The Language of Solitude

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

“Da Long, I’m sorry—”

  “Is she dead?” Da Long interrupted him, his voice trembling.

  “No. Yin-Yin has been arrested.”

  Da Long crossed his arms across his chest and rocked his upper body back and forth gently; his gaze passed Paul and lost itself somewhere in the room. Time stood still. Paul had expected an explosion, an outbreak of rage, outpourings of hatred, mocking laughter, but not this silence.

  “She’s been arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?” A voice that betrayed no emotion.

  “Probably by the police in Hangzhou or Yiwu. We don’t know for sure.”

  “Why?”

  “She wrote a piece about Min Fang’s illness and its causes and put it on the Internet. She included our investigations. She named names. She called for those who were responsible to be punished.”

  “Did you know about it?”

  “Yes,” Paul replied, watching Da Long closely. His face had taken on the quality of a mask; it did not show any reaction at all; the dark-brown eyes were fixed on something in the distance, unblinking. Even his full lips had not compressed themselves into a thin line. He looked as if he had withdrawn himself to a distant place, which Paul’s voice, but not the meaning of what he was saying, could just about reach.

  “Who else knew about it?”

  “No one, as far as I know.”

  “What are they threatening to do to her?”

  Even this question was asked without showing any feeling. If only he would shout and scream, Paul thought. Or jump up in horror, pace the room, thump the table, cry; anything would be better than this awful paralysis.

  “Nothing yet, officially. Xiao Hu has found out that Sanlitun wants to press charges against her and claim damages for libel.”

  Da Long rocked himself from side to side mechanically.

  “Xiao Hu has intervened on her behalf. He’s managed to get Sanlitun not to press charges. The company is even willing to give you all some money.”

  “Wh-wh-what do they want in return?”

  “They want Yin-Yin to withdraw all her accusations and apologize. You have to refrain from any attempt to take legal action against Sanlitun. Now and in the future.”

  “What will happen if I don’t do that?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Xiao Hu thinks that Yin-Yin would have to go to jail for a few years and be financially ruined.”

  The violin concerto had ended; the muffled roar of the highway could be heard from outside. Min Fang breathed noisily.

  “Da Long?” Paul asked carefully, when he couldn’t stand another minute of Da Long’s silence. What was going on inside him? What was he thinking?

  Silence.

  “Perhaps there might be another solution.”

  Still nothing.

  “I mean . . . I’ve arranged to meet Wang, Yin-Yin’s former classmate, later on today. You may remember that we met him on my last visit to Yiwu, Yin-Yin and I.”

  Silence.

  “I’ve been given to understand that he might have something that could help us.” As Da Long was still saying nothing, Paul simply continued speaking. He didn’t care what he said, he said whatever came to him; he talked and talked simply to not have to bear the silence. “Of course, I don’t know what that could be. A witness? Maybe. Why not? I mean, Wang is a journalist, after all; he knows the area well. He’s a local reporter; they always have the best contacts. I know that from my own experience, after all; that’s how they make a living. Why shouldn’t he use them for us? He must have been in love with Yin-Yin before and wants to help us now. He seems a very decent guy. What do you think? All on condition of anonymity, of course. We don’t want to create any difficulties for him. Or he could give us the names and numbers of his contacts who could help us. In Beijing, perhaps. I . . . I could go there tomorrow and talk to them. No problem. I can’t promise anything, of course not, how could I, you know how it is. Anything’s possible. It’s not that we can’t do anything, we . . .” Paul paused for breath. “Da Long?”

  Silence.

  “Da Long, can you hear what I’m saying?”

  He did not react.

  Paul could not stand being seated any longer. He got up and walked around the table, intending to touch Da Long, to hug him, to do something to lessen the pain, but he didn’t dare to. He put his hand on Da Long’s shoulder but pulled it away again immediately. There was no comfort. Paul had experienced this himself; anyone who still attempted to comfort a person in such moments rather than bearing this silent loss of consciousness was thoughtless or cowardly.

  Paul took a few steps toward Min Fang, but stopped in the middle of the room. His gazed wandered through the room. A few rays from the low-hanging sun were coming through a tear in the curtain and falling on the bed; dust motes danced in them. A soiled sheet lay below. “Da Long,” he said in a broken voice, “can I do anything for you? Say something.” No reply. He walked back to the table and crouched in front of Da Long, hoping he would look at him. He wanted to look him in the eye, but Da Long was looking straight ahead; his gaze was lost in the dimness. “I’m going now,” Paul said, loudly and clearly. “To Yiwu. I’ll come again tomorrow morning. Is that all right with you?”

  There was no point. He was talking to someone who had been robbed of the power of speech. He wanted to go, but for some reason he did not dare to turn his back on both of them. It was as though he feared that they would dissolve as soon as he let them out of his sight. So he walked backward to the door in small steps.

