by Chris West
‘Most cadres made their decisions in minutes,’ Bao went on. ‘Father made files on everyone and spent hours worrying about them. He was a real Communist; he cared about people.’ He sighed. ‘When he’d made his decision, a mob tried to lynch the landlords and rich peasants. Father tried to prevent them. He told us it was him and two very scared militiamen against about a hundred angry villagers armed with axes and pitchforks and whatever else they could get their hands on.’
Rosina’s eyes widened. ‘Did he succeed – in stopping them?’
‘Of course. He told the crowd that everyone in New China should have the chance to reform, even the biggest landlords, the Xus. People respected him so much, that they backed off.’ Bao smiled at the memory, then looked glum again. ‘Not that it did any good in the long run.’
‘Oh. What happened?’
‘During the Cultural Revolution, Xu was beaten to death, and so was his son. The daughter – ’ He paused. ‘Aiya, you don’t want to hear this. What time did Mrs Li say dinner was?’
*
The new arrivals ate alone in the guesthouse’s small, functional dining room.
‘There’s only one other person staying,’ Mrs Li explained as she placed the dishes on the table, ‘And he prefers to eat in his rooms.’
Rosina, gregarious by nature, frowned.
‘He’s very distinguished,’ Mrs Li replied. ‘A retired cadre. I’m sure he’s earned his peace.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘I don’t know. On holiday, I’d imagine.’
‘Here?’ Rosina said without thinking, then blushed. ‘I didn’t mean — ’
‘We have distinguished people visiting,’ said Mrs Li. ‘Our village is tranquil. In the old days, officials used to retire to private gardens and so on. I don’t see why people who have spent their lives in the service of the People shouldn’t have a similar privilege.’
‘Yes, I … ’ Rosina began again.
‘We shall go round and introduce ourselves to him sometime,’ Bao put in. He took a piece of five-flower pork and dipped it in vinegar. ‘Right now, we’re going to eat. This smells delicious. Proper Shandong food!’
Mrs Li looked a little placated, but waited to see if her guests’ actual reactions met their expressed intentions.
‘Delicious!’ said Bao. Rosina nodded agreement, and Mrs Li went out.
‘Sorry,’ said Rosina.
Bao smiled. ‘It’s not serious. Let’s eat.’
Rosina smiled back. Some of her colleagues had expressed surprise at her marrying a man twelve years her senior, born in the countryside. Some had even become cold towards her. They should see little moments of consideration like that.
*
After dinner, they sat on the guesthouse verandah looking out over half the valley (the other half was obscured by a new villa and the fast-growing trees with which the villa’s owner had surrounded it).
‘You seemed really sad up there on the pass,’ Rosina said. ‘If there’s anything you want to talk about … ’
‘I’m fine,’ Bao replied. He felt he had talked enough, and it had just made him feel gloomy. Talk was the new, city way of doing things. The old way was to put up with troubles, not lose face by complaining, and to find solace in useful action.
He took her hand. ‘We’re going to enjoy ourselves here. There’s the dinner tomorrow night. And the weather looks set fair. We can explore. If a few unwelcome memories come back, I’ll deal with them. No problem!’
2
The red metal star over the gates of Party HQ glinted in the sun.
‘A new coat of paint,’ said Bao Zheng approvingly.
‘In our honour, no doubt,’ Rosina added.
Bao grinned: he was still sometimes unsure when she was being ironic or straightforward.
A policeman at the gate asked for their papers. Bao showed them and the couple walked across an uneven courtyard to the main offices, a two-storey concrete building with damp-stains down the side and small, shuttered windows.
Rosina was a Party member, just like her husband. Not out of conviction, but because it helped at work. Sometimes she felt this was wrong, but plenty of other people did the same. She spied on colleagues as seldom as possible, and when forced to do so, she would report purely professional details, much to the annoyance of her superiors. She sometimes enjoyed the fantasy that one morning she’d wake up and all politicians and Party officials had vanished, leaving everyone to just get on with they were meant to do, which was to do their work, help people who needed it and care for their families. In real life, she knew that if she wanted to remain ward sister at one of the capital’s top hospitals she had to be in the Party, so she played the game.
