The Phoenix Song

by John Sinclair

  ‘Who now remembers Khrushchev’s visit to Beijing in 1959?’ I replied. ‘Or the performance he attended at the Great Hall of the People? Or the music played on that occasion? Or who played it? I don’t even merit a footnote. Nowadays we think Chinese history started with the Cultural Revolution. Nothing that went before holds any interest. Has anyone even heard of the Sino-Soviet rift? No, and those that have probably think it’s an earthquake fault or a mountain range in Siberia. And yet it was so important at the time: Russia and China screaming at each other, throwing plates, and half the world caught up in the dispute, the fist-shaking and table-thumping, and the troop trains heading north to the borders, and the bombers on standby. But now even that’s just a footnote. No one remembers, and if they did, would they care? All they want to hear about is struggle sessions and Red Guards waving little red books – city kids, amateurs, thugs – not serious revolutionaries like my parents.’

  ‘You care, don’t you?’ Miro had said.

  ‘It’s my duty to care, just as back then it was my duty to perform for communism’s mother and father the last time they held hands and pretended everything was still all right. But that doesn’t mean I have to write a book about it.’

  ‘It must mean something more than just duty,’ she said. ‘What if they’d patched up their differences? Would that have made a difference to you?’

  ‘I guess the moderates in China would have been strengthened and they might have acknowledged the disaster of the Great Leap Forward, and twenty million Chinese might have been saved by shipments of Soviet wheat.’

  ‘That’s worth caring about, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not entirely. With the Russians as friends, Mao and Lin Biao might have got the bomb sooner than they did. They might have had it during the Cultural Revolution, and I shudder to think what that would have meant.’

  ‘There’s the story then: “How my violin and I stopped Mao getting the Bomb”.’

  ‘On the other hand, perhaps my performance hastened the downfall of the moderates, of Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiao Ping, leaving them out in the cold for the next twenty years. But on the other hand . . .’

  ‘That’s your third hand,’ Miro had warned.

  ‘On my third hand . . . perhaps my performance strengthened Zhou Enlai and helped him to survive the Cultural Revolution.’

  ‘Which meant . . .’

  ‘. . . that Madame Mao and the Gang of Four couldn’t get the support they wanted from the military, so that, when Mao died in 1976 . . .’ I stopped mid-sentence, my train of thought lost.

  ‘Is there a fourth hand?’

  ‘Yes, and a fifth too, and a sixth. You can read it all in MacFarquhar’s three-volume history, there on the shelf behind you. I could have a thousand hands, like that statue of Guan Yin at Chongqing.’

  ‘I think you’ve made your point,’ Miro said. ‘It’s like what they say – the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in the Amazon can alter the course of a hurricane thousands of miles away. But if you were to trudge through the jungle, braving the rapids and the crocodiles, and find that particular butterfly in its particular tree, there’s still the question of what to do with it. Do you crush it? Catch it? Chase it off in a different direction? Pin it to a wall?’

  ‘China has never had any doubts about what to do with butterflies,’ I said.

  *

  I steeled myself for her telephone call. (She is a meticulous keeper of promises.) We would no doubt replay the argument, and I wondered if I would lose my patience and produce the final ace from my pack, my final reason for keeping the silence: I don’t want to tell the story because we had to kill a man to escape. Listen to me, Miranda, your father and I had to kill a man. That was what I had to do to slip through the Great Chinese Wall, through which death is the only door – if not one’s own death, then the deaths of others. And if the latter, don’t they deserve now to rest?

  At eight o’clock precisely the telephone rang. I remained in my chair, letting it echo through the house.

  *

  I spent the early 1960s in Paris at the Conservatoire, living in two rooms in a building inhabited by Chinese diplomats and their families. For the first year I was under instruction to enter any competition I could find, and I duly brought honour to China by amassing awards and trophies which were handed over to my superiors and which, as far as I am aware, still lie, boxed and labelled, in some archive in Beijing. Only with difficulty did I convince the ambassador that my participation in small competitions in modest industrial towns in Belgium and Czechoslovakia and Northern Italy was doing no favours for China’s reputation abroad. Besides, my schedule was starting to fill up with invitations to play with more prestigious orchestras and conductors, and to perform alongside the inevitable touring ensembles of Chinese musicians and dancers, the advance guard of cultural diplomacy. On all of my travels I had an embassy minder; sometimes Ruan, if his linguistic skills (which I began to realise were somewhat third rate) were not required on other duties, and at other times the bored wives of first and second secretaries.

