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2

Reunion

Ten years without ever seeing someone dear to you. What will he be like? Will he be the man in my dreams? Will I recognise him? I don’t know how many times I imagined it, how many times I prepared my little speeches. That night, I stayed awake until the sky had turned white and then jumped out of bed and hurried to the bus stop.

I caught the first bus to Deshengmen, but when we arrived the first bus to the suburbs had already left. I waited for the eight o’clock bus to Shahe, where I had to change again. My belly was empty. Luckily, Shahe is a big town with several restaurants, so I had a bowl of soybean milk and a deep-fried dough cake before boarding the bus to Qincheng.

In the Cultural Revolution, quite a few cadres were kept in Qincheng, so it’s no longer a mystery. In those days, however, you weren’t supposed to talk about it.

The bus was small and rickety. Luckily it was early, so there were still seats, which made it less uncomfortable. The road was smooth, lined on each side by tall white poplars and low willows. Xiaotangshan, my stop, is a market town. A bit further on was an expanse of maize, a bright green curtain. In between were occasional patches of millet, an inlaid decorative pattern typical of the northern landscape. If I’d been on an outing, I would have thought it lovely.

I arrived at my destination. I waited until the other passengers had left before entering a small side road they had told me about. There was an iron gate and a sentry box.

A soldier of the People’s Liberation Army stepped out in front of me. I handed over my things. He made a phone call and told me to go in.

Secretary Shi had arrived ahead of me, by car, and came out with a duty officer. He led me along a concrete path lined on either side by flowerbeds. There were small buildings along the way, with drawn curtains. We walked straight on, to a reception point on the ground floor of a high building. Deep inside the main hall, I could see people escorting a man in a blue shirt and trousers in my direction. Not until he was in front of me could I tell that it was F. In the past, he had a ring of black hair either side of his head, now he was completely bald.

Someone who had always been respected as master of the house was now brought to me under escort. I wanted to hug him and weep. But people were watching me, so I resisted the impulse. He walked up, gripped my hand, and looked at me with his sparkling eyes. He was the same man he had always been. His grip was still firm, and so were his eyes. We stood gazing at one another, like people who could never gaze enough.

The duty officer sent us into the reception area, two rooms connected by a small window. Normally, the visitor and the visited were probably separated by the window, but we were allowed to sit opposite one another across a table. Secretary Shi sat in the other room.

Neither of us knew who should say the first word. Finally, I started:

‘You’re well, I hope. Did you receive the things I brought?

‘I’m well. Yes, I received them.’

‘The children send their greetings.’

‘Oh!’ His eyes widened and began to flash.

‘Xiaoshan finishes high school next year. Xiaofeng didn’t get into university, she has become a farm labourer.’

‘Good. Let Xiaoshan be a worker.’

‘They all hope you can come home soon. You must strengthen your thought reform.’

‘How can you do thought reform in solitary confinement?’

The secretary in the next room snorted. F shot him a glance and fell silent.

I felt miserable and awkward. When the secretary had told me of the visit, he had made clear I was to help F. But how could I help?

‘You can examine idealist literary thought, that’s probably the main issue.’

I immediately regretted my remark. All I could see were his two eyes piercing me. In the past, he would have flown into a rage, but now he lowered his head with a pained expression and let out a long sigh.

‘You had best not ask about that, that’s a problem I can’t solve. If I’m wrong about literary thought, that’s a question of understanding, not of politics.’

‘Wouldn’t it be even better to improve your knowledge? Idealism isn’t so terrible. Even Hegel needed Marx to correct his idealism. Wouldn’t it be better if you yourself were to investigate and correct possible idealism in your literary thought? Who can say he is one hundred per cent Marxist?’

He was really angry, but he managed to control himself. The secretary at the window gave me a look, perhaps to express satisfaction.

F changed the subject.

‘I’ve written a lot of poems – well, not written, but composed and memorised. Some are for you, some are for the children. I’ll recite one for you, perhaps you’ll understand it. I called the one about you “In Praise of Long-Lasting Love”:

‘Despite hardship, you are still devoted to your teaching.

When you see young people, it is as if you see spring.

The world is often difficult,

But you delight in people’s passion.

You can plant beautiful roses

But you can’t buy bread.

