Gao Xingjian - One Man

You're tired of the debate over literature and politics. China is already so remote from you; moreover, you were expelled from the country long ago, and you do not need to bear that country's label. You simply write in the Chinese language, and that's all.

Buses were parked in front of the building from which five persons had jumped to their deaths less than a month ago. The first batch of about a hundred people to go to the countryside had assembled for final instructions from the army officer. As ordered by Officer Zhang, pinned on each person's chest was a red paper flower hurriedly made by office personnel before the buses were to be boarded.

This detachment of fighters was mostly elderly. There were also women, people of retirement age who hadn't been permitted to retire, as well as people on sick leave with high blood pressure. Among their numbers were old cadres from the Yan'an base area and old guerrilla fighters who had fought local battles on the plains of central Hebei province. In accordance with Mao's newly promulgated May Seventh Directive, these people were all off to cultivate the land, and wearing this paper flower on the chest signified that reform through labor was glorious.

Officer Zhang came out of the building, touched the brim of his cap with his fingers in a salute, then stood at attention before everyone, "Comrades, from now on you are glorious May Seventh fighters! You are the advance detachment and have the important mission of establishing the Communist university called for by our Great Leader, Chairman Mao. I wish all of you a rich harvest in both your labor and thinking!"

He was regular army personnel and didn't waste time talking. Having said this, he raised his arm and signaled for the buses to be boarded. In front of the building were family members, as well as colleagues who had come to see them off. People were waving from all the windows of every floor of the building. There had been enough fighting between factions, and those leaving all counted as comrades. It was an emotional situation, some of the women were wiping tears from their eyes, but on the whole, there was a cheery atmosphere.

He was secretly pleased. He had organized his belongings, even scrubbed the enamel chamber pot in his room, and packed everything into the wooden boxes they had provided him. People sent to the country were provided with two boxes at no cost, but additional ones were charged. All this came from documents issued by the May Seventh Office, which the State Council had newly established. He nailed up his boxes of books. Just when he would be able to open the books again, he didn't know, but they would accompany him in life, they were his last bit of mental sustenance.

When he delivered his application to be sent to the country, Officer Zhang was hesitant and said, "The ferret-out work hasn't been completed, then there will be many difficult tasks-"

Without waiting for the officer to finish talking, he started a barrage of pratde, explaining in a single breath his resolve and his need to undertake labor and reform. He added, "Officer Zhang, I want to report that my girlfriend was allocated work in the country after graduating from university. When the cadre school is fully established, I can get my girlfriend to come, then I will be able to carry out a lifetime of revolution in the countryside!"

He had made it clear that he was not hiding anything and that he had given thought to practical matters. Officer Zhang rolled his eyes. His fate had been decided.

"All right!" Officer Zhang took his application.

He heaved a sigh of relief.

Only one person said, "You shouldn't go!"

It was Big Li, and he knew that he was reproaching him. Comrade Wang Qi, whom he had protected, also came to see him off, her eyes were red and she looked away. Big Li had turned up to say good-bye and shook hands with him. His puffy eyes made him look even more sincere, yet somehow the two of them had found it hard to become friends. He detected Big Li's loneliness. Among the disbanded rebel faction, there had been fighting companions, but no real friends. And now he was abandoning all of them.

Before going downstairs to assemble, he went to the room of his former superior Old Liu and shook hands with him. Old Liu tightly clasped his hand, as if he was clutching a piece of straw to save himself, but this piece of straw wanted to escape sinking. They each held the other's hand for a while without saying anything, but both knew that clinging together meant sinking together, and Old Liu was the first to let go. He had finally succeeded in escaping from this beehive of insanity, this building that manufactured death.

At Qianmenwai, the railway station was as usual crowded with milling people, and on the platform and in die carriages, only the heads of those leaving and those seeing them off could be seen moving around. University students had already been sent to the country and border areas earlier on. This time, those being sent to the country to work were mostly middle-school students, who were being sent to settle permanently, as well as workplace staff and cadres. Boys and girls on board the train crammed around the windows, and their parents stood outside the windows, giving numerous instructions. On the platform, there was a loud burst of gongs and drums as a worker propaganda team, leading a band of children who were too young to be sent, transformed the farewell scene into a festive occasion.

The stationmaster in a blue uniform blew his whistle a few times, and people retreated behind the white line, but, for a long time, the train showed no sign of moving. Suddenly, there was a commotion, as armed military police ran up and formed a single row. Then came a long contingent of prisoners, heads shaved, each humping a bedroll on their backs and holding an enamel bowl. They were marching in time, softly chanting in a clear rhythm the slogan: "Strive hard to remake yourself, to resist means death!"

It was a soft chant with the solemnity of a hymn, repeated over and over, and the children stopped beating on their gongs and drums. The line of prisoners crossed the platform diagonally, and, to the sound of the repeated slogan, entered several stifling windowless carriages that had been added to the tail end of the train. Ten minutes later, there was an eerie quiet as the train slowly moved off. At that point, a few irrepressible sobs came from the platform, and, instantly, the inside and outside of the train filled with the sound of weeping children and adults. Of course, some people waved and put on smiles, but the artificially happy atmosphere had completely vanished.

Outside the train window, cement telephone poles, red brick houses, gray concrete buildings, chimneys, and bare branches on trees rapidly receded. However, this was what he wanted: he had finally fled that city of terror. The winds would be colder and harsher, but at least he would be able to breathe freely for a while without having to be on guard all the time. He was young and strong, without a wife or children, without responsibilities, and had only to work the soil. While he was at university, he had worked in the villages. Farmwork was exhausting, but the mental stress would not be as great. He wanted to hum a song, but what old song was there to sing? All right, then he wouldn't sing anything.

That soul mate of yours, Louis Armstrong, you think of as a brother. He has been dead a long time, but those old black-and-white movies raining with white lines, that old black soul mate's singing, still have you rolling on the floor.

Gossamer floating in the wind…

You must live happily and fully. Oh, Margarethe! You're thinking of her again, it was she who got you to write this damn book that has made you so wretched and miserable. That slut has caused you excruciating pain, and you want to fuck her really hard, so that you will make her hurt like she wants to, that masochist. But even if you were to hurt her much more, you would still not be able to cry.