The Man From Beijing

by Henning Mankell

  She sat down on her veranda and thought about the arrogance that followed in the wake of the licentious belief that a less regulated capitalist market system would be good for the country’s development. It had been Deng’s aim to make the Chinese wheels roll more quickly. But today the situation was different. We live with the risk of overheating, not only in our industries but also in our own brains, she thought. We don’t see the price we’re paying, in the form of polluted rivers, air that suffocates us, and millions of people desperate to flee from the rural areas.

  Once, we came to the country that used to be called Rhodesia to support a liberation struggle. Now, almost thirty years after liberation was achieved, we come back as poorly disguised colonisers. My own brother is one of those selling out all our old ideals. He has none of the honest belief in the power and prosperity of the people that once liberated our own country.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the night. All thoughts of Ma Li and their conversation slowly ebbed away from her weary head.

  She had almost fallen asleep when she heard a noise that pierced the song of the cicadas. It was a twig snapping.

  She opened her eyes and sat up straight. The cicadas were silent. She knew that there was somebody in the vicinity.

  She ran into her bungalow and locked the glass door. She switched off the light.

  Her heart was pounding. She was scared.

  Somebody was out there in the darkness. He had inadvertently stepped on a twig and snapped it under his foot.

  She threw herself onto the bed, afraid that someone would force his way in.

  But nobody emerged from the darkness. After waiting for almost an hour, she closed the curtains, sat down at the desk and wrote a letter that had been formulating itself in her head during the course of the day.

  29

  It took Hong Qiu several hours to write her summary of what had happened recently, with her brother and the strange information from the Swedish judge, Birgitta Roslin, as the starting point. She did it to protect herself. She established once and for all that her brother was corrupt and one of the people well on the way to taking over China. In addition, he and his bodyguard Liu Xan might be involved in several brutal murders far outside the country’s borders. She didn’t switch on the air conditioning so that she would be better able to hear any sounds from outside. The night insects were buzzing around the lamp in the stiflingly hot room, and heavy drops of sweat kept dripping onto the desk. She had every reason to feel worried. She had lived long enough to be able to distinguish between real and imagined dangers.

  Ya Ru was her brother, but above all else he was a man who didn’t hesitate to use any means in order to attain his goals. She was not opposed to development heading off in new directions. Just as the world around them was changing, so must China’s leaders think up new strategies to solve present and future problems. What Hong Qiu and many others of like mind questioned was that leaders were not combining socialistic foundations with development toward an economy in which free markets played a major role. Was the alternative impossible? A powerful country like China didn’t need to sell its soul in the hunt for oil and raw materials and new markets in which to place its industrial products. Was not the big challenge to demonstrate to the world that brutal imperialism and colonialism were not an inevitable consequence when one’s country developed?

  Hong Qiu had seen greed take possession of young people who, by means of contacts, relatives and not least ruthlessness, had managed to create huge fortunes. They felt untouchable, and that made them even more brutal and cynical. She wanted to offer resistance to them and to Ya Ru. The future was not a foregone conclusion; everything was still possible.

  When she had finished writing, read through the letter, and made some corrections and clarifications, she sealed the envelope, wrote Ma Li’s name on it, then lay down on top of the bed to sleep. There was no sound from the darkness outside. Although she was very tired, it was some time before she fell asleep.

  She got up at seven o’clock and watched the sunrise from her veranda. Ma Li was already in the breakfast room when she arrived. Hong Qiu joined her, ordered tea from the waitress and looked around the room. Members of the Chinese delegation were sitting at most of the tables. Ma Li announced that she intended to go down to the river to watch the animals.

  ‘Come to my room an hour from now,’ said Hong Qiu in a low voice. ‘I’m in number twenty-two.’

  Ma Li nodded and asked no questions. Just like me, she’s lived a life that has taught us that secrets are a constant presence, Hong Qiu thought.

  She finished her breakfast, then retired to her room to wait for Ma Li. The trip to the experimental farm wasn’t scheduled until half past nine.

  After exactly an hour Ma Li knocked on her door. Hong Qiu gave her the letter she’d written during the night.

  ‘If anything happens to me,’ she said, ‘this letter will be important. If I die in my bed of old age, you can burn it.’

  Ma Li looked hard at her. ‘Should I be worried about you?’

  ‘No. But the letter’s important even so. For the sake of others. And for our country.’

  Hong Qiu could see that Ma Li was surprised. But she asked no more questions, merely put the letter in her bag.

  ‘What’s on the agenda today for you?’ Ma Li wondered.

  ‘A discussion with members of Mugabe’s security service. We’re going to assist them.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Partly But first and foremost helping to train their staff, teach them close combat, and also the art of keeping watch on people.’

  ‘Something we’re expert at.’

  ‘Do I detect hidden criticism in what you just said?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Ma Li in surprise.

