Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China (69 page)

Grotesque forms of worshipping Mao had been part of our lives for some time chanting, wearing Mao badges, waving the Little Red Book.  But the idolatry had escalated when the Revolutionary Committees were formally established nationwide by late 1968.  The committee members reckoned that the safest and most rewarding course of action was to do nothing, except promote the worship of Mao and, of course, continue to engage in political persecutions.  Once, in a pharmacy in Chengdu, an old shop assistant with a pair of impassive eyes behind gray-rimmed spectacles murmured without looking at me, "When sailing the seas we need a helmsman..."  There was a pregnant pause.  It took me a moment to realize I was supposed to complete the sentence, which was a fawning quotation from Lin Biao about Mao.  Such exchanges had just been enforced as a standard greeting.  I had to mumble, "When making revolution we need Mao Zedong Thought."

Revolutionary Committees all over China ordered statues of Mao to be built.  A huge white marble figure was planned for the center of Chengdu.  To accommodate it, the elegant ancient palace gate, on which I had stood so happily only a few years before, was dynamited.  The white marble was to come from Xichang, and special trucks, called 'loyalty trucks," were shipping the marble out from the mountains. These trucks were decorated like floats in a parade, festooned with red silk ribbons and a huge silk flower in front.  They made the journey from Chengdu empty, as they were devoted exclusively to carrying the marble.  The trucks which supplied Xichang returned to Chengdu empty: they were not allowed to sully the material that was going to form Mao's body.

After we said goodbye to the driver who had brought us from Chengdu we hitched a lift on one of these 'loyalty trucks' for the last stretch to Ningnan.  On the way we stopped at a marble quarry for a rest.  A group of sweating workers, naked to the waist, were drinking tea and smoking their yard-long pipes.  One of them told us they were not using any machinery, as only working with their bare hands could express their loyalty to Mao.  I was horrified to see a badge of Mao pinned to his bare chest.  When we were back in the truck, Jin-ming observed that the badge might have been stuck on with a plaster.  And, as for their devoted quarrying by hand: "They probably don't have any machines in the first place."

Jin-ming often made skeptical comments like this which kept us laughing.  This was unusual in those days, when humor was dangerous. Mao, hypocritically calling for 'rebellion," wanted no genuine inquiry or skepticism.  To be able to think in a skeptical way was my first step toward enlightenment.  Like Bing, Jin-ming helped to destroy my rigid habits of thinking.

As soon as we entered Ningnan, which was about 5,000 feet above sea level, I was hit by stomach trouble again.  I vomited up everything I had eaten and the world seemed to be spinning around me.  But we could not afford to stop.

We had to get to our production teams and complete the rest of the transfer procedure by 21 June.  Since Nana's team was nearer, we decided to go there first.  It was a day's walk through wild mountains. The summer torrents roared down ravines across which there were often no bridges.  While Wen waded ahead to test the depth of the water, Jin-ming carried me on his bony back.  Often we had to walk on goat trails about two feet wide at the edges of cliffs with sheer drops of thousands of feet.  Several of my school friends had been killed walking home along them at night.  The sun was blazing down, and my Skin began to peel.  I became obsessed with thirst, and drank all the water from everybody's water cans.  When we came to a gully, I threw myself on the ground and gulped down the cool liquid.  Nana tried to stop me. She said even the peasants would not drink this water unboiled.  But I was too wild with thirst to care.  Of course, this was followed by more violent vomiting.

Eventually we came to a house.  It had several gigantic chestnut trees in front, stretching out their majestic canopies.  The peasants invited us in.  I licked my cracked lips and immediately made for the stove where I could see a big earthenware bowl, probably containing rice fluid.  Here in the mountains this was considered the most delicious drink, and the owner of the house kindly offered it to us.

Rice fluid is normally white, but what I saw was black.  A whine burst out from it, and a mass of flies lifted off from the jellied surface. I stared into the bowl and saw a few casualties drowning.  I had always been very squeamish about flies, but now I picked up the bowl, flicked aside the corpses, and downed the liquid in great gulps.