They reached the main block. A receptionist behind a grille asked to see their papers again, then phoned through to someone.
‘Secretary Wu’s assistant will be down in a moment,’ said the receptionist. ‘In the meantime, please go in and take a seat.’
Bao and Rosina sat on a hard wooden bench in the front hall and glanced through some agricultural magazines, until a door opened and a young man in a bright-yellow shirt and fashionably tight trousers emerged.
‘My name’s Xia,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘The Secretary is out at the moment. He’s asked me to show you around.’
‘Thank you,’ Bao replied.
The young man led them through the door into a small room with a high, closed window and a strip light. ‘This is my office.’ His desk was tidy: papers in the middle, a fan to one side and a photograph of a young woman on the other.
‘Your wife?’ Rosina asked him.
‘Girlfriend,’ Xia said with a grin, then opened the next door into the Party Secretary’s office. Wu Changyan worked in a room about eight times the size of his assistant’s. There were filing cabinets all round the walls. Wu’s desk stood in the centre, with papers piled high in two trays.
‘Some things haven’t changed,’ said Bao. ‘Mind if I go in?’
‘Er, no. Of course not.’
Bao crossed to the desk and looked down at the Secretary’s chair. It was modern and comfortable, not like Father’s old wooden thing. His eyes wandered to the papers.
Re: ‘Environmental’ protestors …
‘We have a fine banqueting room upstairs,’ said Xia.
Bao turned over the corner of the top paper. ‘It has been noted that some of these individuals have been resorting to more extreme methods. Discipline must be enforced – ’
‘It’s been redecorated recently,’ Xia went on. ‘You really should see it, Inspector.’
Bao took the hint. They made their way up an uncarpeted staircase, past a spittoon and a dying pot-plant, to a room with a purple carpet and lime-green wallpaper.
‘Secretary Wu is entertaining you here this evening, isn’t he?’ said Xia.
‘Yes. You’re not invited?’
Xia blushed. ‘I’m too junior. But all the top people in the village will be there. And your brother, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Bao said without enthusiasm.
*
‘Ganbei!’
Party Secretary Wu Changyan raised a glass of powerful, clear maotai. ‘To the memory of Bao Jingfu!’
The inspector smiled at the sound of his father’s name. ‘Ganbei!’ he responded. ‘To the memory of Bao Jingfu!’ He tipped his head back and poured the spirit down his throat. Delicious!
A white-coated waiter brought in yet another course, the highlight of the evening, Yellow River carp with sweet and sour sauce. Bao Zheng, as guest of honour, took the first portion. Next, as host, Secretary Wu.
Bao watched as the fish made its way round the table. The elderly, Mao-suited Deputy Secretary Yao and his elderly, Mao-suited wife took identical small portions. The local police chief, a man bursting through a nylon shirt who looked to be in his early fifties, grabbed himself an oversize chunk. The manager of Nanping Village Industries, a younger man in a well-cut Western suit, took a po
rtion of exactly appropriate size. Then Bao’s brother Ming, in a Mao jacket, reached out two shaking chopsticks, picked out a section, dropped it, picked it up again and finally managed to shovel it into his bowl – a performance which made his face glow even redder.
Secretary Wu cleared his throat and got to his feet.
‘Bao Jingfu, our Secretary from Liberation till his tragic death in 1965, was admired and respected by everyone in Nanping. That death deprived us of a leader of real quality.’
Wu was a big man, nearly six feet tall, and burly, too (Bao’s brother Ming was Wu’s equal in height, but thin, almost as if he might topple over at any moment). His voice belonged to someone used to giving orders, his stiff posture to a man who did not like having those orders questioned.