You turn myths into children’s stories,

Your heart is always young.

‘There are lots more verses, ten in all. I called my poem about Xiaofeng “In Praise of Goodness”, all I can remember are some bits from near the end:

‘When you were young,

You were separated from your parents

By great distances.

The Pacific War broke out,

And families were dispersed.’

I started sobbing.

‘Please don’t be sad. Let’s recite Xiaoshan’s. It’s called “In Praise of Dreaming”:

‘You asked your daddy when you wanted him to buy you books,

You shouted for mummy when you wanted your pencil sharpened.

Big sister has a loud voice,

Grandma has hearing problems.

‘It also has ten verses.’

‘I won’t be able to memorise them for the children.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I have another called “In Praise of the Forget-Me-Not”. The prison superintendent asked me to write down my thoughts about revisionism. I’ll recite a few lines:

‘The forget-me-not thinks far ahead.

It thinks of the past to look into the future.

Retirement is not the same as degradation,

It doesn’t change one’s piety.

Emotional in battle,

Your pursuits keep you busy far into the night.

Strive to avoid being wasteful in your work,

Be creative but avoid empty talk.

Do all you can to convey a true sense of responsibility,

Sincerely explain how to be successors in the cause.’

The cadre barked out, ‘No more poems, if you have anything to say, say it quickly.’

F had been happily reciting, I looked at him in confusion. He shook his head and stood up to go, as if humiliated. I could feel things weren’t going well, so I pushed him back onto the chair.

‘I brought you some biscuits, you can have one when you feel hungry. I also brought you a bag of glucose, a jar of apple purée, and two packets of chocolate. Is there anything else you would like? Oh, I intended to bring you that set of Marx and Engels’ Complete Works in Japanese, but I was afraid I might get lost, so I left it at home. I’ll bring it next time. I also brought a tai-chi chart. I hope you can learn how to do tai-chi from it. You must look after your health, and exercise properly.’

‘I will, I can do that in the cell. Next time bring some books, food’s not important.’

‘I’ve heard it’s not easy to buy good books.’

‘Have you finished?’ urged the cadre.

‘Tell the children I wish them happiness. If my son Xiaogu returns, don’t let him come here.’

He was led away. At the door, he turned round and shook my hand, with a smile.

The smile consoled me. It was like the smiles he used to give me.

Holding back my tears, I left. When I reached the entrance, the sentry stopped me. Secretary Shi came rushing over and we stood by the gate until the pock-marked duty officer arrived to sign my visitor’s form. Then the guard let me out.

I had set out at six and arrived at ten. Now, it was eleven. I waited for the bus and squeezed aboard. At Shahe, I changed again. It was gone three when I arrived home. I was exhausted and sank onto the bed.

Was there anyone I could share my agony with? Anyone to listen to me cry my heart out? No. Gradually, I drifted into a lethargic sleep, but I jolted awake at the thought that my youngest son would soon be back. I jumped off the bed, pulled myself together, and went into the kitchen.

Ten years. Finally I’d seen him and knew he was alive. After years of numbness, I was unable to calm down. Now I was waiting for my son, so I could share my feelings.

The first thing he asked was ‘Did you see father?’

‘What do you mean, father?’

He corrected himself: ‘You saw him, you saw dad!’

‘Yes, I saw him. He looked well. We talked for an hour or two.

‘He recites poems to himself. He recited some to me, but I can’t remember them. The one about me was called ‘‘In Praise of Long-Lasting Love’’. He composed one about your sister, ‘‘In Praise of Goodness’’. The one about older brother was called ‘‘In Praise of Sincerity’’.’

‘He chose good names.’

‘Yours was ‘‘In Praise of Dreams’’.’

‘Why did he call it that? Do I daydream? Do I like dreaming? I don’t think so.’

‘I think he meant you’ve always been as if in a dream. You weren’t even eight. You didn’t know anything. I do remember some lines:

‘Your heart is as pure as your eyes are bright,

So naïve and innocent.

As soon as you finish supper

You open the door and off you go;

When the police arrived

We pretended they were guests.

‘That was when they came to arrest us. We couldn’t tell you, we just urged you to sleep. When they took us away in the middle of the night, we kissed you and wished you sweet dreams.’

