The Language of Solitude

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  Xiao Hu had a second espresso. He thought about Yin-Yin, and his doubts grew. He understood the rage and disappointment she felt when they had last seen each other. He shared those feelings. Whatever his little sister had written in her Internet post, whomever she had accused, whatever she had called for, that did not justify taking her into custody and probably subjecting her to a long and torturous interrogation. He would have understood if she had received a police summons or a serious warning from the security authorities, but not more than that. Now she had ended up in a system that Xiao Hu knew about only theoretically from his studies; she was subject to the authority of the state and had very few rights as a suspect. With luck they would at some point allow her to contact a lawyer or her family, but until then, days, perhaps weeks, or, in the worst case, months could pass. They could send her to a psychiatric unit and no one would object; no one would defend her. What law had his little sister broken?

  He really ought to be grateful to her, he thought. She was fighting the fight he wouldn’t or couldn’t. He was not sure which. Even though he would never say that out loud. He went back to the office, completed his work listlessly, and left for home early.

  The next morning, shortly after eight, he received a call from the Shanghai head office of the Communist Party. He was to be there at ten. Lu Guohua, a high-ranking functionary from the office of the party secretary of Shanghai, wanted to see him.

  Shocked, Xiao Hu thought about the offer he had been made by the man from Hunan. Had he fallen into a trap?

  What was it about, if he could ask?

  Family matters. Urgent family matters.

  Not a reed. Not a plank. Not a hand.

  * * *

  The department of the Communist Party that he had been summoned to was in an office block on Beijing Xi Lu; it was a faceless gray building with a giant Chinese fan waving on its roof. Young party members in ill-fitting suits were walking in and out, and there were dozens of bicycles in front of the building, like in the old days.

  Xiao Hu asked for Lu Guohua at the reception. Room 555.

  The corridor on the fifth floor was a long, poorly lit tunnel, at the end of which was Lu’s office. The doors to the left and the right were closed. Xiao Hu’s footsteps sounded loud, as though he were walking though an abandoned building. He held his breath for a moment before he knocked and entered. Took a deep breath. He had lain awake half the night and tried to prepare himself for this meeting.

  Family matters, the woman on the telephone had said.

  What could be in store? Was his sister in the room waiting for him? Possible, but not likely. He’d figure a way through. What should he be afraid of? He owned three apartments and was financially independent, at least for the next few years; if push came to shove, he would easily find a well-paid job in the private sector. He was a worthy member of the party and had done nothing wrong.

  He knocked twice and listened.

  “Come in.”

  The room was large and bright, and there was no sign of his sister. In an alcove there was seating for official visitors, a couch upholstered in red satin, and two armchairs with white arm caps. There was a piece of elegantly written calligraphy on the wall: “Seek truth from facts.” This was a slogan that Xiao Hu had quoted many times in essays he had written for the party. It was said to be by Deng Xiaoping, though others said Mao was the source; apparently, Confucius had also spoken words to that effect. The room was uncomfortably warm, and smelled of cigarette smoke. Either the air-conditioning was not working or they liked it warm. Xiao Hu cleared his throat.

  The official who was waiting for him was sitting at the other end of the room. Xiao Hu recognized him from several party events; he was one of those who worked closely with the first party secretary in the city. A short, thickset man with deep wrinkles in his forehead and a dark-brown mole on his chin. He was wearing one of those ridiculously large pairs of glasses with thick black frames, in the style that the former party chief and president Jiang Zemin had brought into fashion, which had been worn by every second party cadre during Jiang’s time.

  On the desk were a computer screen, two telephones, and several half-filled ashtrays. Lu read from a folder, looking up only fleetingly.

  “Wu Xiao Hu?” A dark, forbidding voice.

  “Yes.”

  Lu indicated a chair in front of his desk.

  Xiao Hu sat down.

  The functionary closed the folder and sized up his visitor for a moment without saying anything. Narrow, dark-brown eyes that rested on him; a gaze that Xiao Hu could not get the measure of.

  Not friendly.

  Not hostile.

  A look in which curiosity mingled with the cold self-confidence of those in power. The longer the silence went on, the more uncomfortable Xiao Hu felt.

  “How long have you been a member of the party now?”

  “Ten years and nine months,” Xiao Hu replied. Not a word too many. Only reply to what he was asked.

  “I’ve read your cadre file. Incredible. We are satisfied with you. You are among the best in all subjects. Your analyses and self-criticisms are impressively clear. Well done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The party needs people like you. You have a promising future before you.” He paused and lit a cigarette without offering his guest one. “I’ve heard you would like to work at the Ministry of Justice in Beijing.”

  Xiao Hu nodded.

  “Why not? But here in this city we have very interesting and influential positions that need to be filled too,” Lu said, a smile flitting over his face. “We’re looking for an experienced lawyer to join the staff of the party secretary of Shanghai. Would that not be something for you?”

