Waving away his anxious nurse, the diminutive leader straightened in his seat to stare belligerently at the three men who had insisted on the early morning meeting. “Are you questioning my reforms?” Deng demanded. “There are those who say we should not open our windows, because open windows let in flies and other insects.”
Although his shoulders sagged and his jowls quivered, Deng’s eyes burned with a fierce brightness that belied his eighty-four years. “They want the windows to stay closed, so we will all expire from lack of air. But we say ‘Open windows, breathe fresh air and at the same time, fight the flies and insects.’ ”
It was part of a speech he had given many times, but now the effort of talking provoked another coughing spasm. Foreign Minister Lin waited for it to pass. “Just so, