The Man From Beijing (45 page)

As she listened to the Mozambique national anthem she looked around for Ya Ru but could see no sign of him. She hadn’t seen him since they arrived in Sachombe. She continued scrutinising the group of Chinese present and established that several others had vanished after the landing in Beira. She shook her head. There was no point in her worrying about what Ya Ru was up to. More important just now was that she should try to understand what was about to happen here, in the valley through which the Zambezi River flowed.

They were led into one of the tents by young black men and women. A group of older women danced alongside them to the persistent rhythm of drums. Hong Qiu was placed in the back row. The floor of the tent was covered in carpets, and every memberof the delegation had a soft armchair. When everybody was comfortably seated, President Guebuza walked up to the lectern. Hong Qiu put on her earphones. The Portuguese was translated into perfect Chinese. Hong Qiu guessed that the interpreter came from the leading school in Beijing that exclusively trained interpreters to accompany the president, the government and the most important business delegations in their negotiations. Hong Qiu had once heard that there wasn’t a single language, no matter how small and insignificant, that didn’t have qualified interpreters in China. That made her proud. There was no limit to what her fellow citizens could achieve – the people who, until a generation ago, had been condemned to ignorance and misery.

Hong Qiu turned to look at the entrance to the tent, which was flapping gently in the breeze. She caught a glimpse of Shu Fu standing outside, a few soldiers, but no sign of Ya Ru.

The president spoke very briefly. He welcomed the Chinese delegation and said a few introductory words. Hong Qiu listened intently in order to understand what was going on around her.

She gave a start when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Ya Ru had slipped into the tent unnoticed and was kneeling behind her. He slid aside one of her earphones and whispered into her ear.

‘Listen carefully now, my dear sister, and you will understand something of the major events that are going to change our country and our world. This is what the future will look like.’

‘Where have you been?’

She blushed when she realised how idiotic the question must sound. It felt like when he was a child and was late coming home. Hong Qiu had often taken on the role of Mum when their parents were away at one of their frequent political meetings.

‘I go my own way. But I want you to listen now and learn something. About how old ideals are exchanged for new ones, without losing their content.’

Ya Ru placed the earphone back over her ear and hurried out through the door of the tent. She caught sight of his bodyguard Liu Xan and wondered once again if it really was he who had killed all those people Birgitta Roslin had spoken about. She made up her mind that as soon as she got back to Beijing she would speak to one of her friends in the police force. Liu Xan never did anything without having been ordered to do so by Ya Ru. She would confront Ya Ru eventually, but first she must find out more about what actually happened.

The president handed the podium over to the chairman of the committee that had made the preparations for this meeting on the Mozambique side. He was strikingly young, with a bald head and frameless glasses. Hong Qiu thought they said his name was Mapito, or possibly Mapiro. He spoke enthusiastically, as if what he was saying really inspired him.

And Hong Qiu understood. The circumstances slowly became clear, what the meeting was all about, the secrecy surrounding it. Deep in the Mozambique bush a gigantic project was getting under way, involving two of the poorest countries in the world – but one of them a great power, the other a small country in Africa. Hong Qiu listened to what was being said, the soft Chinese voice translating after each pause, and she understood why Ya Ru had wanted her to be present. Hong Qiu was a vigorous opponent of everything that could lead to China being transformed into an imperial power – and hence, as Mao used to say, a paper tiger that would be crushed sooner or later by united popular resistance. Perhaps Ya Ru had a faint hope that Hong Qiu would be convinced that what was now going on would bring advantages to both countries? But more important was that the group Hong Qiu belonged to did not frighten those in power. Neither Ke nor Ya Ru were scared of Hong Qiu and those who shared her views.

When Mapito paused to take a sip of water, Hong Qiu thought that this was precisely what she feared most of all: China had reverted to a class society. Even worse than what Mao had warned against; it would become a country divided between powerful elites and an underclass locked into its poverty. And worse still, it would allow itself to treat the rest of the world as imperialists always had done.

Mapito continued speaking.

‘Later today we shall travel by helicopter along the Zambezi River, as far up as Bandar, and then downstream to Luabo, where the huge delta linking the river to the sea begins. We shall fly over fertile areas that are sparsely populated. According to the calculations we have made, over the next five years we will be able to accommodate four million Chinese peasants who can farm the areas currently lying fallow. Not one single person will be obliged to move. Nobody will lose his livelihood. On the contrary, our fellow citizens will benefit from big changes. Everybody will have access to roads, schools, hospitals, electricity, all the things that have previously been available to very few in rural areas and a privilege for those living in towns.’

