One Man's Bible (18 page)

“I didn’t compile the teaching material, so how could I know which essay was problematical? I’d told some anecdotes and stories to liven up the teaching and I was attacked for doing most of the talking in the classroom. Could language classes be taught without talking? I was locked in a classroom and guarded day and night by Red Guards. I’ve got a wife and a child, and if there was a tragic outcome, even if I wasn’t killed but just maimed, how would my wife bring up a baby that was not even one month old? I got out through a window on the first floor and scaled down a drainpipe without any
trouble. I did not go home, because I didn’t want my wife implicated. The train was crammed with students all the way here and it was impossible for tickets to be inspected. I’ve come to lodge a grievance, you’ve got to help me find out whether a low-level teacher like me with the significance of a sesame seed, and not even a Party member, could possibly be a member of the black gang within the Party.”

After dinner, he took Baozi to the reception office for the masses located on the street to the right of the west gate of Zhongnanhai. The gate was wide open and the whole place lit up. The main courtyard was teeming with people who were pushing and shoving, and they were moved along slowly by the crowd. In a shed in the middle of the courtyard, military officials with cap and lapel badges were sitting at rows of desks, listening and taking notes, as people from all over the country lodged complaints. Baozi stood on his toes as he strained to hear in between people’s heads about the “thinking of the Party Center,” but it was too noisy. As soon as people got to the desks, they started shouting to be heard as they struggled to ask questions. The receptionists gave brief, discreet, standard responses, and in some cases simply took notes and answered without even looking up. The two of them were pushed away before they got anywhere near the desks, and were pushed, helpless, all the way into the corridor downstairs.

Posters protesting against persecution and extracts of speeches by important officials covered the walls. The speeches of these Party Center leaders who had been newly appointed or had not yet fallen from power were full of malice and hidden meanings, and also contradicted one another. Baozi started to panic and asked if he had pen and paper with him. He told Baozi not to worry about copying it all down because he had collected lots of these notices as well as stenciled copies of speeches. When they got home, they could go through them carefully.

All the offices in the building were open and officials here were
also dealing with complaints. It was not as crowded, but there were queues outside the doors. In one of the offices, a youth, holding an old army cap that was white from washing, wept loudly as he related his grievance; tears streamed down as he spoke in thick, almost incomprehensible Jiangxi or Hunan dialect. He was telling about a local massacre. Men and women, old people and even babies, had been herded onto the threshing square and, group after group, beaten to death with hoes, meat cleavers, and metal-tipped carrying poles. The corpses were thrown into the river, and there was a terrible stench. The youth, almost certainly a descendant of one of the Five Black Categories, clutched the old army cap as his credential, otherwise he would not have dared come to the capital to report this grievance. The people crammed inside and outside the door of the office listened in silence as an official took notes.

After leaving the reception office and coming onto Chang’an Avenue, Baozi wanted to go to the Ministry of Education to see if there were directives for middle-school teachers. The Ministry of Education was located in the west of the city, just a few stops away, but blocking the road at the bus stop were schoolchildren from out of town, each carrying a school bag with an embroidered five-point red star. When the bus arrived, even before it came to a stop, they started surging on. The bus had already been full, so those getting off and those getting on had to grapple with one another. The doors unable to close, the bus started to move off with people caught in the doors. Although Baozi could scale drainpipes and jump out of buildings, he could not squeeze past these children who were as agile as monkeys.

They made their way by foot to the Ministry of Education. The whole of the building had been converted into a hostel for students from out of town. From the main hall downstairs to the corridors of every floor, all the offices had been vacated, and everywhere there were wheat stalks, grass mats, gray blankets, plastic sheeting, and disorderly rows of bedding. Enamel basins, bowls, chopsticks, and
spoons were strewn all over the floors, and there was an all-pervasive stench of sweat, preserved radishes, shoes, and unwashed socks. Boisterous students with nowhere to go in the harsh winter cold had fallen fast asleep from exhaustion as soon as they lay down. They were all waiting for the Commander-in-Chief’s seventh or eighth review the following day or the day after. There were around two million at each review, and youngsters started assembling in the middle of the night, first filling Tiananmen Square and then both sides of the square for ten kilometers from east to west along Chang’an Avenue. The Commander-in-Chief, accompanied by Deputy Commander-in-Chief Lin Biao holding his little red book of Mao’s
Sayings,
would drive in an open jeep past walls of frozen students, many layers deep on both sides. These youngsters, waving the precious little red book, hot tears streaming down their faces, screamed themselves hoarse, wildly shouting “long live” to wish a long life to Chairman Mao. Then, fired with revolutionary zeal, they all went home to smash up everything that was old—wrecking schools, destroying temples, and attacking workplaces.