  In Sofia on one of these occasions I found myself on the same bill as Maxim Shostakovich. We had time to exchange a few sentences, and I asked Maxim once again if he knew anything about his father’s old friends, Kasimir and Piroshka. He told me that they had been detained in Moscow for a month. He believed his father may have had something to do with their eventual release, but could not say for sure. (They returned eventually to Leningrad, I learned years later, and lived with Vitja until his death in 1970, following him within a matter of months.) Ruan was by this time breathing down my neck, tapping my ankle with his toe to try to get me to break off the conversation, but I stood my ground. Maxim said that his father had heard news of the performance of his concerto at the Tenth Anniversary Celebrations, and that he had been ‘distressed’. But the word Maxim used was carefully chosen, signifying an affected distress, a kind of theatrical swoon. I repeated his phrase back to him, and he smiled and said to me, ‘Well, to be frank, he was highly amused. The first he heard about it was when he was in Dresden composing a string quartet. He was shown a statement that had been prepared for his signature, denouncing China’s corruption of his violin concerto. He jokes that he can perform his signature upside down, so that they do not need to turn around the papers they bring to him to sign. This letter has not been used, however, as no word of your concert has reached the foreign media. But he was very amused.’

  ‘I am glad to provide him with something to laugh about,’ I had said, somewhat annoyed.

  ‘You did just that,’ Maxim said. ‘It came at a time when he needed very much to laugh. He said the quartet he was composing would ‘bring his life to an end’, and we were beginning to worry about him; but after he heard of your interpretation of his concerto his mood became lighter. Nothing delights him more than a good musical joke, Ein musikalischer Spass.’

  *

  On my return to Paris I began rehearsals for a live recording at the Palais Garnier. (The dog-eared LP, whose liner notes refer to my ‘recent tragic death’, has pride of place in my collection.) During a pause in the proceedings I heard a voice calling to me in Russian from above my head, and looked up to find a young man dangling from a rope amidst the lights. It was Leon. He belayed down to the stage and shook my hand solemnly, and then began to laugh, as if he had spotted something amusing about me that had escaped my notice, some faux pas in my choice of clothes or some stray grains of rice lodged in my hair.

  ‘I’m the deus ex machina around here,’ he said, leaning on his rope, and when I angled a curious glance at him he explained: ‘The ghost in the machine.’ Then he took up Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume from the open case beside me, placed it under his chin and started to play a jig, tapping his foot and eyeing me mischievously, daring me to stop him. Heads turned towards us from amongst the orchestra, and the conductor, who was off stage conversing with the sound engineer, glowered at me. I noticed Ruan, who had been watching from his seat in the third row
, immediately spring to his feet and make his way up the aisle towards us, but before he reached the stage Leon had lowered the violin like a sleeping child into its velvet snug, called to someone in the gloom above us, hooked his foot into a loop at the end of his rope and begun his ascension into the chaos of cables and lamps and brackets behind the proscenium arch.

  After the rehearsal Ruan and I walked down to the Seine once more, and checked out the bouquinistes. He seemed uninterested in talking, even the obligatory questions about the rehearsal to provide him with material to report to his superiors, should they care to ask. He selected a book, in fact a set of three small volumes with a photograph of a dark, moustachioed man on the cover, and we retired to the nearest café. We drank our coffee and Ruan absorbed himself in the first of his volumes while I, for lack of anything better to do, took out my score and began to review the notes I had scribbled in its margins.

  A shadow fell over our table, and I heard a familiar laugh and looked up to see Leon silhouetted against the afternoon sun. Behind his shoulder, clouds scurried like rats across the pale blue sky. Once more he had detected something indefinably amusing about us. ‘Well, well, well, who do we have here?’ he said, first to Ruan, in French, and then to me, in Russian. We said nothing, but without asking Leon sat down, examined one of Ruan’s books and, laughing once more, explained, again first in French and then in Russian, that he had started to read it some years ago, that it was very good, but that he had not got beyond the first fifty pages. ‘Nothing happens,’ he said. ‘And then his mother kisses him goodnight. And then nothing happens again. And again.’