  ‘You know I’ve always maintained the importance of our country protecting itself from the enemy within just as much as from the one without. Many countries in the West would like nothing better than to see Zimbabwe collapse into bloody chaos. England has never accepted totally that the country liberated itself in 1980. Mugabe is surrounded by enemies. It would be stupid of him not to demand that his security service should operate at the very top end of its ability.’

  And he’s not stupid, I suppose?’

  ‘Robert Mugabe is bright enough to realise that he must resist all attempts from the former colonial power to kick the legs from beneath the ruling party. If Zimbabwe falls, there are many other countries that could go down the same road.’

  Hong Qiu accompanied Ma Li to the door and watched her disappear along the paved path meandering through the luxuriant greenery.

  Right next to Hong Qiu’s bungalow was a jacaranda tree. She gazed at its light blue blossoms, and tried to think of something to compare the colour with, but in vain. She picked up a flower that had fallen to the ground. She placed it between the pages of her diary in order to press and preserve it. She took her diary with her wherever she went, but seldom got round to writing in it.

  She was just about to settle down on the veranda and study a report on the political opposition in Zimbabwe when there was a knock on the door. Standing outside was one of the Chinese tour guides, a middle-aged man by the name of Shu Fu. Hong Qiu had noticed earlier he seemed scared stiff that something would go wrong with the arrangements. He seemed to be highly unsuitable as a guide on a big venture like this one, especially because his English was far from satisfactory.

  ‘Mrs Hong,’ said Shu Fu. ‘There’s been a change of plan. The minister of trade wants to visit a neighbouring country, Mozambique, and he wants you to be one of the party that accompanies him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Hong Qiu’s surprise was genuine. She had never been in close contact with the minister of trade, Ke, and indeed had barely done more than shake hands with him before leaving for Harare.

  ‘The trade minister has just asked me to inform you that you will be travelling with him. There will be a small delegation.’


  ‘When shall we be leaving? And where to?’

  Shu Fu wiped the sweat from his brow, then flung out his arms. He pointed to his watch. ‘I am unable to tell you any more details. The cars will be leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes. No delay will be tolerated. Everyone involved is requested to take light baggage only and to be prepared for an overnight stay. But it’s possible that you will return as soon as this evening.’

  ‘Where are we going? What’s the point?’

  ‘Minister of Trade Ke will explain that.’

  ‘But surely you can tell me the name of the town we’re headed for?’

  ‘To the city of Beira on the Indian Ocean. According to the information I have the flight will be less than an hour.’

  Hong Qiu had no opportunity to ask any more questions. Shu Fu hurried back to the path.

  Hong Qiu stood motionless in the doorway. There is only one explanation, she thought. Ya Ru wants me to be there. He is obviously one of those going with Ke. And he wants me there as well.

  She remembered something she had heard during the flight to Africa. President Kaunda of Zambia had demanded that the national airline Zambia Airways should invest in one of the world’s biggest passenger jets at that time, a Boeing 747. There was no market to justify such a large aircraft flying regularly between Lusaka and London. But it soon transpired that President Kaunda’s real aim was to use the 747 on his regular journeys to and from other countries. Not because he wanted to travel in luxury but to have enough space for the opposition, or those in his government and among the top military leaders that he didn’t trust. He crammed his aircraft full of those who were prepared to plot against him or even to engineer a coup d’état while he was out of the country.

  Was Ya Ru trying something similar? Did he want to have his sister close by so that he could keep tabs on her?

  Hong Qiu thought about the twig that had snapped in the darkness outside her bungalow. It could hardly have been Ya Ru standing out there in the shadows. More likely somebody he had sent to spy on her.

  As Hong Qiu didn’t want to oppose Ke, she packed the smaller of her two suitcases and prepared for the journey. A few minutes before departure she went to the front desk. There was no sign of either Ke or Ya Ru. On the other hand, she thought she had caught sight of Ya Ru’s bodyguard Liu Xan, though she wasn’t sure. Shu Fu escorted her to one of the waiting limousines. Also in her car were two men she knew worked in the Ministry of Agriculture in Beijing.

  The airport was only a few miles outside Harare. The three cars in the convoy drove very fast with a motorcycle escort. Hong Qiu noticed that there were police officers at every street corner, holding up other traffic. They drove straight in through the airport gates and without further ado boarded a waiting Zimbabwe air force jet. Hong Qiu boarded through the rear entrance and noted that there was a screen separating the front half of the cabin. She assumed that this was Mugabe’s private aeroplane, which he had lent the Chinese delegation. After only a few minutes of waiting, the plane took off. Sitting next to Hong Qiu was one of Ke’s female secretaries.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Hong Qiu asked when they had reached cruising altitude and the pilot announced the journey would be fifty minutes.