When he and Baozi got back to his room, it was very late and everyone was asleep. He opened the door of the coal stove, and the two of them warmed their frozen hands. As the wind blew through the cracks of the door and window, their faces glowed from time to time, reflecting the flames. Their meeting was unexpected, and neither of them had any intention of recalling childhood memories of what seemed to be another world.

20

“There’s a rock there,” the joker in front of you points out.

You couldn’t fail to see a rock that size and are on the point of going around it, when you hear the joker say, “Try moving it!”

Why waste the energy, you wouldn’t be able to move it anyway.

“So, you think an insensate rock can’t be moved?” the joker says triumphantly.

You prefer to believe that is so.

“There’s no harm trying,” the joker’s baiting you, and his face is all smiles.

You shake your head, not wanting to try something stupid like that.

“It’s flawless and more solid than granite, a magnificent boulder!” The joker circles the rock, clucking his tongue.

Even if it’s a boulder, it’s got nothing to do with you.

“What a solid foundation it would make, such a pity not to make use of it!” The joker can’t stop himself from giving a big sigh.

You’re not erecting a monument and you’re not building a tomb, what would you want it for?

“Go on, try to move it!” The joker puts his arms around the rock and holds onto it.

You wouldn’t be strong enough anyway.

“It wouldn’t move even if you kicked it.”

You’re quite sure that is so, but still touch it with your foot.

This gets the joker all excited and he goes on baiting you, “Stand on it and have a go!”

Have a go at what? But succumbing to his egging you on, you stand on it.

“Don’t move!” The joker circling the rock is, of course, also circling you. You don’t know if he’s watching the rock or watching you. You can’t help following his eyes and, in so doing, you also turn a circle while standing on top of the rock.

At this point, the joker looks you squarely in the face, his eyes narrowing as he smiles, and says in a friendly tone, “So, it can’t be moved!”

Naturally, he’s talking about the rock and not you. You smile back at him and go to get down, but the joker puts up a hand and stops you, “Not so fast!”

He sticks out the index finger of his raised hand and, watching his finger, you let him talk on.

“Look, you’ve got to admit that this rock is solid and can’t be moved, don’t you?”

You have no choice but to agree.

“Feel it!”

The joker’s pointing to the rock at your feet. You don’t know what he wants you to feel, but, in any case, your feet are standing on the rock.

“Do you feel it?”

Does the joker want you to look at the rock or at your feet?

The joker’s finger suddenly moves upward; he’s pointing above your head, and you can’t help looking up to the sky.

“The brightness and purity, transparency and boundlessness of the sky opens up the heart!”

You hear the joker talking, but the sun is hurting your eyes.

“What do you see?” the joker asks. “Try saying what you see, just say whatever you see!”

You try to look at the sky but see nothing and only get dizzy.

“Have a good look!”

“What do I actually have to look at?” you find you have to ask.

“The unblemished sky, the sky with its authentic, true light!”

You say the sun is hurting your eyes.

“That’s right.”

“What’s right?” You close your eyes and there are gold stars inside your eyelids. Your feet are unsteady, and you go to get down off the rock again, but hear him next to you, reminding you: “What is right is that you are dizzy and not the rock.”

“Of course. . . .” You’re getting confused.

“You are not the rock!” the joker says decisively.

“Of course I’m not the rock,” you acknowledge. “Is it all right to come down?”

“You are far from being as solid as this rock! I’m talking about you!”

“Right, so I may as well—” You give him the answer he wants and go to step down.

“Don’t be in such a hurry. But standing on the rock you can see farther than if you came down, right?”

“Of course.” You again give him the answer he wants, without even thinking.

“In the distance right in front of you—don’t look at your feet, I said, look in front of you—what do you see?”

“The horizon?”

“What’s the horizon? There’s always a horizon! I’m talking about above the horizon, have a good look—”

“At what?”

“Surely you see it?”

“Isn’t it just sky?”

“Look again carefully!”

“It’s no good,” you say, blinded, “there are all sorts of bright colors. . . .”

“That’s right, you can have any color you want. What a brilliant, beautiful sky, everything to be hoped for is right before your eyes, and you may be considered as having opened your eyes.”

“Surely it’s all right to get down now, isn’t it?” You close your eyes.

“Look at the sun again! This time look again at the sun in its golden brilliance, its magnificence! You will discover, listen to me, you will discover miracles! Unimaginable miracles, the most beautiful miracles!”

