After he had finished his commentary Jakob pushed a buzzer beside his desk to summon Wu, and when the bespectacled Chinese reappeared he handed him the typewritten pages. As he turned to go Jakob called him back and handed him the printed invitation to Peking. “Mr. Wu, what do you think I should make of this?”
The Chinese stared myopically at the embossed card, then lifted his head to Look at Jakob, his eyes wide with surprise. “It is very interesting, Mr. Kellner. Will you accept?”
“Probably not.” Jakob’s forehead crinkled in a frown. “It’s snore than twenty years since I set foot on the Chinese mainland. And I wasn’t exactly made welcome by the Communists during my last year there.”
He grinned ruefully to soften the grim jest and the Chinese smiled sagely in response. “I don’t think you need fear a repetition of your unpleasant experience, Mr. Kellner. The Chinese Committee for World Peace would hardly allow one of its National Day guests to be arrested.”
“But they know I’m no fellow traveler like most of the people in the Western peace movement. Why should they invite me?”
“Perhaps they’ve read China’s New Age,” said the Chinese, nodding deferentially to a stack of newly printed books that bore Jakob’s name on their spines. “If so, they’ve already seen how fair you’ve been in summing up the progress made by the Communists in their first years in power.”
Jakob stared hard at the translator, turning over in his mind what he had said. The book had been published only six weeks earlier and Jakob realized there was a certain logic in his speculation that the invitation was linked with it in some way.
“But whether that’s true or not, Mr. Kellner, I think I should hurry now to cut the stencil of your commentary.” Wu gestured with Jakob’s typescript toward the outer office. “Or the bulletin will be very late.”
As he turned and hurried through the open door, he almost collided with a tall, broad-shouldered man who entered, carrying a copy of China’s New Age under one arm. Stepping aside to allow the Chinese to pass, the newcomer smiled at Jakob in greeting.
“I called at the front counter, Jake, to pick up a copy of your daily bulletin —— but it doesn’t seem to come out on time the way it used to when I lived here.”
“Joseph Sherman!” Jakob rose eagerly from his desk and advanced with an outstretched hand to welcome the smiling American. “What brings you back to Hong Kong?”
“I came just to buy this, of course.” The American banteringly held up a copy of Jakob’s new book. “The word’s got around that it’s the best appraisal of Mao’s first seven years money can buy right now. My students can’t be denied.”
The two men shook hands warmly and Jakob waved Sherman to a chair in front of the desk. “It’s good to see you again, Joseph. Are you still teaching Far Eastern studies at Cornell?”
“I’m on my way back to Ithaca right now to pick up the threads,” said Sherman. “I’ve been in Saigon for six months.”
“Back to your old stamping ground? Were you lecturing or writing?”
“Neither.” The smile faded slowly from Sherman’s face. “I’ve been with the Michigan State Group. You’ve probably heard that forty or fifty U.S. professors went up there as advisers to help draft a constitution and set up a civil service for President Diem. Well, sad to say, I discovered most of it was cover for Washington intelligence types who’re channeling arms to a fairly unpleasant secret police outfit — so I resigned.”
Jakob shook his head in sympathy. “And how long are you staying here?”
“Not long, unfortunately. But like any other red-blooded Sinologist, I’m utterly intrigued by this quaintly named Hundred Flowers campaign. So I thought I’d grab a couple of days in Hong Kong on the way home and get the latest dope from the horse’s mouth — or the Kellner Institute, as it’s locally known.”
Jakob’s pleasure at seeing a good friend from the past showed in his broad smile and he glanced quickly at his watch. “Today’s bulletin will be ready in a few minutes. If you can wait, you’ll be able to catch up on the latest chapter and verse from there.”
“The Kellner daily bulletin was always worth its weight in gold when I was here for the Gazette,” grinned Sherman, leaning back relaxedly in his chair. “So I’ll wait if I’m welcome.”
Jakob inclined his head in theatrical acknowledgement of the compliment; then his brow creased into a querying frown of recollection. “You disappeared from the colony without much warning, Joseph. About three years ago, if I remember correctly — just after Dien Bien Phu. No farewell parties, nothing. Why was your departure so abrupt?”
Sherman’s face became serious and he studied the fingernails of one hand intently before he spoke. “I’d covered the civil war in China — and Korea after that, remember? I was in and out of Dien Bien Phu a couple of times and I think for me that was the last straw. Most of all I wanted to get away from the sight of grown men butchering one another — so I wasn’t in the mood for farewell parties. The groves of academe beckoned and they seemed a very attractive prospect in comparison Sherman looked up at Jakob and shrugged dismissively. “If I’m really going to level with an old friend, Jake, I’d have to say there were some personal reasons too. But they don’t bear too close a scrutiny — even now.”
“Did you and Tempe ever get back together?” asked Jakob in a quiet voice. “There were rumors that all wasn’t well between you about the time you left.”
“No, we got divorced.” Sherman studied his fingernails again. “Tempe’s just got herself married to a Pentagon colonel and seems very happy. We’re still friends — of a sort. We meet from time to time when we visit our two boys at school.”