  The question confused him. He had come there imagining the worst; he had expected an unpleasant conversation, an interrogation, a severe warning about his sister’s behavior. Now Lu was considering him for one of the most interesting positions that Xiao Hu could imagine for someone of his age and with his qualifications. Had he been invited to this office for an interview? It must be a trap, he thought. A test. A game whose rules he could not discern at the moment. He must not show any weakness, must not say anything that anyone might use against him one day. He gave a little cough. “It’s a huge honor for me to even be mentioned in this context.”

  Lu seemed content with this reply. He leaned back in his chair and blew smoke into the air pensively.

  “Are there things in the party that you don’t like?” he asked. When he saw the look of confusion on Xiao Hu’s face, he added, “I can think of a few things.”

  How naïve did the man think he was? He had not studied the history of the Communist Party of China in order to reply with a list of mistakes and failures now. Too many people had fallen for this trick before him, had had the courage to voice criticism, and paid for it with many years in labor camps. Short sentences. Neutral statements. Offer nothing that could be seized on to attack.

  “The party has been ruling for over fifty years. It has achieved great things in difficult times. It’s impossible not to have made mistakes too in the course of things,” he answered evasively.

  “Such as?”

  Xiao Hu thought for a moment about what President Hu Jintao had criticized his own party for in his speeches of the last few weeks and months.

  “The path to a harmonious society is long, and—”

  “What exactly?” Lu interrupted him. “You’re testing my patience.”

  Xiao Hu could feel himself getting warmer; the cigarette smoke could trigger an asthma attack any moment. He needed fresh air urgently, but did not dare to ask the man to open the window. Where had his resolutions gone? He had one threatening him, but his feeling of trepidation was growing nonetheless. He did not want to talk about the party; he wanted to know where his sister was, what they were accusing her of, and how he could help her. He made an effort to conceal his anxiety, sitting upright, ramrod straight, with his hands on his lap. He felt them grow damp.
/>   “That means that we cannot leave anyone behind on the path to socialism the Chinese way.” His body relaxed a little; he remembered similar statements from a speech made by the prime minister.

  “You mean that there are too many rich people and too many poor people in China today. Do I understand you correctly?”

  Sweat ran from his armpits down his torso. The urge to cough became even worse. Was Lu on the left or the right of the party? One of the conservatives or one of the reformers? Xiao Hu was so agitated he could no longer remember what this functionary’s reputation was, and what the right answer would be in this case.

  “I wouldn’t say too many rich people, but certainly too many poor people, isn’t that right?”

  Lu threw a packet of cigarettes onto the desk in disappointment. “What does ‘isn’t that right’ mean?” he asked in annoyance. “Of course there are too many poor people. Far too many. You surprise me. I expected a clearer statement from you.”

  Failed the test, Xiao Hu thought, knowing that this was only the beginning. This damn cough; he tried to suppress it, swallowing, pressing his lips together, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, which sometimes helped, but now everything seemed to make it worse. Xiao Hu turned away, held both hands to his face, and coughed as if his lungs would burst. Lu observed him impassively and waited for the coughing fit to pass.

  “How are your apartments doing? How many now?”

  It took Xiao Hu a few seconds to understand the question.

  “Three,” he replied, still coughing. “They’re rented out.”

  “Didn’t you want to sell them?” The smugness of that voice.

  “No, I don’t speculate with property,” Xiao Hu said, knowing that Lu was not interested in the answer. He simply wanted to unsettle him, show him that he knew everything about him, that it was pointless to hide anything from the party. He was not issuing threats; his hints were enough, and he knew it.

  Instead of responding to this, the party cadre looked at his hands and pulled his fingers one by one until the knuckles cracked. “There’s been a tragedy in your family. Your mother is seriously ill,” he said abruptly.

  “Yes,” Xiao Hu confirmed, in a flat, exhausted voice.

  “What happened?”

  The next trap. If he knew about Min Fang’s condition, he knew every detail of her suffering. Lu simply wanted to hear how Xiao Hu described the situation, what words he would use, whose side he was on.

  “The doctors,” he said, “have diagnosed brain damage. She is lame, blind, and dumb. There’s no hope of recovery.”

  “Is it true that certain members of her family are laying the responsibility for her illness on external factors? To be precise, on a chemical company?”

  Xiao Hu nodded mutely. This was the moment he had feared. The moment in which he had to take a stand. “There are signs—” he began hesitantly.

  “What kind of signs?” Lu interrupted.

  “That my mother had eaten poisoned fish, and that the lake that the fish came from is contaminated. We seek truth from facts.” He had never before found it such an effort to get a couple of sentences out.

  “Who is ‘we’?” Lu ignored his allusion.

  He did not want to betray her. Big brother. Little sister. He was responsible for her. Promise me that you will care for Yin-Yin when we are no longer here, his mother had often said. Why was his sister not sitting next to him now? A glance would be enough for him to know that he was not alone. Just like before, when Da Long raised his voice in anger at the children. United even though they were so different.

  “Who is ‘we’? You and your family? Or only your family?”

  Lu had backed him into a corner with his questions and statements, but now he was showing him the way out of the trap; the door was wide open. Xiao Hu struggled for breath. “We, that is, we— I mean, to be precise: my sister.”