  The waiter approached and Leon ordered another round of coffees and started to tell us about his job at the Opera, and about my old teacher, who had settled once again into a despondent hibernation in a distant arrondissement. Every sentence was laboriously rendered in both languages. I told him that my comprehension of the French language had improved, even if my attempts to speak it were halting. However, he insisted upon this exhausting process, and I soon understood why, for the two strands of conversation began to part company, although Leon was careful to maintain the same tone of voice. And eventually, after telling Ruan something about French politics he turned to me, gave me a précis in Russian, and added, without skipping a beat, ‘Come with me to Montmartre tomorrow, and I will paint your portrait.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that,’ I replied. ‘What you are asking me to do is not permitted.’

  He ‘interpreted’ my response for Ruan, using the word ‘socialisme’ twice, and then turned to me again. ‘Surely you know you can trust me,’ he said. ‘Have you suffered at all from our last outing? Does your friend here even know about it? We already have one little secret – why not one more?’

  At that moment our coffees arrived, along with three more pastries. Leon handed the waiter a banknote folded lengthwise into a V-shape, and, after a mutual round of eye contact – not unlike those I would share with Tian and Ling Ling the moment before we began to play the first note of a trio – we applied ourselves to drinking and eating. We barely spoke until we had finished and Leon had produced a book of matches and a packet of Gauloises. He tapped out three, handed them around, and lit them.

  Leon turned to me, held his cigarette side-on and pointed to it as if he were about to explain its origin. ‘Remember I am a Communist too. I am named after Trotsky.’ He then turned to Ruan, once again holding up his cigarette for examination, and said something in French.

  While Leon was talking, a pair of sparrows landed on the adjacent table. One flew off immediately, but the other hopped across to our table and stood next to Ruan’s cup. My eyes sought out Ruan’s. He returned a gentle nod and his jaw settled to one side into a half smile as he lowered his cigarette to the ashtray and cupped his hands over his knee again, inches away from the bird. The sparrow took one crumb, then another, performing little jumps and jerkily rotating its head. I could see Ruan was watching it intently, although he continued to mutter polite acknowledgements to Leon. His breathing appeared to have slowed, as if he was clearing his mind. I waited for him to make his move.

  Leon turned back to me, taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘What is more, my father fought with the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil War,’ he said. ‘Under Colonel Belov at Albacete. You see? I have a pedigree you can trust.’

  Ruan had still not moved. The sparrow jumped from side to side, eyeing the last crumb.

  ‘What is the Spanish Civil War?’ I said. ‘And who is Trotsky?’

  Ruan looked up at me and I saw his eyes widen a fraction. He turned back to the sparrow and then raised one hand and waved it away. In a feathery flash it was gone.

  ‘If you wish, we can invite your friend here, as well,’ Leon said, turning back to me. ‘I see he is reading Proust. I can take you to see Proust’s apartment, or if you wish to the restaurants he frequented in the Bois de Boulogne. He may enjoy that better.’

  I placed my hand on Leon’s and held up my palm to signal him to stop talking. I turned to Ruan and said, in Chinese, ‘He wants to take us to a place called Montmartre, to a café he says is much better than this one, with live jazz music and exotic French delicacies we will not have tasted.’

  Ruan raised his eyebrow.

  ‘And he would like to paint your portrait, or perhaps he means he knows an artist there who will paint your portrait, as a memento of your time in Paris. I am not entirely sure which he means.’

  Ruan looked at Leon, who smiled uncomprehendingly.

  ‘He will tell nobody about this, and besides what harm could there be? He may even reveal something of use to you, if indeed he is spying on us, as you once believed. We could get him drunk and see what comes out. What do you think?’