“A lot of people missed you both after you left,” said Jakob awkwardly. “Please remember me to Tempe when you see her.”
“I certainly will.” Sherman nodded quickly, feeling awkward in his turn.
“Have you remarried in the meantime, Joseph?”
“No — I haven’t felt brave enough yet to venture out onto thin ice again.” The American smiled humorlessly. “But what about yourself, Jake? We always figured at the foreign correspondents’ club you were the kind of dark horse who might surprise us all one day by taking a dazzling Chinese beauty for your bride. Has it all happened behind my back?”
“No, it hasn’t.” Jakob half turned to look out through the window behind his desk. The office was on the top floor of a commercial block in the island’s central business district and he gazed pensively at the saddle-backed heights of Victoria Peak, dramatically visible above them. “I suppose I’m married to my work, Joseph — as I’ve always been since I came to the colony. No wife in her right mind would tolerate the hours I put in here.”
“Being married to China is certainly a full-time job, I can see that.” Sherman grinned and rose to inspect a small framed page of Chinese calligraphy hanging on the wall. The cheap paper on which the characters had been written in a distinctive hand was a little discolored and the ink had faded in places, but the vigor and dash of the writer were still evident at a glance. “I suppose we should think of this rare relic as your marriage certificate, Jake, should we?”
Jakob glanced toward the short poem about China’s mountains given to him by Mao Tse-tung at Chokechi more than twenty years earlier and smiled at his friend’s affectionate irony.
“I hope it’s well insured anyway,” added the American. “You must know it’s become one of Hong Kong’s most famous landmarks among the China-watching community worldwide. I tell all my students at Cornell about it. It’s nice to know it’s still in place. . .
An uncertain knock on the frosted glass door of the office interrupted them and Jakob rose hurriedly from his seat when he saw the driver he had sent to Kai Tak Airport opening the door to usher in the tall, blond figure of his daughter.
“Abigail! Welcome to Hong Kong!”
He hurried across the office and embraced his daughter briefly. Then he held her at arm’s length, smiling apologetically. “I�
�m sorry I couldn’t get to the airport to meet you myself. It’s been frantic here and I’ve been chained to this desk all afternoon . .
As he spoke the door opened again and the senior translator appeared, holding out three or four copies of the evening bulletin, hot from the duplicating machine. Jakob took them from him, thanking him profusely, and in the same movement turned and thrust one into Sherman’s hands.
“That’s my latest installment on what’s happening behind the Bamboo Curtain, Joseph — and this is my daughter, Abigail, who’s just flown in from London.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders as she offered the American her hand. “Joseph Sherman is an old friend of mine, Abigail. He used to write for the Washington Gazette from here. He’s just turned up too. We haven’t seen each other for at least three years.”
“We have something in common then, Mr. Sherman,” said Abigail smilingly. “I haven’t seen my father since he visited me during my first term at Oxford — which is even more than three years ago, isn’t it, Daddy?”
The remark came out more pointedly than Abigail had intended, and when she looked at her father she saw that a guarded, defensive look had come into his eyes. For an instant there was a brittle silence between them which she feared the American might notice, but he gave no sign.
“We seem to have achieved a historic three-way reunion by coincidence,” interjected Sherman smoothly, inclining his head in Abigail’s direction. “I take it I’m enjoying the rare privilege of meeting the celebrated young lady who made that famous trek halfway across China with her father before her first birthday.”
“That’s what I’ve been led to believe. Unfortunately I don’t have any clear recollections of my own.”
She smiled as she spoke but again an uneasy expression showed fleetingly on Jakob’s face. This time the American saw it clearly and moved off at once toward the door. “I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.” He grinned broadly and flourished the bulletin in his hand. “And so have I. I’m going back to my hotel to devour the latest installment of The Mystery of the Hundred Flowers . .
“No, Joseph, wait!” Jakob laid a restraining hand on Sherman’s sleeve. “We must all have dinner together to celebrate this unique occasion. I’ve still got a few things to tidy up here but my driver will take Abigail and her luggage on to my flat. He can drop you at your hotel on the way.” Jakob opened the door and called orders to the driver, then turned, smiling, back to Abigail. “My cook boy will look after you — show you your room and prepare a bath for you. Just relax and make yourself comfortable, I’ll be home within the hour.” Turning to Sherman again, he slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “I’ll book a table for three at that Aberdeen floating restaurant where we used to eat — will that suit you?”
“That’s fine by me.” Sherman smiled tactfully. “If you’re both sure I won’t be intruding on your family get-together . .
“We’re positive you won’t be intruding.” Without looking at Abigail, Jakob moved quickly back to his desk and picked up the telephone to call the restaurant. Abigail could see that her father’s jollity was slightly forced and as she watched him dial, she felt a certainty grow within her that, whether he realized it himself or not, he was doing everything he could to avoid being left alone with her. “We’ll meet there at eight o’clock,” he said, addressing the American over his shoulder. “We can’t waste this golden opportunity, can we? It may be years before we have another like it.”