It was dark when we reached Nana's village.  The next day, her production team leader was only too glad to stamp her three letters and get rid of her.  In the last few months the peasants had learned that what they had acquired were not extra hands, but extra mouths to feed. They could not throw the city youths out, and were delighted when anyone offered to leave.

I was too sick to go on to my own team, so Wen set off alone to try to secure the release of my sister and myself. Nana and the other girls in her team tried their best to nurse me.  I ate and drank only things which had been boiled and reboiled many times, but I lay there feeling miserable, missing my grandmother and her chicken soup.

Chicken was considered a great delicacy in those days, and Nana joked that I somehow managed to combine turmoil in my stomach with an appetite for the best food.  Nevertheless, she and the other girls and Jin-ming went all out to try to purchase a chicken.  But the local peasants did not eat or sell chickens, which they raised only for eggs. They put this custom down to their ancestors' rules, but we were told by friends that chickens here were infested with leprosy, which was widespread in these mountains.  So we shunned eggs as well.

Jin-ming was determined to make me some soup like my grandmother's, and put his bent for invention to practical use.  On the open platform in front of the house, he propped up a big round bamboo lid with a stick and spread some grain underneath.  He tied a piece of string to the stick and hid behind a door, holding the other end of the string, and placed a mirror in such a position that he could monitor what went on under the half-open lid.  Crowds of sparrows landed to fight for the gram, and sometimes a turtle dove swaggered in.  Jin-ming would choose the best moment to pull the string and bring down the lid.  Thanks to his ingenuity, I had delicious game soup.

The mountains at the back of the house were covered with peach trees now bearing ripe fruit, and Jin-ming and the gifts came back every day with baskets full of peaches.

Jin-ming said I must not eat them uncooked, and made me jam.

I felt pampered, and spent my days in the hall, gazing at the faraway mountains and reading Turgenev and Chekhov, which Jin-ming had brought for the journey.  I was deeply affected by the mood in Turgenev, and learned many passages from First Love by heart.

In the evenings, the serpentine curve of some distant mountains burned like a dramatic fire dragon silhouetted against the dark sky.  Xichang had a very dry climate, and forest protection rules were not being enforced, nor were the fire services working.  As a result, the mountains were burning day after day, only stopping when a gorge blocked the way, or a storm doused the flames.

After a few days Wen returned with the permission from my production team for my sister and me to leave.  We set off immediately to find the registrar, although I was still weak, and could walk only a few yards before my eyes became dazzled by a mass of sparkling stars.  There was only a week left before 21 June.

We reached the county town of Ningnan, and found the atmosphere there like wartime.  In most pans of China heavy factional fighting had stopped by now, but in remote areas like this local battles continued. The losing side was hiding in the mountains, and had been launching frequent lightning attacks.  There were armed guards everywhere, mostly members of an ethnic group, the Yi, a lot of whom lived in the deeper recesses of the Xichang wilderness.

Legend had it that when they slept, the Yi did not lie down, but squatted, burying their heads in the folds of their arms.

The faction leaders, who were all Han, talked them into doing the dangerous jobs like fighting in the front line and keeping guard.  As we searched the county offices for the registrar, we often had to engage in long, involved explanations with the Yi guards, using hand gestures, as we had no language in common.  When we approached, they lifted their guns and aimed them at us, their fingers on the triggers, and their left eyes narrowed.  We were scared to death, but had to look nonchalant.  We had been advised that they would regard any demonstration of fear as a sign of guilt, and react accordingly.

We finally found the registrar's office, but he was not there.  Then we bumped into a friend who told us that he had gone into hiding because of the hordes of city youth besieging him to sort out their problems. Our friend did not know where the registrar was, but he told us about a group of 'old city youth' who might.