  Lu passed three pieces of paper to him across the desk. “Did she write this piece on the Internet?”

  Xiao Hu scanned the first page. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I’ve never seen it, ever,” he replied in a low voice. “What makes you think that my sister . . .”

  “Who else could it be?” Lu growled. “Did you know about it?”

  “No.” He was a terrible liar.

  “She’s blaming the Sanlitun chemical firm in a public statement. She’s libeling them. She hasn’t gone through the relevant authorities; she is accusing them of serious misconduct.” His voice grew sharper with every sentence. “She’s accusing them and calling for a public trial. She’s refusing to accept scientific findings.”

  “Where is my sister?” Xiao Hu said it in such a quiet voice that he had to repeat himself twice.

  “I cannot tell you that. But I can tell you quite precisely what will happen to her if you do not help her. Sanlitun will take her to court for libel and damage to its reputation. The company will set very high claims for damages. Your sister will be paying them off her whole life. Whatever she possesses will be seized. Her violin, for example. Do you want that to happen?”

  Xiao Hu felt his hands shaking; he could barely breathe. He thought about Yin-Yin. About the mercury in his mother’s body. About the vacant look in her eyes, which had been able to gaze so tenderly before. Lu was waiting for a reply.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “Apart from that, I’ve heard that your father is considering suing Sanlitun. Is that right?”

  He nodded dumbly. No fear left.

  “What’s going on in your family?” Lu shouted. “The police will take him away for interrogation. That could take a long time. Hours. Days. Weeks. Who will look after his sick wife during that time?”

  Xiao Hu knew that this was his last opportunity to take a stand. He could object. He could talk about the other sick people. About dead cats. About the laboratory tests. About Wang the journalist. The longer he said nothing, the more clearly he felt the moment of dissent slipping away. As if someone or something was taking the decision away without giving him a chance to consider things properly and weigh the pros against the cons. As if a cold sense of calm was suddenly spreading through him. Xiao Hu had the feeling that he had slunk out of his own body for a moment and was observing the scene from above. Everything grew more and more distant. Lu. The disgusting, smoke-filled office. His sister. The village. The people. It was as though he were sitting in the back of a car that was moving away from it all. He turned around, looked out of the rear window, saw Yin-Yin waving with his parents next to her. Da Long looked serious and Min Fang was crying. He watched them become smaller and smaller until they finally disappeared altogether.

  “I can only put it down to grief,” he heard himself say.

  “That isn’t appropriate for a party member with your ambitions.”

  “I know,” someone inside him whispered.

  “Take care of it,” Lu ordered. “Talk to your father. He has to write a letter to your sister. She must apologize to Sanlitun and all the authorities that she has attacked. It would be unfortunate if you were to be disadvantaged by the irresponsible behavior of your family.”

  Lu stood up, walked over to the sideboard, switched on a kettle, waited for the water to boil, and poured it into two mugs with tea leaves. He put a mug in front of Xiao Hu on the desk without saying anything and sat down again. “I’ve spoken to a few party comrades at Sanlitun,” he suddenly said in a conciliatory tone. “They were moved by the tragic fate of your mother, and they told me how they could help. The company is prepared to pay your parents a sum of fifty thousand renminbi in order to make life easier for them. It’s a generous gesture, but of course it is not an admission of any fault whatsoever.”

  “And?” Rice grains do not fall from heaven.

  “In return, Sanlitun expects your family to sign an agreement that they will never, now or in the future, bring charges against the company or make any claims on it for damages.”
r />   Xiao Hu thought about it. Fifty thousand renminbi. It had become difficult to determine the relative worth of sums of money in China. What should he measure it against? The amount was at least double the annual salary his father had last earned as an engineer. Yet it was no more than what Xiao Hu had earned in a day on the stock market recently. If Sanlitun was responsible for his mother’s illness, it was a mockery. Fifty thousand renminbi. Better than nothing. The price of a human life. There were cheaper ones.

  “That’s a very generous offer,” he said in a voice that sounded like his own, yet was horribly alien to him at the same time. It was as though he was seeing and hearing himself on a movie screen. “I’ll talk to my father. May I see my sister?”

  “No. She’s not in Shanghai.”

  “Where is she?”

  Lu merely shook his head.

  “Tell me how she is, at least.”

  “Talk to your father. We expect a reply in two days.”

  XVIII

  * * *

  A glance from the border official. A young face. Unlined, rosy-cheeked, indifference in the eyes. It was taking an unusually long time to get through immigration this time. The woman at the next counter had gone through already, even though she had arrived after him. Paul didn’t know what to do with his hands; he tried not to let his nervousness show, gazing with deliberate calmness at the long lines of people and trying to give the uniformed official a relaxed smile that was more of a grimace, which was studiously ignored. Paul had imagined the worst-case scenario over and over again on the flight: they would stop him from entering, interrogate him, and send him back to Hong Kong on the next flight. The man returned his passport without saying a word and nodded.