  “Da Long, I . . . I . . .” The limits of what could be said. He had hardly ever felt them like this. “I . . . I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Wang stepped into the lobby of the Grand New Era Hotel with a black briefcase tucked under his right arm, which he held on to with both hands. He was almost half an hour late, and he looked worn out. He had dark shadows under his eyes and a tense, almost frightened, expression on his face; there was no sign of the playfulness Paul remembered from the last time. When their eyes met, he gestured to him with his head to come with him, and turned on his heel without waiting, disappearing into the revolving doors. Paul hurried to follow and caught up with him in on the street after a few feet.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, out of breath.

  “To a friend’s place. Not far from here.”

  “To Gao the lawyer?”

  “No. That would be too dangerous.”

  They walked side by side in silence, turned off the main road into a small, dark alley that stank of public toilets, crossed a wider street, and entered a neighborhood full of garishly lit shops, their windows full of nothing but toilet brushes and toilet seats. They stepped into one of the bigger shops, whose walls were covered in toilet seats: gold, pink, black, transparent, round, rectangular; some were heart-shaped. Paul had never thought they could come in so many different shapes and colors. A sales assistant sat in front of a computer looking at share prices. She looked up briefly, nodded a silent greeting at Wang, and continued reading. They walked past her, disappeared behind a curtain, made their way through a storeroom full of boxes, cartons, and toilet seat covers, and climbed up narrow, winding stairs to the first floor. They found themselves in an office stuffed so full with paperwork, files, catalogs, and toilet brushes that there was nowhere to sit. Wang cleared some space on two chairs, put the briefcase on the desk, and removed the battery from his cell phone. Paul did the same, sat down, and waited in anticipation for what would happen next. He had met Wang only once and knew almost nothing about him, but now he had no choice but to trust him. He wondered for a moment if he had been lured into a trap, but discarded the thought immediately. He did not need to be led to this hidden office in order to be frightened more than he had already been, or threatened.

  “Have you heard anything from Yin-Yin?” Wang wanted to know.

  “Only that she’s been arrested and that Sanlitun wants to press charges against her for libel. Unless—”


  “She takes everything back, apologizes, and her father refrains from taking legal action against the company,” Wang finished his sentence.

  “You know the latest already?” Paul asked, surprised.

  “No, but I know our country.”

  Wang picked up the briefcase and opened it; it was filled to the brim.

  “I told you last time we met that I worked on a story about Sanlitun some time ago, and then had to stop my investigations when my boss ordered me to. Do you remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “What I didn’t tell you was how far I got in my investigations. I had an informant at Sanlitun.” He pulled a pile of folders and papers out of the briefcase. “These documents prove that the company knew exactly what it was discharging into the water. At least three provinces are involved. Five lakes or rivers. Four factories. Five villages. Several hundred people, probably thousands. Everything has been recorded. Measurements of the industrial effluent. Laboratory results. Internal memos. Written reports. Instructions to employees.”

  Paul looked from Wang to the papers he was holding and back again. “Where did you get them?”

  “From someone I know who worked at Sanlitun until recently, and who needed money very, very urgently.”

  Paul picked up one of the folders and leafed excitedly through it at random.

  “I can’t do anything with this now,” Wang said. “I wanted to keep it all for a time when I would be allowed to write about a case in which a company was poisoning the environment and covering it up like this. But we can’t wait that long. If you take this material to Hong Kong and give it to the press, it will make headlines. Maybe even international ones. What do you think?”

  Paul nodded wordlessly.

  “That will put pressure on the authorities here. A good lawyer in Shanghai, Chen, perhaps, would then be able to get a good outcome for the family.”

  “You trust Chen? He was very abrupt on the phone today . . .”

  “Chen is okay,” Wang reassured him.

  “I thought,” Paul said, “that no judge would be willing to . . .”

  “Not officially, of course. This material here creates serious problems for Sanlitun, and it would be prepared to make concessions if canny negotiations were made. I can assure you of that.”

  “Should I take all of this with me?” Paul asked, still disbelieving.

  “Yes. And not a word to anyone about whom you got the documents from. Not ever. You know what China is like. You know what that would mean for me.”

  Paul nodded again. “But I wonder . . . I mean, why are you taking this risk? Why are you helping . . .” He was not able to finish his sentence.

  Wang shrugged. “If only I knew,” he said, with the ghost of an ironic smile on his face. “A journalist has to put up with a lot. I’ve grown used to . . . well, I wouldn’t call it lying, but keeping quiet about the truth. When I heard that Yin-Yin had disappeared, I knew what they planned to do with her.” He paused for a moment, pensive. “Maybe it’s the last straw.” He put the papers back in the briefcase and gave it to Paul. “Don’t let this out of your sight. Put it under your pillow at night. Take it with you to the toilet. For all intents and purposes, it’s life insurance for Yin-Yin.”

  Paul was surprised at how heavy the briefcase was. He wanted to get back to the hotel as soon as he could so that he could look through the documents in peace.

  “It’s probably best if you stay in your room this evening,” Wang suggested. “How will you get back to Shanghai tomorrow?”

  “I have a driver and a car. I’ll stop to see Da Long on the way. I’ll speak to Chen in the afternoon, then fly back to Hong Kong the day after tomorrow.”