3
Sitting across the table from her father in the waterborne restaurant three hours later, Abigail wondered sadly whether in the end she would have to admit defeat and resign herself to accepting the enigma he represented for her. In the soft glow of colored Chinese lanterns that decorated the traditional triple-decked floating “palace,” she had watched and listened as he talked animatedly with Joseph Sherman about the arcane politics of Communist China and Asia at large, marveling inwardly at his articulate grasp of the complex issues. Although she had little appetite after her fatiguing journey, he had also explained to her with great relish the origin and history of each mouth-watering Chinese dish a it was set before them: steamed garoupa fish, fried quail, green pilchard, stewed pigeons’ eggs, shark’s fin soup. Joseph Sherman too had treated her with an elaborate gallantry, toasting her repeatedly with little glasses of Chinese rice wine, and she suspected that the American was making a special effort to be convivial, having sensed that an underlying tension existed between her and her father. Sherman had spoken at length, sometimes lightly, sometimes seriously, about the people of Vietnam and Indochina, among whom he had spent much time, and despite her tiredness she had found the table talk of both men fascinating.
But in the midst of the starlit bay, with lantern-decked water taxis gliding like fireflies through the darkness all around them, she often had a discomforting feeling that she was listening to the impersonal voices of total strangers. Abigail had hoped that seeing her father’s home might help her understand him better, but his flat, in a modern block near the Botanical Gardens, had been a disappointment. Although spacious and airy, with a balcony facing the spectacular harbor, it was curiously lacking in identifiable character. Instead of the Oriental furnishings and curios that she had half expected to discover, the flat was equipped with simple, good-quality European carpets and furniture but was otherwise bare of all superfluous adornment. Standing alone on a polished table in a study lined with books about China and Asia, she had found a single, silver-framed photograph of herself as a shyly smiling schoolgirl. But no other photographs were visible anywhere else in the flat and with the exception of a few calligraphy scrolls, which decorated the sitting-room walls, there was a complete absence of pictures or ornaments which would have allowed some judgment to be made of the tastes and preferences of the flat’s occupant. An aged Chinese cook boy had greeted her politely and seen to her needs, but his retiring manner was in keeping with the neutral atmosphere that pervaded all the rooms and Abigail was left with a baffling feeling that the flat too, like her father, was determined to hold her at arm’s length and deny her any glimpse of intimacy.
By the time Jakob returned from his office, she was dressed and waiting for him, and he had showered quickly before driving them to the pier closest to the floating restaurant. Their exchanges during the journey had been confined to her flight, landmarks they passed, and the health of his aging parents, and while they dined, he seemed to Abigail to be taking infinite pains to confine the conversation to impersonal topics. When, in the course of a discussion of china’s New Age, Joseph Sherman remarked casually that he was disappointed to find no reference in it to Jakob’s experiences on the Long March, she noticed her father’s expression grow suddenly wary.
“I’m impressed by your British sense of fair play,” said the American with a smile. “You give the Communist regime a lot of credit in the book — but does this mean you’re never going to write anything about that terrible period in the thirties?”
Jakob hesitated and Abigail felt silently grateful to Sherman for his persistence. She knew that if she had asked her father such a question he would have found a way of hedging; she gauged from his expression that he would have preferred not to answer his friend, but Sherman was waiting affably for a reply, and Jakob was clearly being forced to consider his response with care.
“For the average Chinese, life has improved vastly since the revolution succeeded,” said Jakob earnestly. “I think that’s what needs emphasizing in the outside world right now. I’m not sure that what happened to me in the thirties has relevance anymore.”
It probably has some oblique relevance for those unfortunate Chinese intellectuals you wrote about in your bulletin tonight, doesn’t it,” said Sherman grimly. “All those who responded to Mao’s invitation to let a ‘Hundred Flowers’ of criticism bloom are now being shipped off to labor camps for their pains. It may not be a precise parallel with your own case but it’s the other, darker side of the coin — the revolution’s r
ecurring tendency to dole out ruthless punishments arbitrarily to its innocent victims. Surely there’s room for some of that in the whole story of contemporary China.”
“It may sound strange to you, Joseph, but I’ve never felt able to put a final evaluation on what happened to me.” Jakob toyed with his chopsticks, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth before him. To Abigail, his expression looked suddenly vulnerable, and for the first time, to her surprise, the feelings of resentment and mystification which her father’s secretiveness habitually provoked were modified by a twinge of compassion. “Perhaps even now it’s too tied up with personal feelings — which I’m not very good at disentangling. Perhaps that’s why I’ve avoided writing about it.”
“Do you mean matters of faith?” asked Sherman quietly.
“Partly, I suppose. My time as a prisoner on the Long March did make some fundamental change in me.” Jakob continued to study the tablecloth. “I’ve never been able to define my feelings to my own satisfaction. But there are other things too
Jakob hesitated and Abigail straightened in her seat, wondering what he was about to say. But to her intense disappointment, he remained silent and Sherman, sensing her interest, smiled and winked exaggeratedly at her.
“Perhaps the pair of you ought to put your heads together someday and write a definitive joint account.”
Anthony Grey Page 48