I couldn’t continue.

One day, Old Tian suddenly turned up. I hadn’t seen him in ten years. When I opened the door, I gasped. None of our old friends had visited me for years, mostly because it was difficult to communicate, or they had lost their freedom. I also felt it was unwise for them to seek trouble. But here he was, calm and self-possessed, not caring what might happen. He told me he was going to see a friend who lived nearby, to learn some English. He knew I lived here, so he had dropped by.

He wanted to know about Hu. I told him what had happened. I added:

‘He’s incorrigible, do you know he’s composing poems in his cell? Some are about his family, others about his friends. He chose a beautiful name for them, ‘‘Songs in Memory of Spring’’. He recited some, but I can’t remember them.’

‘You have to keep up your morale. Then you’ll never be defeated.’

We told each other our news of the last few years, and about our friends. I felt as if he had opened a window and a small breeze had blown in from another world. I’d been too out of touch. I knew this or that literary figure had climbed the ladder, fallen into disgrace, or played up to those in power, but I also knew a single wrong word, however true, could lead to the break-up of a family. All these perils left me terror-stricken.

He hadn’t been implicated in our case, but he was still wearing three denunciatory ‘hats’ put on even earlier. Now his entire family of eight people was living on 100 yuan a month.

I was moved most by the case of Old Nie and his wife. In 1955, Hu Feng and his friends were branded a ‘counter-revolutionary clique’. I had assumed it wouldn’t affect the Nies. Ever since the start of the campaign to criticise him, F had avoided discussing literary issues with Old Nie, for fear that he might say something wrong, so he hadn’t let him know about F’s 300,000-word memo about the situation in literary and art circles. At the time, Old Nie wasn’t interested in such subjects, he was only interested in classical literature. But somehow or another he had got dragged into it, and was even expelled from the Party. Afterwards, he stopped going to work and just read books at home. I suppose you could say he shut himself up to ponder his mistakes.

In 1957, Chairman Mao summoned help for his campaign to rectify the Party. Big Sister Ying was studying at the Socialist College. When she heard the news, she was excited. Inspired by her love for the Party and the country, she resolved to bare her heart. In the spirit of say all you know, speak without reserve, she offered some comments, including about the Hu Feng case. When she arrived home she discussed it with Old Nie and wrote down her opinions. They had got to know Hu Feng in 1929 in Japan. Later, they had worked together in the anti-Japanese movement and had helped F publish a mimeograph, New Culture, which propagandised for the resistance and the revolution. As a result, they had been arrested and deported. Later, they joined the League of Left-Wing Writers under Lu Xun. How can you conclude someone is a counter-revolutionary on the basis of a few brief notes? They were at a loss to understand. So Ying wrote down her views and Old Nie revised them. How were they to know that shortly afterwards some students at Beijing University also raised the Hu Feng case and members of the Democratic Party made a lot of criticisms of the Communist Party? The rectification campaign turned into an Anti-Rightist Movement. Ying had to go on stage and receive the masses’ criticism. Then the investigation switched to Old Nie, and the pair were branded rightists.

Nie was sent to the Great Northern Wilderness to do manual labour. Ying was removed from her leadership post and transferred to the People’s Political Consultative Conference to edit biographical materials written by pardoned Kuomintang officials.^*

When I heard this, I remembered how Old Nie had invited me to meet him. I was suddenly overwhelmed with respect for what he had done. Would a lapdog or a coward have done it? He was not the man he had once been – he no longer had the carefree air of a literary celebrity. He had been tempered by hardship and become a man dedicated to justice and loyalty, a rarity.

Tian sat for a couple of hours and then said he had to hurry home, to cook for his child. I said:

‘I’m really grateful for your visit. But don’t come again. You’ll get into trouble.’

He gave me a mischievous smile. Gesturing at his aluminium mess tin, he said:

‘In it is a steel needle for doing acupuncture. If anyone comes in, I’ll say I’m your acupuncturist.’

I laughed.

A talented author ought to wield the pen, not the needle. A warrior on the literary front had become a kindly father who cooked for his child. What a change!

* The Kuomintang or KMT, sometimes romanised as Guomindang (GMD), was the dominant party in the early Republic of China, from 1912 onwards.