‘Ten years of turmoil and disorder followed Bao Jingfu’s demise,’ Wu went on (alluding, of course, to the Cultural Revolution, which had lasted till Mao’s death in 1976). ‘And only when the Party issued its call to follow the Four Modernizations was government truly restored the way Bao Jingfu would have wanted. On instructions from National, Provincial and County Leadership, Nanping plunged into the sea of commerce. The success of this brave act is now, fifteen years on, visible everywhere. Only recently, our village was singled out in the provincial press as a model of economic reform and openness. Our factory produces tools, clothing and machine parts that are sold all over the province. This fine fish apart, all the food that has graced our table this evening has come from local cooperative enterprises.’ Wu paused. ‘Now, I know that in the community at large, voices are beginning to criticize this progress, saying “enough and no further”. Bao Jingfu would not have been a part of this reactionary chorus.’
Deputy Yao and his wife nodded in unison. Huang, the policeman, made a grunt of approval. The young factory manager grinned, but with less enthusiasm than Bao might have expected. Ming burped.
Secretary Wu’s smile broke for an instant, then he continued his speech with practised ease. ‘Bao Jingfu joined the Party in 1938 … ’
A life of Bao’s father followed: his childhood as a poor peasant, his revolutionary activity, his becoming head of the local Party in 1950, his guiding both the Party and the village through Land Reform and the ‘difficult’ time of the early 1960’s. Compliments to the two guests rounded off the speech, then a toast was offered. ‘To our visitors! Ganbei!’ Wu drained his tumbler of Maotai then sat down. Deputy Yao took the floor.
‘Long live the Party! Long live the People! That was the motto of Bao Jingfu, a man whose life bears comparison with that of the Good Soldier Lei Feng. Bao Jingfu always supported the Four Cardinal Principles. He accepted the paramountcy of Marxism, Leninism and Mao Zedong Thought. He believed in Socialism, and trusted the Party and the democratic dictatorship of the People. He never ceased to struggle against imperialism, liberalism, ultra-leftism, rightist deviationism, Soviet-style revisionism …’
Bao found himself looking round the table again. He must have known all these people once, but now had only hazy recollections of them. Yao, he recalled, had always been totally unimaginative but hard-working. Wu had always been ambitious. The police chief and the factory manager? Ai, it was all a long time ago.
Deputy Yao was holding up a glass. ‘To the Communist Party of China! May it last ten thousand years! Ganbei!’
‘May the Communist Party of China last ten thousand years! Ganbei!’ Bao replied, downing another maotai.
The old man sat down and his wife stood up, a move done in perfect synchronization as if they were balanced on some kind of scale. Her voice was high, sharp and, like Secretary Wu’s, used to giving orders. As head of the Nanping Women’s Association she would have plenty of opportunity for doing that. She praised Bao’s late mother for her resilience during difficult times (glancing at Ming as she said this), then described her own efforts to enforce the one-child policy, particularly via strict adherence to marriage quotas. She still tried to prevent marriage between classes. Such prevention might no longer be fashionable in big cities, but in Nanping she made sure it was still hard for the offspring of old exploiters to pollute pure working-class stock. Mrs Yao concluded with a criticism of foreign notions of romantic love, which eat into the political fabric of society. ‘The example set by Party members on this issue is of the utmost importance,’ she added, this time glancing at Rosina. Her husband gave her particularly loud applause when she sat down.
Then it was the turn of the policeman, Station Chief Huang Guo. He got slowly to his feet, brushed some dandruff off his shoulders, proposed a toast to the maintenance of public order, then delivered a short account of local public-security matters. Bao listened with interest, even though he had promised Rosina that he would have as little to do with Nanping police matters as possible.
‘A number of thefts have occurred in the area. We are making excellent progress in their solution – but if the inspector would care to give us the benefit of his expertise, we would be extremely grateful.’
Bao thought of his promise to Rosina then nodded his head. It would be a matter of politeness. A brief visit, allowing Huang to show off in front of his juniors by presenting a cop from Beijing, then they would be free to get on with their investigations and he would be free to enjoy his holiday.