“What miracles?” you ask as you cover your eyes with a hand.

The joker takes your other hand, and you feel there is a bit of support as you hear wind pouring into your ears. The joker gives a clue, “The world has such brilliance!”

The joker removes the hand you have over your eyes. You see in the sky an ink-blue-black bottomless pit and start worrying.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?” This joker is experienced. “When people see miracles they always get worried, otherwise why would they be called miracles?”

You say you want to sit down.

“Hold on a bit longer!” he commands you.

You say you really can’t hold on any longer.

“Even if you can’t, you have to. If others can hold on, why can’t you?” he reprimands you.

Your legs give way, and, doubling over, you sprawl on the rock seeking his help and wanting to vomit.

“Open your mouth! If you want to shout then shout, if you want to call out then call out!”

So, following his instructions, you give a mighty roar but can’t stop your nausea and chuck up a lot of bile.

Whether the cause is justice, an ideal, virtue, the most scientific ideology, or a heavenly endowed mission, it will cause a person mental and physical anguish, endless revolutions and repeated sacrifices. And God or savior, or heroes on a lesser scale, or exemplars on an even lesser scale, and the nation on a grand scale, and the Party above the nation, are all built on such a rock.

As soon as you open your mouth to shout, you fall into this joker’s trap. The justice you seek is this joker, and you slaughter for this joker. So you must shout this joker’s slogans and, losing your own voice, learn to parrot words; hence you are recreated, your memories erased. Having lost your head, you become this joker’s follower and, even while not believing, you are forced to believe. Having become this joker’s foot soldier and henchman, you sacrifice yourself for this joker, then, after he has done with you, you are discarded on the joker’s altar to be buried alive with him or set on fire to enhance this joker’s brilliant image. Your ashes must flutter along with the joker’s in the wind until the joker is thoroughly dead, and, when the dust settles, you, like dust, too, will vanish.

21

Lin had her head down as she pushed her bicycle from the shed near the main entrance of the building. She had been avoiding him for some time. He blocked the exit and playfully bumped her bicycle with his front wheel. Lin looked up and forced a wry, apologetic sort of smile, as if to say it was she who had bumped into his bicycle.

“Let’s ride together!” he said.

Lin did not get on her bicycle as in the past to take the cue and head off, cycling some distance in front, to a secret rendezvous. In any case, the Cultural Revolution had closed down all the parks at night. They walked for a while, pushing their bicycles, without saying anything. The walls along the road were now covered with university rebel Red Guard slogans naming members of the Political Bureau of the Party Center, and the Deputy Premier. These new slogans blotted out the old slogans by blood-lineage Red Guards that had called for the sweeping away of Ox Demons and Snake Spirits.

yu qiuli must bow his head to acknowledge his crimes before the revolutionary masses!

tan zhenlin, your funeral bell is tolling!

Lin had removed her red armband and wrapped her head and face with a long gray scarf. She tried her best to cover herself, to make herself inconspicuous, and, mingling with pedestrians wearing gray and blue padded coats on the street, her graceful figure was no longer prominent. All restaurants had closed for the day, so there was nowhere to go; anyway, it seemed, there was nothing to talk about. The two of them walked with their bicycles in the cold wind, with a clear distance in between. Thrown up by gusts of wind and grit, fragments of posters drifted about under the streetlights.

He was stirred by the solemnity of the impending all-out fight for justice, but could not help feeling miserable, because his love affair with Lin was on the brink of ending. He wanted to restore his relationship with Lin but how could he broach the topic and how could he make it a relationship between equals so that he was not simply the recipient of Lin’s love? He asked about Lin’s parents, expressing his concern, but Lin walked on in silence without answering. He could not find the words to get through to her.

“There seems to be a problem with your father’s history.” It was Lin who first spoke.

“What problem?” he said, alarmed.

“I’m just alerting you,” Lin said flatly.

“He’s never taken part in a political party or group!” he protested immediately, out of a basic instinct for self-preservation.

“It seems as if . . .” she cut herself short.

“It seems as if what?” he asked, stopping in his tracks.

“That’s all I’ve heard.”

Lin kept pushing her bicycle without looking at him. She thought of herself as being superior, she was alerting him, showing concern for him, she was concerned that he might do something crazy. She was protecting him, but he could tell that it was no longer love. It was as if he had concealed his family background from her, and her concern was spoiled by her doubts. He tried to explain: “Before Liberation, my father was section chief in a bank and a steamship company,
then he was a journalist with a private commercial newspaper. What’s wrong with that?”

