Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

Hong Qiu continued to look around. President Guebuza and his retinue had left. The only ones remaining in the camp where they would spend the night were the Chinese delegation, the waiters and waitresses, the cooks and a large number of security guards skulking in the shadows. Many of those sitting and watching the frantic dances seemed to be deep in thought about other matters. A great leap forward is being planned in the African night, Hong Qiu thought. But I refuse to accept that this is the path we ought to be following. There’s no way that this can happen: four million, perhaps more, of our poorest peasants migrating to the African wilderness — without our demanding substantial recompense from the country that receives them.

A woman suddenly started singing. The Chinese interpreter informed her listeners that it was a lullaby. Hong Qiu listened and was convinced that the melody could also calm a Chinese child. She recalled stories about cradles she had heard many years ago. In poor countries women always carried their children in bundles tied to their backs because they needed to have their hands free for working, especially in the fields — in Africa with hoes, in China while wading knee-deep in water for planting rice. Somebody had compared this to cradles rocked with the foot, which were common in other countries, and even in certain parts of China. The rhythm of the foot rocking the cradle was the same as the hip movements of the women walking. And the children slept, no matter what.

Hong Qiu closed her eyes and listened. The woman finished on a note that lingered before seeming to fall like a feather to the ground. The performance was over, and the guests applauded. Some members of the audience moved their chairs closer together and conducted conversations in low voices. Others stood up, went back to their tents, or hovered around the edge of the light from the fire as if waiting for something to happen but not sure what.

Ya Ru came and sat down on a chair by Hong Qiu that had been left vacant.

‘A remarkable evening,’ he said. ‘Absolute freedom and calm. I don’t think I’ve ever been as far away from the big city as this.’

‘What about your office?’ said Hong Qiu. ‘High up above ordinary people, all the cars and all the noise.’

‘That’s not the same. Here I am on the ground. The earth is holding on to me. I’d like to own a house in this country, a bungalow on a beach, so that I could go for a swim in the evening and then straight to bed.’

‘No doubt you could ask for that. A plot of land, a fence and somebody to build the house exactly as you want it?’

‘Perhaps. But not yet.’

Hong Qiu noticed that they were on their own now. The chairs around them were empty. Hong Qiu wondered if Ya Ru had made it clear that he wished to have a private talk with his sister.

‘Did you see the woman dancing like a sorceress on a high?’

Hong Qiu thought for a moment. The woman had exuded strength, but had nevertheless moved rhythmically. ‘Her dancing was very powerful.’

‘Somebody told me she’s seriously ill. She’ll soon be dead.’

‘From what?’

‘Some blood disease. Not Aids, maybe they said cancer. They also said that she dances in order to generate strength. Dancing is her fight for life. She is postponing death.’

‘But she’ll die even so.’

‘Like the stone, not the feather.’

Mao again, Hong Qiu thought. Perhaps he’s there in Ya Ru’s thoughts about the future more often than I realise. He knows that he is one of those who have become a part of a new elite, far removed from the people he’s supposed to take care of.

‘What’s all this going to cost?’ she asked.

‘This camp? The whole visit? What do you mean?’

‘Moving four million people from China to an African valley with a wide river. And then perhaps ten or twenty or even a hundred million of our poorest peasants to other countries on this continent.’

‘In the short term, an awful lot of money. In the long term, nothing at all.’

‘I take it,’ said Hong Qui, ‘that everything’s been prepared already. The selection processes, transport and the armada of ships needed, simple houses that the settlers can erect themselves, food, equipment, shops, schools, hospitals. Are the contracts between the two countries already drawn up and signed? What does Mozambique get out of this? What do we get out of it apart from the chance to offload a chunk of our poor onto another poor country? What happens if it turns out that this enormous migration goes wrong? What’s behind all this, apart from the desire to get rid of a problem that’s growing out of control in China — and what are you going to do with all the other millions of peasants who are threatening to rebel against the current government?’

‘I want you to see with your own eyes. To use your common sense and grasp how important it is for the Zambezi Valley to be populated. Our brothers will produce a surplus here that can be exported.’

‘You’re making it sound like we’re doing the world a favour by dumping our people here. I think we’re treading the same path that imperialists have always trodden. Put the screws on the colonies, and transfer the profits to us. New markets for our products, a way of giving capitalism more staying power. Ya Ru, that’s the truth behind all your fancy words. I know we’re building a new Ministry of Finance for Mozambique. We call it a gift, but I see it as a bribe. I’ve also heard that the Chinese foremen beat the natives when they didn’t work hard enough. Naturally, it was all hushed up. But I feel ashamed when I hear things like that. And I’m frightened. I don’t believe you, Ya Ru.’

‘You’re starting to get old, Hong Qiu. Like all old people you’re frightened of anything new. You suspect conspiracies against old ideals wherever you turn. You think that you’re standing up for the right way when in fact you’ve started to become the thing you are more afraid of than anything else. A conservative, a reactionary.’

Hong Qiu leaned forward quickly and slapped his face. Ya Ru jerked back and stared at her in surprise.

‘Now you’ve gone too far. I will not allow you to insult me. We can discuss things, disagree. But I’m not having you hit me.’

Ya Ru stood up without another word and disappeared into the darkness. Nobody else seemed to have noticed what happened. Hong Qiu already regretted her reaction. She ought to have had enough patience and verbal skills to continue to try and convince Ya Ru that he was wrong.

Ya Ru did not return. Hong Qiu went to her tent. Kerosene lamps illuminated the area outside as well as inside. Her mosquito net was already in place, and her bed prepared for the night.

Hong Qiu sat outside the tent. It was a sultry evening. Ya Ru’s tent was empty. She knew he would get revenge for the slap she had given him. But that didn’t scare her. She could understand and accept that he was angry at his sister hitting him. When she next saw him she would apologise immediately.

Her tent was so far away from the fire that the sounds of nature were much clearer than the mumble of voices and conversations. The light breeze carried with it the smell of salt, wet sand and something else she couldn’t pin down.

Hong Qiu slept fitfully and was awake for much of the night. The sounds of darkness were foreign to her, penetrated her dreams and dragged her to the surface. When the sun rose over the horizon she was already up and dressed.

Ya Ru suddenly appeared in front of her. He smiled.

‘We are both early birds,’ he said. ‘Neither of us has the patience to sleep any longer than is absolutely necessary.’

‘I’m sorry I hit you.’

Ya Ru shrugged and pointed at a green-painted jeep on the road next to the tent.