  *

  The sky was darkening when we stepped from the metro into the heart of Montmartre. Leon grabbed my hand and I in turn took Ruan’s and together we rushed through the narrow streets, weaving like a needle and thread between the lovers and the bohemians and the American tourists. As we arrived at the steps of the Basilica the sun, or at least its yellowish thumbprint, was smearing itself against the western skyline. ‘Just in time,’ Leon announced, as he drew us all into a line along the lip of the plaza, as if our next act would be to raise our clasped hands in triumph and to make a deep bow to acknowledge the silent applause from the retreating light. Instead Ruan and I released our hands and, as if to reestablish our separate identities, wandered apart a half a dozen steps and caught our breath.

  ‘Let’s go inside the Basilica,’ Leon said, in my ear. ‘Quick, before they close the doors.’ He took my hand again and pulled me towards entrance of the sanctuary. I waited until we were halfway up the steps and then turned and called to Ruan to follow. He hurried after us, breaking into a light canter, as fast as he could go without breaching diplomatic decorum. This left me enough time to whisper to Leon that he should mollify Ruan with a few tidbits that would pass as state intelligence.

  ‘Something about De Gaulle or Kim Philby,’ I said. ‘But nothing obviously fabricated.’ Leon gave out a short grunt, which at first I thought indicated understanding and assent, until I noticed that a grey-haired woman of stern regard was firmly shutting the door to the Basilica, aided by a lanky youth in a button-up jacket with a long chain of keys drooping from his belt like a tinkling shirt-tail.

  ‘Merde,’ Leon muttered. And then louder, ‘Damn! Govno! Scheisse!’ The woman wagged a bony finger to and fro in front of us, like the wind-screen wiper on a car, and mouthed ‘fermé’. And that was that.

  Ruan joined us, and we retired to a café where, with no more than a wave of his hand, Leon ordered a carafe of red wine and three glasses. Ruan watched the waiter fill each glass and then announced that neither of us would be drinking it, and ordered mineral waters. Leon poured two of the glasses back into the carafe, and smacking his lips, embarked upon the remaining glass. In the corner a pair of musicians, an accordionist and a violinist, tuned up wheezily and emba
rked upon a repertoire of slow reels. The accordionist was very fat, with stubby legs and a red face, and from our vantage point across the café I had the impression that the vigorous movements of his meaty hands were in fact intended to stop his sagging torso from collapsing onto the floor.

  ‘That accordion player bears a slight resemblance to Nikolai Podgorny,’ Leon said to Ruan, in French. Ruan glanced at me and I pretended I had not understood. ‘I once met him, you know,’ Leon went on. ‘Podgorny, I mean. He was a great friend of the New Zealand legation in Moscow. Used to come for a drink or dinner every few months, and to ask us to act as go-betweens with the major powers. You know, to convey delicate messages to the Brits or the Yanks rather than lose face by saying it direct. Gentle regrets, apologies, offers to trade captured spies, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Interesting work, I imagine,’ Ruan said.

  Leon nodded and said, ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’ And throwing some francs onto the table he seized my hand again and we were off.

  Somewhere else turned out to be a crowded bistro, where Leon ordered three plats du jour and as we ate he engaged Ruan in a conversation about the jazz greats each had heard over the years in Paris, a subject in which Ruan appeared surprisingly expert – Art Blakey at the Club Saint-Germain, Jimmy Smith at Le Caveau de la Huchette, Wes Montgomery, Lionel Hampton, Louis Armstrong . . .

  ‘And Nikolai Podgorny?’ Ruan said, folding up his napkin and placing it beside his empty plate.

  Leon held a finger against his lips and glanced furtively around him. ‘The walls have ears,’ he said. ‘Come with me, I have something to show you.’

  We took the metro to the Latin Quarter, to a bar Leon said had just opened. We were shown to a table at the back, far from the stage, and Leon and Ruan each took turns at talking into the other’s ear, with Ruan scratching notes with a pencil on the flyleaf of his volume of Proust. Presently the band made its way to the stage, accompanied by enthusiastic hooting and whistling from around the room. It was a quartet of black men in dark suits and thin ties, led by a pianist in a furry hat and a goat’s beard. Ruan’s jaw dropped and he placed his hand on top of Leon’s to stop him talking. Their eyes met.