Ha Jin: A Map of Betrayal: A Novel

In translating the Chinese warnings in the intelligence report he compiled for the CIA, Gary deliberately toned up the original a bit, and whenever possible, he’d render the wording more striking. If there was a choice between “will” and “determination,” he would pick the latter; or he would pass over “resist” for “fight back.” Deep down, he knew no politician or general might notice the nuances of his word choices. Indeed, who would pay attention to his little verbal maneuvers? The sense of futility depressed him, though some of his American colleagues were agog, thrilled that the United States was flexing its military muscles again. Everybody at the agency had more work to do all of a sudden. Gary resented some of his colleagues’ bragging about the might of the aircraft carriers and the battleships equipped with sixteen-inch guns, but he had to keep a straight face. If only he could get in touch with the Chinese side and let them know they should find another way to get their intentions across to the United States.

Thomas and Gary were eating dinner together in the canteen one evening. “Jesus, it’s hot here,” said Thomas, his face so pale that tiny blue veins were visible beside his nose. His annual furlough had just been denied, and he was upset.

“The sun’s intense,” Gary echoed. Indeed, at six p.m. the sun was still as fierce and stinging as it was at noon.

“It looks like we might stay here for another couple of years. I hate Kim Il Sung, the bloodthirsty bastard!” Thomas put a piece of roast chicken in his mouth, his strong jaw moving up and down.

“I miss home a lot too,” Gary confessed and forced a grin.

“If I’m stuck here too long, my fiancée might send me a Dear John letter, hee hee hee hee.”

“No, she won’t,” Gary said, wondering why Thomas laughed like that, as if he were suppressing a hacking cough. The man must feel sick at heart and might go berserk if he lost his woman.

Unlike Gary, the other Asians on staff were elated by the war on the Korean Peninsula, because it would enable them to work here for a longer time. The pay was good and the food rich; they had PX privileges and free medical care; better still, their children could go to the American school. Gary couldn’t help but envy those men who had their families with them, each living in a cozy Japanese bungalow that had glossy wood floors and black ceramic tiles on the roof. If only he could speak and act freely like others, especially like the GIs, many of whom kept local girlfriends.

Henry and I emailed each other every day, but I didn’t call him very often. On average we spoke once a week. When he wrote, he sounded at ease and cheerful. He was a large man, six foot one, and weighed more than 210 pounds. I often reminded him not to overeat and to watch his weight. Also, he mustn’t forget to take lisinopril in the morning for his blood pressure. In all likelihood he enjoyed being alone, reliving his bachelor days for a spell. He was fond of reading books, particularly war histories, and must have had more time for them now. In his messages he called himself “a grass widower.” I missed him, his carefree laugh, his small talk, the touch of his hands. I hadn’t slept alone for years, and at night my body was still unused to the discomfort of solitude.

My father’s home village had been on my mind ever since my meeting with Bingwen Chu. I was my parents’ only child, half Chinese and half Irish; that made me American. I couldn’t stop wondering what my half siblings were like. Already in their early sixties, they must have grandchildren. Even if they were no longer in Shandong, there must be relatives on my father’s side down in the country. That’s where I would start to look for them. I scrapped the thought of telephoning the village, which I wanted to see with my own eyes to have a concrete sense of the place and the people. Moreover, there would probably be many Shangs in the countryside, and I might find family connections. I’d go first to Maijia Village in Linmin County, Shandong.

I bought a SinoMap from Spring Rain Bookstore and perused it. Linmin is approximately two hundred miles south of Beijing, just beyond the border of Hebei province. It’s near the expressway that runs from the capital to Shanghai. Perhaps I could make a quiet trip on a weekend I thought, but I didn’t have a Chinese driver’s license and couldn’t rent a car. Should I borrow one from a friend or colleague? Or ask somebody to rent one for me? No, I mustn’t drive with my Maryland license. If caught, I’d get others and myself in trouble. Should I take a bus then? That might be too much hassle. I was sure there was no direct bus service from Beijing to Linmin. If I took a bus, I’d have to go to a city first, say, Dezhou or Jinan, then switch buses. That would be a long detour. If a train had run through Linmin, I’d have taken it and made a secret trip on my own, but the town had no railroad. In fact, I enjoyed traveling alone in China, where people tended to view me as a Chinese as long as I didn’t open my mouth to speak at length. Somehow since my early forties, my Irish features — sharp cheekbones, grayish eyes, chestnut hair — had begun to fade, and I looked more Asian each year, as if my Chineseness had been pushing out from within and manifesting itself on my face.

In my graduate seminar I had a student named Minmin, who always wore stone-washed jeans and teardrop earrings. She happened to have a car, a China-made Volkswagen Santana, a popular model among low-level officials and white-collar professionals. I’d seen her drive the green sedan. After class one afternoon I called her into my office and asked whether, as a favor, she’d make a trip with me in her car. Without hesitation Minmin, slender and with dark round eyes, agreed to accompany me to Shandong.

“I’ll pay you two thousand yuan for three days, plus gas and all the other expenses,” I told her.

“No need for that, Professor Shang.”

“Uh-uh, call me Lilian.”

“Okay, Lilian, I’d be happy to go and see the countryside with you. You don’t need to pay me.”

“You’ll work for me for a few days, so I’ve got to pay you. Make sure the car is in best running condition, will you?”

“It’s my older brother’s car. He has four of them and keeps them all serviced regularly.”

“That’s good. Don’t let anyone know of the trip. I just want to see what my father’s home village is like.”

“I won’t let it slip, of course.”

The college wouldn’t want foreign teachers to move around freely, because it was responsible for our behavior and safety. Minmin and I decided to meet at my place early Saturday morning. She was one of those grad students who I suspected planned to go abroad eventually to work toward a PhD or professional degree, so I assumed she might want to have me as a reference in the future. I liked her for her vivacious personality and her tinkling laughter, which often raised her classmates’ eyebrows.

We set out around seven a.m. on Saturday. I was wearing a plain flannel jacket and no makeup. This way I looked like a professional Chinese woman. Actually, I’d just given away my new parka (bought at Macy’s specially for my Fulbright stint), because a fine long coat was inconvenient in China — wearing it, you couldn’t sit down freely on dingy buses and subways, or walk on a bustling street where automobiles might spatter dirty water on you, or mix with pedestrians casually, running, pushing, and jostling to get where you wanted to be.

It took Minmin and me almost an hour to get out of Beijing, where many streets were jammed and the area near the Great Hall of the People was blocked by the police to make way for a motorcade. But once we got on the expressway, traffic became sparse and we started cruising with ease. The new eight-lane road, four lanes each way, was well built, washed clean and shiny by a rainsquall before dawn. Minmin was at the wheel, her narrow hands in the nine and three positions. She said she’d never driven such a long distance before; at most she’d spun to Huairou, a town about forty miles north of Beijing, so she was excited about this trip. The roadsides were hardly used, and only a couple of billboards appeared along the way. I noticed that the tolls were expensive. The ticket Minmin had picked up at the entrance to the highway stated seventy-six yuan from the capital to Tianjin, about twelve dollars for ninety miles. That might account for the scarce traffic.