Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

But why did the details of his tragic death never come out in the official media? Why were the Red Guards never punished? It is said that the Red Guard who pushed Xinghua’s head into the creek was from the family of a high-ranking cadre, and the one who kicked Xinghua became a high-ranking Party cadre himself. It was said that they simply, passionately believed in Mao, and with Mao’s portrait still hung high on the gate of Tiananmen Square, what really could be done? Although the Cultural Revolution was officially declared a well-meant mistake by Mao, there is still an unofficial rule that all writing about the Cultural Revolution should be “contained.” In other words, vague, short, euphemistic, and as little as possible.

After all, who remembers Xinghua?

It’s by chance that I came across a poem by Xinghua. A stanza of it reads :

Trying to grasp a blade of grass, a piece of wood, to secure / the present moment, to avoid the flight of time, / to hold on, to fix oneself, / but in the distant mountains, autumn spreads out at the peaks, / storing infinite joy and sorrow. / After failure comes a stroke of luck.

It is a sad poem. Not only because one’s self has to be maintained by grasping a blade of grass or a piece of wood, but contrary to the heartrending wish in the last line, no stroke of luck came to the poet in the end.

Chen lit a cigarette, waving out the match forcefully. It wasn’t perhaps one of the blogs that would appeal to a large number of people. Most of them had probably never heard of Xinghua. The number of hits on the page spoke to that. But Lianping nonetheless did her research and wrote emotionally. It wasn’t just about one man’s suffering during the Cultural Revolution, it was also about today’s society.

Chen liked the poem quoted at the end of the article.

Now, what about his own luck as a policeman? Chen picked up the phone and called Jiang at the hotel.

At his insistence, Jiang confirmed one thing. The original post that landed Zhou in trouble appeared in a Web forum managed by a man named Melong, though Jiang appeared to be surprised that Chen had learned this through his own channels.

Chen then called Lianping.

“I want to thank you for your blog post on Xinghua. It’s a good piece. It’s a pity few remember him today.”

“I majored in English too. Don’t forget that.”

“So you must know a lot about blogs and blogging.”

“They aren’t difficult, but blogs aren’t uncensored. Web sites have to take a piece down the moment they get a notice from the netcops. Fortunately or unfortunately, Xinghua isn’t a name on their radar.”

“By the way, you mentioned someone named Melong yesterday. Do you post on his forum?”

“He runs a popular forum, and he’s asked me to write for him, but I choose not to. His forum is a bit too controversial, if you know what I mean.”

“So you know him well?”

“No, not well. I’ve only met him three or four times. But he’s clever and resourceful, a real computer wizard. That’s how he was able to start his Web forum single-handedly.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“Not offhand, but let me make some phone calls.”

“That would be great. Thank you in advance, Lianping.” Chen then said his good-byes.

Afterward, Chen tried to talk to Detective Yu, but Yu was out of the bureau with some other officers. Chen left a note for his longtime partner, saying that their squad shouldn’t take on any new cases during his absence. It was a rather unusual request. Yu was more than competent, but what could the squad possibly do with a case like the one on the artist Ai?

The time for the department meeting drew near, but Chen wasn’t in any mood for it. He decided instead to skip it and sneak out of the bureau. Being a special consultant at least gave him an excuse.

He didn’t request the services of a bureau car. On the corner of Yan’an and Sichuan Roads, he boarded bus 71, which was crowded, as always. The bus crawled along patiently in heavy traffic. Chen paid little attention to the changing scene outside, lost in a tangle of thoughts. Instead of getting off at the stop on Shanxi Road, he remained on the bus, standing, holding on to a strap overhead. The bus was heading toward East China Hospital, where his mother was.

She’d been there for weeks, recuperating from a minor stroke. His failure to take proper care of her was unforgivable, he couldn’t help telling himself again. He was sweating profusely, bumping up against an ovenlike, overweight woman as the bus lurched down the street.

He hadn’t visited his mother in several days, though on the phone she’d repeatedly assured him that everything was all right.

East China Hospital was located on West Yan’an Road, in a large compound enclosed by high red walls. It was a hospital for high-ranking Party cadres, with the most advanced equipment, utmost security, and privacy. It was accessible only to those of a certain rank-a rank higher than that of chief inspector.

His mother’s private ward was on the second floor of the European-style building. At the carpeted landing of the staircase, an elderly man in a white shirt and green army pants nodded to Chen formally. It was a gesture out of an old movie. Chen didn’t recognize him, but he nodded back.

Chen’s mother wasn’t in this hospital because of his position, which by itself was far from enough, he reflected as he knocked gently on the door. It stood ajar, with the afternoon sunlight peeping in through the windowpanes across the corridor. There was no response. He waited a moment or two before he pushed open the door. She was alone in the room, taking an early nap.

Quietly, he drew a chair to the bedside, gazed at her sleeping face, and touched her hand.

Who says that the splendor / of a grass blade can ever prove / to be enough to return / the generous, radiant warmth / of the ever-returning spring sunlight ?

These were the celebrated lines by Men Jiao, an eighth-century Tang dynasty poet, comparing his mother’s love for him to the warmth of the ever-returning spring sunlight. Chen was lost in memories…

A young nurse walked down the corridor, stopped, and poked her head in without entering or saying anything. She smiled and left, moving out of sight like a pleasant breeze in the early summer.

The room appeared bright and clean, with a window overlooking the well-kept garden in the back. It was much nicer than the old, overcrowded neighborhood in which she still lived. She might as well stay here a little longer.

His glance then fell on the presents heaped on the nightstand. Most of them were expensive. Swallow nests, ginseng, organic tree ears, royal jelly… To his astonishment, he also saw a bottle of hajie lizard essence, supposedly bu or nutritious to the yang, according to traditional Chinese medical theory. But he wondered if it could be beneficial to an old woman in her present condition. These gifts were probably from Overseas Chinese Lu or Mr. Gu, both of whom were prosperous entrepreneurs and were making a point of showering her with expensive presents. They hadn’t even bothered to tell him that they had visited.

In the amazing drama of China’s economic reform, it had been only a matter of years before the two had become billionaires. Had Chen listened to Lu’s advice back when Lu was just starting his restaurant chain business, Chen could have become one as well.

But he, too, was successful as a Party official, though he tried not to see himself as one like Zhou. There was no denying, however, that he enjoyed some of the same “gray privileges” the others did.

One of those gray benefits was a large discount on the hospital bill. His mother’s arm had been broken by a Red Guard during the Cultural Revolution. No compensation had been offered at the time. All these years later, however, she was suddenly classified overnight as “handicapped,” a status that entitled her to more medical benefits, in accordance with a new regulation. Not to mention the fact that she’d been allowed to stay here during her recovery and had been provided with a single room.