  “On no account can you say anything about this on the telephone as long as you’re in China.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  Wang got up. “I have to get back to the office. I’ll bring you back to the hotel first.”

  They walked back the same way they had come, as silently as before. Paul clasped his arms around the briefcase; he was too deep in thought to talk. If what Wang said was right, he was holding material in his hands that he would have dreamed of having when he had been a journalist. The daily papers in Hong Kong would love to have it, certainly Apple Daily and the South China Morning Post. The Asian Wall Street Journal would be interested, as would the International Herald Tribune and the BBC. Their reports, if not the ones before, would see to it that Yin-Yin was set free and that Da Long was paid compensation. He just had to make absolutely no mistakes now; he wanted to get Chen’s advice as soon as possible.

  Wang said good-bye in front of the Grand New Era. Paul was suddenly in a hurry because he needed the toilet urgently. The restroom in the lobby was closed for cleaning, and the elevator was taking too long, so he took the stairs up to the second floor, walked down the corridor, and hurriedly swiped his key card through the slit above the door handle. He had to do it a second and a third time before the green light finally showed. He pushed the door open, put the card in the slot next to the entrance to keep the electricity on, went straight to the bathroom, and put the briefcase down next to the sink. He heard a sound, and before he realized what had happened, the light had gone out. Someone had pulled his card out of the slot and cut the power.

  It was so dark that Paul could not make out even the outline of the toilet, the shower, or the door.

  “Hello?” He wished his voice sounded steadier.

  Instead of a reply he heard heavy breathing only a few feet away from him. There was a stink of garlic. Paul felt his heart pounding in his throat; he stretched his arms out and tried to orientate himself and get to the bathroom door in small steps; he was frightened that he would grab ahold of a face or a human body any moment.

  A cry out loud; a piercing pain on the forehead and the nose. He had bumped into the door frame. He licked his lips and tasted blood.

  “Be careful, Mr. Leibovitz. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  The voice came from his room; the man was sitting either at the desk or on the couch next to it. He spoke Mandarin with an accent that Paul identified as coming from Beijing and the surrounding area.

  He felt his way out of the bathroom by following the wall until he was standing at the entrance to the bedroom. The heavy curtains had been drawn so the room was in total darkness; even the digital clock display on the television had been covered. The big bed had to be to his right, a few feet away, and the sideboard with the minibar was opposite, behind that was the desk, and next to it was the seating area with the couch. He heard the sound of several people breathing.

  “It would be best if you stayed where you were,” said the voice from the darkness. It did not sound unfriendly; it almost sounded concerned. “I don’t want you to injure yourself.”

  Paul felt himself growing a little calmer. “Who are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Then turn the light on.”

  “A friend who prefers to stay unknown.” When Paul did not reply, he added, “A friend who is trying to keep you from doing a stupid thing.”

  “What stupid thing?”

  “Bringing things into the public that do not belong in public.”

  “Who says—”

  A voice that did not give the impression that it would accept any opposition interrupted him. “A friend who knows what the consequences would be. Consequences that you can’t even foresee.”

  “What do you want from me?” Paul asked, intimidated.

  “The documents that Mr. Wang gave you.”

  “Why didn’t you take them from him?”

  “Because we weren’t sure he had them. Apart from that, we don’t want to interfere with the freedom of the press.”

  Paul could hear that the stranger found his own comment amusing. “What will you do with the documents?” he asked.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Paul hesitated. What choice did he have? He had no idea how many people
were in his room. The garlic lover had probably blocked off the door to the corridor. He could scream for help but would probably be overpowered before anyone heard him.

  “These documents . . . I can’t . . . they’re extremely important,” he stammered.

  “That’s why I want to have them,” the voice replied calmly.

  “Where have you come from? Beijing?”

  “You’re asking too many questions.”

  “Who has sent you?”

  “Once again, that is nothing which should concern you.”

  “Sanlitun?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “Who else could have any interest in these documents?” Perhaps he could engage the man in conversation and win some time.

  “Many people. ‘The net of heaven is broad / The mesh is big / But nothing escapes it.’ Laozi knew that.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Paul said.

  “The provincial government in Hangzhou could also be interested in these documents. The mayor of Yiwu. A competitor of Sanlitun’s, certainly. What do you think? Or the environmental authorities in Beijing. I can think of others. Do you know the favorite color of the Chinese?”

  “Red,” Paul whispered in reply.

  “I see you know our country,” the stranger said with a mocking laugh. “Red brings us luck. But our favorite color is gray. Everything is gray in this country. We are the masters of the gray zone. We know it well. Everything is possible. Nothing is impossible. Things are seldom what they first appear to be here. Sadly I have no time to take this conversation further. Maybe another time. My colleague at the door will now switch on a flashlight for a moment. You will fetch the documents from the bathroom and throw them onto the bed. Then you will lie down on the right-hand side between the bed and the wall, flat on the ground, facedown, and you will not move. When we have left the room you will count to a hundred and back again before you do anything. If you are clever, you will count to two hundred. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you will act as if nothing has happened and will not leave the room for the rest of the day. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”