What instantly came to his mind was the small cloth-covered booklet of Mao’s
On New Democracy
, which his father hid with the silver coins in the shoebox under the five-drawer chest when he was a child, but he said nothing, it was useless. He felt wronged, primarily because his father was not him.

“They say your father was senior staff—”

“So what? He was still hired staff and lost his job before Liberation. He has never been a capitalist and has never represented the capitalists!”

He was furious, but instantly he felt weak. He knew he would not be able to regain Lin’s trust.

Lin made no response.

He put his foot on the bicycle-stop in front of a poster freshly pasted up, stood there, and asked, “What else is there? Who’s saying this?”

Lin steadied her bicycle and, averting her eyes, looked down to say, “Don’t ask, just be aware of it.”

The youngsters in front of them collected their buckets of paste and ink, got on their bicycles, and left. The posters they had just written were still dripping with ink.

“So you’ve been avoiding me because of this?” he asked loudly.

“Of course not.” Lin still did not look at him but quietly added, “It was you who wanted to break off the relationship.”

“I miss you, I really miss you!”

He spoke loudly but felt weak and helpless.

“Forget it, it’s impossible. . . .” Lin said softly, avoiding his eyes. She turned, pushing her bicycle to go off.

He grabbed the handlebars of her bicycle, but Lin put her head down and said, “Don’t be like that, let me go, I’m just telling you that there is a problem with your father’s history—”

“Who said this? People in the political section? Or was it Danian?” he kept asking, unable to contain his fury.

Lin straightened up and turned away to look at the cars on the road and the endless stream of bicycles on both sides.

“My father wasn’t declared a rightist—” He wanted to argue, but that, too, was something he wanted to forget. He remembered his mother saying that it was all over and in the past. That was when his mother was alive, he was still at university and had gone home for the New Year.

“No, not that problem. . . .” Lin turned her handlebars and put a foot on the pedal.

“Then what problem is it?” He grabbed her handlebars again.

“They say he had hidden a gun. . . .” She bit her lip, got on her bicycle, and pedaled away hard.

There was an explosion in his brain and he seemed to see Lin speed by with tears in her eyes; maybe he was seeing things or maybe he was just feeling sorry for himself. Cycling away with her head wrapped in the scarf, Lin merged with the others on bicycles and, as scraps of paper and dust flew into the air beneath the streetlights, soon it was impossible to make her out. It was probably at that point that he reeled and stumbled against the poster that had just been pasted on the wall, and got ink and paste on his sleeve, and, as a result, he firmly remembered how it was when he and Lin parted.

His mind had seized up and he was in a quandary. He did not get on his bicycle right away because the weight of the words “hidden a gun” had made his head spin. When he came to his senses and thought about the implications of these words, he knew he had no option but to go all the way with rebelling.

Their band of twenty or so charged into the
hutong
at the side of Zhongnanhai. At the red gate bristling with sentries, they demanded that the senior cadre representing the Party Center come to their workplace both to acknowledge culpability and to exonerate cadres
and masses declared anti-Party. When they entered the office, the old revolutionary who held the rank of general before taking command of this important position actually received them, unlike the noncommittal and reticent senior cadres of their workplace who just hid away in their offices. The man had an extraordinary presence, and remained seated, majestic and dignified, on the high-backed leather chair behind the desk in that very spacious office.

“I won’t get up to greet you, I’ve had too many meetings with the masses. When I was taking part in the revolution and mass campaigns, who knows where you lot of youngsters were? Of course, I am not promoting seniority simply because I am much older than all of you.” The senior cadre was the first to speak. His voice was loud without being pompous, but his attitude and tone sounded as if he was speaking at a meeting.

“You young people want to rebel, and that’s excellent! But I have had a little more experience. I have rebelled and carried out revolution against others, and others have done the same to me, and I have committed errors. Errors in what I said has upset some comrades and made them angry. I have already apologized to my comrades, what else do you want? Are you incapable of committing errors? Are you always correct? I would never dare say that of myself. It is only Chairman Mao who is always correct! And there can be no doubts about that! Who among you is not capable of committing errors? Ha-ha!”

This motley group had been fired with righteous indignation and ready to fight, but now everyone was docile and, in fact, respectfully receiving a reprimand without a sound of protest. He had detected both resentment and a veiled threat in what the old man said; nevertheless, it was his own fault for being the leader of this motley group and he was obliged to go forward. He asked, “Are you aware that following your order to collect reports, that very night every single person was interrogated? Over a hundred people were branded anti-Party and many more now have records in their files. Would it be
possible for you to direct the Party committee to declare a reversal of those cases and to have those records destroyed in public?”