The boss of Nanping Village Industries, Wei Shaojia, spoke next. His speech, also brief, was full of business terms that Bao didn’t understand – except for a short homily on the importance of integrity, financial prudence and decisiveness in all kinds of leadership.
Quite right, Bao said to himself. Then he looked round at Secretary Wu, and saw that the local Party boss was glaring at the speaker with unconcealed hostility.
‘To prosperity!’ said Wei.
‘To prosperity!’
Then it was Bao Ming’s turn to speak.
The inspector’s brother stood up quickly then began fiddling in his pockets. The polite silence that welcomes a new speaker grew longer and longer.
Secretary Wu broke it. ‘It’s getting late. We don’t all have to make speeches.’
‘No,’ Ming replied. ‘I have something prepared. Somewhere. I just seem to have, er, mislaid it.’ He searched a bit more, then shook his head. ‘I’ll do without it. As head of the family, I’d like to say that younger brother Zheng is most welcome to return to his old home after – how long is it? Five years? Ten? Especially as he comes with a lovely wife. My brother has always had good taste in women!’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. Secretary Wu scowled. Ming began rifling through his pockets again, finally pulling out a sheet of paper which he then dropped on the floor. ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed. More silence. Then: ‘A good speech is a short speech!’ He picked up a glass. ‘To beauty, a toast! Ganbei!’
‘To beauty,’ everyone round the table echoed. ‘Ganbei!’
‘Now, Lin Xiangyu,’ said Secretary Wu, using Rosina’s Chinese name.
Rosina hated speechmaking but knew what she had to do. A few words of thanks for their welcome. A comment about how as a city person she was looking forward to learning about the real China, which was still its countryside. A compliment for Mrs Yao about how glad she was to see women truly holding up half the sky and playing a major role in community life. A few words about her own work, a toast to Nanping Village, and she could sit down.
Bao was the last to speak. Despite claiming not to like public speaking, he warmed to his task at once, making general observations about the high quality of leadership and deputy leadership available to the village, echoing the importance of the one-child policy to the Four Modernizations, restating how much he was looking forward to visiting the local police station, praising Nanping Village Industries Corporation for its contribution to the area’s evident prosperity, thanking his elder brother for his sincere welcome, commenting on the graciousness of his wife’s speech, then proposing a toast to everyone present.
‘Ganbei!’
‘Ganbei!’
The moment the last draughts of maotai were draine
d, the scraping of chairs announced that the banquet was over. For most of the participants there was work to do early next morning.
‘My driver will take you back to your hotel,’ said Secretary Wu. ‘I’m sorry we are unable to provide a car full time.’
Bao smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want one. My wife and I are both keen walkers. But tonight … the car would be appreciated’
They left the dining room for the sharp, evening air of the compound, where a VW Shanghai was waiting.
‘If there is anything you need, contact me,’ said Wu. ‘There is a telephone at the guesthouse. My work number is listed; my home number is eight-three-two.’
With that, he turned away. Bao and Rosina got into the car. As they drove out of the front entrance, Bao saw his brother Ming take a rusty lampless bicycle out of a rack, mount it and wobble out into the road.
‘Is it curable?’ he asked Rosina, who had recently taken a course in contemporary Western ‘counselling’.
‘Only if he wants to be cured.’
‘Nobody could want to be like that!’
‘People want all sorts of things.’
‘I guess so.’ The country boy in him still didn’t quite believe this, despite his many years’ service in the police.
She put her hand on his, sensing, perhaps, that he needed a little reassurance.
The car reached North Square, where the tarmac ended. The vehicle began to bump up the ever-steepening hill.
‘This visit to the police station … ’ said Rosina.
‘Formality. Politeness. I promise.’
They were soon up among the villas. Many had lights blazing. To advertise that the owner could afford to waste electricity? Bao wondered. He thought of his father’s old lamp, and then about Secretary Wu. If the local boss had a private telephone number, that meant he no longer lived in the old flat in the Party compound but probably owned one of these flashy places, too.