  ‘To the Zambezi Valley,’ said the woman by her side.

  Her tone made it obvious to Hong Qiu that there was no point in asking any more questions. She would eventually find out what was involved in this sudden trip.

  Or was it really so sudden? It occurred to her that not even this was something she could be sure of. Perhaps it was all part of a plan that she knew nothing about?

  When the aircraft prepared for descent, it swung out over the sea. Hong Qiu could see the blue-green water glittering down below and little fishing boats with simple triangular sails bobbing up and down on the waves. Beira was glistening white in the sunlight. Encircling the concrete centre of the city were endless shanty towns, possibly slums.

  The heat hit her as she stepped out of the plane. She saw Ke walking towards the first of the waiting cars, which was not a black limousine but a white Land Cruiser with Mozambican flags on the hood. She watched Ya Ru get into the same car. He didn’t turn round to look for her. But he knows I’m here, Hong Qiu thought.

  They headed north-west. Together with Hong Qiu in the car were the same two men from the Ministry of Agriculture. They were poring over small topographic maps, carefully checking them against the countryside they could see through the car windows. Hong Qiu still felt as uncomfortable as she had when Shu Fu first appeared outside her door and announced a change of plan. It was as if she had been forced into something that her experience and intuition warned her about, all alarm bells ringing. Ya Ru wants to have me here, she thought. But what arguments did he present to Ke that resulted in my sitting and bumping along in a Japanese car whipping up thick clouds of red soil? In China the soil is yellow; here it’s red, but it blows around just as easily and gets into your eyes and every pore.

  The only plausible reason for her being present on this visit was that she was one of many in the Communist Party who were sceptical about current policies, not least those of Ke. But was she here as a hostage, or in the hope of seeing her change her mind about the policies she found so distasteful? High-ranking Ministry of Agriculture officials and a minister of trade on an uncomfortable car ride in the heart of Mozambique had to mean that the aim of the journey was of major significance.

  The countryside flashing past outside the car windows was monotonous – low trees and bushes, occasionally intersected by small rivers and streams, and here and there clumps of huts and small well-tended fields. Hong Qiu was surprised that such fruitful ground was so sparsely populated. In her imagination the African continent was like China or India, a part of the poverty-stricken Third World where endless masses of people fell over one another in their efforts to survive. But what I’ve always imagined is a myth, she thought. The big African cities are not much different from what we see in Shanghai or Beijing. The culmination of catastrophic development that impoverishes both people and nature. But I knew nothing at all about African rural areas until now as I actually see them and travel through them.

  They continued in a north-westerly direction. In some places the roads were so bad that the cars had to slow to a walking pace. The rain had penetrated the hard-packed red earth, loosened up the road surface and turned it into deep ruts.

  They eventually came to place called Sachombe. It was an extensive village with huts, a few shops and some semi-derelict concrete buildings from the colonial period when the Portuguese administrators and their local assimilados had ruled over the country’s various provinces. Hong Qiu recalled reading about how Portugal’s dictator Salazar had described the gigantic land masses of Angola, Mozambique and Guinea-Bissau, which he ruled with an iron fist. In his linguistic world these distant countries were called ‘Portugal’s overseas territories’. That was where he had sent all his poor, often illiterate, peasants, partly to solve a domestic problem and at the same time to build up a colonial power structure concentrated on the coastal areas even as late as the 1950s. Are we about to do something similar? Hong Qiu wondered. We are repeating the injustice, but we have dressed ourselves in different costumes.

  When they left their cars and wiped the dust and sweat from their faces, Hong Qiu discovered that the whole area was cordoned off by military vehicles and armed soldiers. Behind the barriers she could see curious natives observing the strange foreign guests. The poor are always there, she thought – the ones whose interests we say we are looking after.

  Two large tents had been erected on the flat stretch of sand in front of the white buildings. Even before the convoy came to a halt a large number of black limousines had assembled, and there were also two helicopters from the Mozambique air force. I don’t know what’s in store, Hong Qiu thought, but whatever it is, it’s something important. What can have made Minister of Trade Ke suddenly agree to visit a country that isn’t even on our pr
ogramme? A small part of the delegation was due to spend a day in Malawi and Tanzania, but there was no mention of Mozambique.

  A brass band came marching up. At the same time a number of men emerged from one of the tents. Hong Qiu immediately recognised the short man leading the way. He had grey hair, wore glasses and was powerfully built. The man who was now greeting Minister of Trade Ke was none other than Mozambique’s newly elected president Guebuza. Ke introduced his delegation to the president and his attendants. When Hong Qiu shook his hand, she found herself looking into a pair of friendly yet piercing eyes. Guebuza is no doubt a man who never forgets a face, she thought. After the introductions, the band played the two national anthems. Hong Qiu stood stiffly to attention.

  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.