“People have their own jobs to look after, your Party committee’s problems are its own. Don’t the masses also have problems? I can’t say for sure what your Party committee will do, but I have spoken to them about it. I have already retracted what I said, the very words I myself had spoken!”

The senior cadre was getting bored and had risen to his feet.

“Then would it be possible for you to say all this again when you make your report at another such meeting?” He couldn’t back down now.

“That would have to be approved by the Party Center. You see, I work for the Party and have to observe Party discipline. I am not free to say anything I like.”

“In that case, who approved your speech ordering the collection of reports?”

This was prohibited territory, and he was aware of the weight of his words. The senior cadre fixed his eyes upon him, his eyebrows thick and graying, and said coldly, “I am responsible for whatever I say. Chairman Mao is still using me; I have not been dismissed! Of course, I am personally responsible for whatever I say!”

“Then may we quote what you said on a poster so that everyone can read it? We have been delegated by the masses and this would help when we report back.”

Having said this, he looked at the masses by his side, but none of them had anything to say. The senior cadre was staring at him. He knew that this was a power struggle between unequal parties, but there was no way out for him, so he said, “We will write up what you said, then invite you to check if it is all right.”

“Young man, I admire your courage!”

The senior cadre remained dignified. Having said this, he turned, opened a door behind his desk, and went out. The door, which earlier had not even been noticed, immediately shut; all that remained
was the leather swivel chair and the motley crowd looking vacantly at him. However, that menacing and scornful sentence lingered in his mind.

The paunchy Party secretary stood up to make his report at the meeting. He was mumbling and no longer held his back straight or his head high, as he did a few months ago sitting alongside the senior cadre of the Party Center. Instead, he was wearing reading glasses and held his notes in both hands farther away than the microphone as he read out a word at a time. He was struggling to make out the words: “I now understand that I had misinterpreted . . . the spirit of the Party Center. I gave . . . wrong instructions. I harmed . . . the revolutionary fervor of comrades and hereby earnestly—” At this point, Comrade Wu Tao paused, then raised his voice to continue, “Very earnestly apologize to all comrades present—”

He lowered his big head in a token bow. He seemed to be senile, but sincere and humble.

“What wrong instructions? Be more specific!” someone in the meeting asked loudly.

Wu left his notes and, head bowed, looked over the top of his glasses at the people in the meeting. At the same time, those present started looking around at one another. Wu immediately returned to his notes and went on reading methodically. He read even more slowly, enunciating each of his words with greater clarity. “When old revolutionaries encounter new problems, we deal with them according to old paradigms based on our experiences. But, under the new circumstances of today, this absolutely—will not—do!”

It was all empty bureaucratic talk, and there was a stir in the meeting again. Probably thinking he was about to be interrupted again, Wu suddenly left his notes to say loudly and emphatically, “I gave wrong instructions, I committed an error!”

“What old paradigms? You make it sound as if it’s nothing! Do these old paradigms of yours refer to opposing rightists?” This time,
it was a section head, a Party member, who had stood up. It was a woman nearing middle age, who had been labeled anti-Party. Not knowing how to respond immediately, Wu looked at the woman through his reading glasses, which had slipped down his nose.

“What do those old paradigms of yours refer to? Do they refer to opposing rightists by luring snakes out of their lairs?” The woman was agitated and her voice was trembling.

“Yes, yes.” Wu hastened to nod.

“Whose instructions were these? What were the instructions? Make yourself clear!” the woman followed up.

“Comrades of the Party Center leadership, our Party Center—” Wu took off his glasses to try to see who the woman was.

The woman was not intimidated, and, raising her head, asked loudly, “Which Party Center are you referring to? Which leader do you mean? How did you receive your instructions? Speak up!”

The people at the meeting all knew that the sacrosanct Party Center had already split, and that even the Political Bureau of the Party Center was in the process of being replaced by Mao Zedong’s Central Cultural Revolution Proletariat Command Group. Comrade Wu Tao’s headquarters had lost control of the meeting, and a buzz of voices arose. However, as Party secretary, Wu Tao rigidly kept to Party rules. Without replying, and assuming an injured tone, he loudly silenced the meeting, “I represent the Party committee in apologizing to those comrades who have been subjected to criticism!”

He again lowered his head, but this time he bent the whole of his body forward and this seemed to be quite an effort for him.

“Hand over your blacklist of names!” The middle-aged man who shouted out was a Party cadre who had been subjected to criticism.