Hong Qiu had already heard rumours about Chinese authorities, working on the enforced removal of peasants because of the construction of huge dams, promising those affected that one day they would be able to live the life of landed gentry in Africa. She could see the large-scale migration in her mind’s eye. The fine-sounding words conjured up an idyllic image of the poor Chinese peasants – illiterate and ignorant – immediately settling down in this alien milieu. There would be no problems, thanks to the friendship and will to cooperate; no conflicts would arise between the newcomers and those already living on the banks of the river. But nobody would be able to convince her that what she was now listening to was not the first stage of China’s transformation into a predatory nation that would not hesitate to grab for itself all the oil and other raw materials needed to maintain the breakneck speed of its economic development. The Soviet Union had supplied weapons – often old, outdated ones – during the drawn-out liberation war that led to the withdrawal of the Portuguese colonisers from Mozambique in 1974. In return, the Soviets had asserted the right to overfish in Mozambique’s teeming fishing grounds. Was China now about to follow in this tradition based on the one and only commandment: always put your own advantage before everything else?

So as not to draw attention to herself, she applauded with everybody else when the speaker sat down. Then Minister of Trade Ke began to address the delegation. There were no dangers, he assured his audience: everything and everyone was uncompromisingly conjoined in equal and mutual advantage.

Ke’s speech was brief. Then the guests were ushered into the other tent, where a buffet table had been prepared. Hong Qiu was handed an ice-cold glass of wine. She looked around for Ya Ru, but could see no trace of him.

An hour later the helicopters took off and headed north-west. Hong Qiu gazed down on the mighty river. The few places where people lived, where the land had been cleared and cultivated, were in sharp contrast to the huge areas that were totally untouched. Hong Qiu wondered if she had been wrong after all. Perhaps China really was doing something to help Mozambique that wasn’t based on the expectation that China would put in far, far less than what it would take out?

The sound of the engines made it impossible for her to marshal her thoughts. The question remained unanswered.

Before climbing into the helicopter she had been handed a little map. She recognised it. The two men from the Ministry of Agriculture had been studying it during the car journey from Beira.

They reached the most-northerly point, then turned eastward. When they reached Luabo the helicopters made a short diversion over the sea before returning and landing at a place Hong Qiu identified, with the aid of the map, as Chinde. There new cars were waiting to take them along new roads made from the same tightly packed red earth that was everywhere.

They drove straight into the bush and stopped when they came to a small tributary of the Zambezi. The cars pulled up to a space that had been cleared of bushes and undergrowth. Some tents had been pitched in a semicircle facing the river. When Hong Qiu left the car, Ya Ru was waiting to greet her.

‘Welcome to Kaya Kwanga. That means “My Home” in one of the local languages. We’ll be spending the night here.’

He pointed to the tent closest to the river. A young black woman took her suitcase.

‘What are we doing here?’ Hong Qiu asked.

‘Enjoying the silence of Africa after a long day’s work.’

‘Is this where I’m going to see the leopard?’

‘No. Most of the wildlife here is snakes and lizards. Plus the hunter ants that everybody is so scared of. But no leopards.’

‘What happens now?’

‘Nothing. The work is over and done with. You’ll discover that not everything is as primitive as it seems. There’s even a shower in your tent. And a comfortable bed. Later this evening we’ll have a communal meal. Anyone who wants to sit around the campfire afterwards is welcome to do so; those who want to sleep can do that, too.’

‘You and I must talk things through,’ said Hong Qiu. ‘It’s essential.’

Ya Ru smiled. ‘After dinner. We can sit outside my tent.’

He didn’t need to point out which one it was. Hong Qiu had already gathered that it was the one next to hers.

Hong Qiu sat by the door of her tent and watched the sun setting rapidly over the bush. A fire was already burning in the open area in the middle of the semicircle of tents. She could see Ya Ru there. He was wearing a white dinner jacket. It reminded her of a picture she had seen long ago in a Chinese magazine in connection with a major article describing the colonial history of Africa and Asia. Two white men wearing dinner jackets had been sitting deep in the African bush, eating at a table with a white tablecloth, using expensive crockery and drinking chilled white wine. The African waiters were standing motionless, but at the ready, behind their chairs.

Hong Qiu was the last of all those present to take her place at the set table by the fire.

She thought about the letter she had written the previous evening. And about Ma Li – and suddenly she was not even sure that she could still rely upon her.

Nothing, she thought, is certain any longer. Nothing at all.

30

After dinner, enveloped by the shadows of the night, they were entertained by a troupe of dancers. Hong Qiu, who had not even tasted the wine served with the meal as she wanted to keep a clear head, watched the dancers with a mixture of admiration and the remains of an old longing. Once upon a time, when she was very young, she had dreamed of a future as an artiste in a Chinese circus, or perhaps at the classical Peking Opera.

Hong Qiu observed Ya Ru sitting in his camp chair, a glass of wine balanced on his knee, his eyes half closed, and she thought about how little she knew of his childhood dreams. He had always existed in a little world of his own. She had been able to get close to him, but not so close that they had ever talked about dreams.

A Chinese interpreter introduced the dances. That wasn’t necessary, Hong Qiu thought. She could have worked out for herself that the traditional dances had roots in everyday life or in symbolic meetings with devils or demons or benign spirits. Popular rites come from the same source, no matter what country you come from or what colour your skin is. The climate has a role to play – those used to the cold generally danced fully dressed. But when in a trance, searching for lines to the spiritual world or the underworld, with what has been or what is to come, Chinese and Africans behave in more or less the same way.

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.