and had no great claim to fame, other than being within easy reach of a number of key Tibetan monasteries and historical sites. As far as starting points went, however, it was at least in the same locale as Gansu and Shaanxi provinces, Mao’s strongholds at the end of the Long March. And I had a hunch that the journey there was going to be more than just a train ride; indeed, something was telling me this was all part of a grander plan, as if fate was steering me in this direction for good reason.

  I leant towards the glass partition and, in my best Mandarin, requested an identical train ticket.

  ‘You don’t want to go soft-sleeper?’ the giant asked, with sudden concern.

  I told him soft-sleeper was for the rich tourist and, besides, if hard-sleeper was good enough for him it was good enough for me. The ticket seller duly printed out the ticket and slid it under the glass. All the time, however, she never once took her eyes off the giant. Maybe it was because he was so tall, or maybe it was because for the first time he was smiling happily, with a grin so great it could have lit up a darkened room.

  ‘Then we go together. My name is Liu,’ he announced proudly, holding out his hand. ‘But you can call me Mr Golden.’

  I reached up and shook his hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you Mr Golden.’

  FOUR

 
; TRAIN K376 FOR XINING WAS FULL WHEN IT DEPARTED FROM Platform 5 that afternoon, with almost all the passengers of Carriage Fourteen and some from the adjoining carriages gathered outside our compartment. The lure of the giant and the foreigner was too much to resist.

  The gathering had begun with one or two fellow passengers walking the length of the corridor and pausing outside our compartment for longer than was necessary to look out the window. They would eventually amble off, only to return with friends or relatives eager to witness Liu for themselves. It wasn’t long before someone broke the ice with the first question. From that moment on, the inquisition started. Where were we from? How tall was Liu? How tall was I?

  The compartments in hard-sleeper are made up of six bunks, three on each side, all of which are open to the corridor, so there is nowhere to hide. From all directions faces strained for a better view, including one little guy who had climbed into the luggage rack. Liu was sitting hunched over on the bottom bunk, his knees protruding into the air like twin Everests, while I was stretched out in the middle bunk directly opposite. Most of the questions were aimed at him, so I was able to relax, but I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pity. No doubt this was the play enacted on every stage he ventured upon. Chinese people are naturally inquisitive and have no qualms about intruding: in a country of so many, there is no room for personal space. So Liu faced a barrage of questions until the attendant in charge of the carriage, a stout woman who wore a badge pinned to her chest printed with the number 007, snapped at everyone to return to their beds so that she could check our tickets. It was a welcome respite, even if it would prove only short.

  When she had gone, I looked down to see Liu lying on his side with his face to the wall. He had his legs bent, but his feet still stuck a long way out into the hallway. He was already asleep, or perhaps he was feigning it to escape the crowds. Either way I left him in peace and watched through the window as the green rice fields of Anhui province eventually replaced Shanghai’s urban sprawl. Here and there, small railside villages flashed by, their inhabitants busy in the surrounding fields, backs bent to the task of producing rice for a nation. It was obvious that every inch of ground had been planted with something edible. The roof of one house boasted a harvest of corn ready for picking. Atop another was a tiny allotment of squash. Nothing was wasted, even the light: only when the last rays of the sun had set did the farmers return to their homes.