Madeleine Thien - Do Not Say We Have Nothing

The Old Cat tapped a manuscript that lay beside the Professor’s sandalled foot. “When this translation first came out, even Chairman Mao praised it. But the Party has turned on Guo…”

“I wonder if Zhuli is right,” Kai said, addressing the Old Cat. “Maybe it’s time to get rid of these books. They’re saying it’s the Anti-Rightist Campaign all over again—”

“What do you know about ’55? You were just a doorstep then.”

“As of this month,” Ling said, “Khrushchev is a ‘phoney Communist,’ the Soviets are ‘revisionist Big Brothers,’ and all the Russian composers are out. Are you getting rid of all your Fifth Symphonies and your This-and-that-ovskys?”

Kai blushed. “I never keep music. I memorize the scores and get rid of them.”

“Shit,” San Li said, “I can’t even remember how to get home.”

Sparrow laughed and tumbled a stack of books onto Zhuli’s lap. He tried to catch the avalanche and caused another.

The Old Cat peered into the ruins. “Look at that!” she said. “A-Fan’s Weeping over His Daughter by the Sea! I’ve been looking for those poems for thirty years.” Zhuli plucked it from the pile and handed it to her.

“And what about you,” Ling said, eyeing Sparrow. “Don’t tell me you memorize everything, too.”

“I don’t…I prefer, well, I transcribe the incorrect work into jianpu.” He had done this for the disgraced works of Debussy, Schönberg and Bartok. Manuscripts written in jianpu notation, with its easy-to-read numbers, were considered backwards and rudimentary. They aroused no suspicion.

Zhuli interrupted. “But afterwards, he really does destroy them. He burns them and leaves the ashes in a little bucket.”

“This is a skill we perfect from an early age,” the Professor said lightly. “How to grind ideas into a fine cloud of dust.”

San Li interrupted. “For months this study group has been reading Schiller, Goethe and Shen Congwen. I’m not complaining. Really, Professor, I’m grateful because the other entertainment on offer stinks. But maybe it’s time to start reading what’s right in front of us.”

The Old Cat coughed. “Surely not!”

“There’s a new campaign,” he continued. “Or are we so taken with all the Germans who died a hundred years ago that no one notices?” He held up a copy of Beijing Review . “For instance, why don’t we study this slop bucket written by the philosophy students at Beijing University?”

“San Li,” the Professor interrupted, “enough.”

Sparrow saw Zhuli gripping her violin case. She looked as if she wished to leave but was prevented from doing so by the books that had fallen into her lap.

“No, let’s analyze this,” San Li persisted. He read:

All revolutionary intellectuals, now is the time to go into battle! Resolutely, thoroughly, totally and completely wipe out all the ghosts and monsters. The leaders of Beijing University shout about “strengthening the leadership” but this only exposes who they really are: saboteurs of the Cultural Revolution. We must tell you, a spider cannot stop the wheel of a cart! We will carry socialist revolution through to the end!

“I would fail this kid. Resolutely, thoroughly, totally ? Is she writing a thesaurus? But instead of this student being sent to remedial composition, the President of the University gets beaten up. I mean, he’s an old guy and these kids really wipe the floor with him. Now the whole university is under the boot of the Red Guards, and this manifesto is the Voice of the Revolution.”

“No need to read it aloud,” the Old Cat said. “We can hear it anytime we wish on the loudspeakers.”

“And now the Conservatory students are going around smashing violins.” San Li laughed. “What kind of person breaks a violin ?”

“The young aren’t wrong,” Kai said. There was an aggressive and unfamiliar despair in his eyes. “They say we need to change, remove obstacles and purge ourselves. Land reform brought equality but ten years later, it’s already slipping away. It’s obvious things aren’t well in society.”

“Purge ourselves of what?” the Professor asked.

“Individualism, privilege. The greed that is corrupting our Revolution.”

“The Politburo leaders haven’t managed to become socialists,” San Li said. “Why should we?”

There was a murmur of nervous laughter which seemed, to Sparrow, to rise from the books themselves.

Kai blushed and stood up. “Comrade,” he said to the Old Cat, “thank you for your hospitality. I can no longer listen to this conversation. Please excuse me.”

The Old Cat and Ling had been talking to one another, and now paused, confused. The Professor stared, amazed. “Kai, my boy! Sit down, sit down. What’s got into you? San Li, didn’t I tell you to hold your tongue?”

“I say what’s on my mind.”

Kai’s voice was calm. “You’ve never fought for anything, San Li. You have no idea what life is like outside Shanghai, and yet you dare to lecture us.”

“In the Conservatory, you know better?”

Ling interrupted. “Be quiet, San Li. Kai, Sit down. There’s no need to take all this to heart. After all, we only come together to think differently, don’t we? You’re a brother to me, I know you’re upset but come—”

But Kai had already turned on the Professor. “You’ve already ruined me, and now you’re endangering everyone in this room. For you, political struggle is just a game. It’s taken me years to see you clearly.”

The room was silent.

The Professor finally spoke. “Since when did the desire to know oneself, to better oneself, become a traitorous act in this country? Should this not frighten you, Kai? My son, you forget that I, too, lost my entire family in the Revolution.”

Kai flushed. He swung his bag over shoulder and walked out of the room.

“Sparrow,” the Professor said. “Go with him. He’s very disappointed. He doesn’t mean what he says….”

Sparrow didn’t move.

“I’ll take Zhuli home,” Ling said. “You live near Beijing Road, don’t you? So do I.”

How calm Zhuli appeared, Sparrow thought, as if it were she who had brought him here. Had she? What had they done?

“Can’t you hurry up?” Ling said. There was a tremor of fear in her voice.

Sparrow got up, wished everyone well and left.

—

The Professor and San Li exited together, mumbling apologies, and so it was only Zhuli, the Old Cat and Ling who remained. Nobody mentioned Kai or what had happened; it was as if the argument had dissolved, having never been. So the educated class is not so different after all, Zhuli thought. In these times, we all rely on silence.

Ling told Zhuli that she was a student at Jiaotong University. “In fact,” she said, “I study utilitarianism, Mencius and the art of couplets, so I qualify as one of San Li’s ‘slop bucket’ philosophy students.”

The Old Cat was reorganizing the books around her. “Maybe you need a copy of this,” she said, tossing a thin book to Zhuli. “Fou Lei’s translation of Jean-Christophe. You know it of course?”

“I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t read it yet.”

“Ha, why apologize?” The Old Cat lifted her soft shoulders and then, from this great height, let them fall like a landslide. “I only suggest it because they say Rolland modelled his Jean-Christophe on Beethoven. A Beethoven for the times we live in. However, not every page is exciting. There you go. And this, Hu Shih’s essay on Wu Dao-zi. A book outlawed, reviled by the government and, consequently, very popular.” When the Old Cat sat beside her, Zhuli could smell crumbling paper, ink stone and a whiff of sugarcane.

“Miss Zhuli,” Ling said, “do you carry your violin with you everywhere you go?”