"Old city youth' were ones who had gone to the countryside before the Cultural Revolution.  The Party had been trying to persuade those who had failed exams for high schools and universities to go and 'build a splendid new socialist countryside' which would benefit from their education.  In their romantic enthusiasm, a number of young people followed the Party's call. The harsh reality of rural life, with no chance to escape, and the realisation of the regime's hypocrisy because no officials' children ever went, even if they had failed their exams had turned many of them into cynics.

This group of 'old city youth' was very friendly.  They gave us an excellent meal of game and offered to find out where the registrar was. While a couple of them went to look for him, we chatted with the others, sitting on their spacious pine veranda facing a roaring fiver called the Black Water.  On the high rocks above, egrets were balancing on one long slender leg, raising the other in various balletic postures.  Others were flying, fanning their gorgeous snow-white wings with panache.  I had never seen these stylish dancers wild and free.

Our hosts pointed out a dark cave across the river.  From its ceiling hung a rusty-looking bronze sword.  The cave was inaccessible because it was right next to the turbulent river.  Legend had it that the sword had been left there by the famous, wise prime minister of the ancient kingdom of Sichuan, Marquis Zhuge Liang, in the third century.  He had led seven expeditions from Chengdu to try to conquer the barbarian tribes here in the Xichang area.  I knew the story well, and was thrilled to see evidence of it before my eyes.  He captured the chieftain of the tribes seven times, and each time he released him, hoping to win him over by his magnanimity.  Six times, the Chieftain was unmoved and continued his rebellion, but after the seventh time he became wholeheartedly loyal to the Sichuanese king.  The moral of this legend was that to conquer a people, one must conquer their hearts and minds a strategy to which Mao and the Communists subscribed.  I vaguely mused that this was why we had to go through 'thought reform' so that we would follow orders willingly.  That was why peasants were set up as models: they were the most unquestioning and submissive subjects.  On reflection today, I think the variant of Nixon's adviser Charles Colson spelled out the hidden agenda: When you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.

My train of thought was interrupted by our hosts.  What we should do, they enthusiastically advised, was drop a hint to the registrar about our fathers' positions.

"He will slap the seal on in no time," declared one jolly-looking young man.  They knew we were high officials' children because of the reputation of my school.  I felt dubious about their advice.

"But our parents no longer hold these positions. They have been labeled capitalist-roaders," I pointed out hesitantly.

"What does that matter?"  Several voices brushed aside my worry.

"Your father is a Communist veteran, right?"

"Right," I murmured.

"A high official, right?"

"Sort of," I mumbled.

"But that was before the Cultural Revolution.  Now..."

"Never mind that.  Has anyone announced his dismissal? No?  That's all right, then.  You see, it's as clear as daylight that the mandate of Party officials is not over.  He will tell you that'

The jolly young man pointed in the direction of the sword of the wise old prime minister.  I did not realize at the time that, consciously or subconsciously, people regarded Mao's personal power structure as no alternative to the old Communist administration.  The ousted officials would come back.  Meanwhile, the jolly young man was continuing, shaking his head for emphasis: "No official here would dare to offend you and create problems for himself in the future."  I thought of the appalling vendettas of the Tings.  Of course, people in China would always be alert to the possibility of revenge by those with power.

As we left, I asked how I should drop the hint to the registrar about my father's position without sounding vulgar.  They laughed heartily.

"He is just like a peasant!  They don't have that kind of sensibility. They won't be able to tell the difference anyway.  Just tell him straight out: "My father is the head of"' I was struck by the scornful tone in their voices.  Later I discovered that most city youth, old or new, developed a strong contempt for the peasants after they had set fled down among them. Mao, of course, had expected the opposite reaction.

On 20 June, after days of desperately searching the mountains, we found the registrar.  My rehearsal of how to drop the hint about my parents' positions proved completely unnecessary.  The registrar himself took the initiative by asking me: "What did your father do before the Cultural Revolution?"  After many personal questions, put from curiosity rather than necessity, he took a dirty handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and unfolded it to reveal a wooden seal and a flat fin box containing a sponge in red ink.  Solemnly he pressed the seal into the sponge and then stamped our letters.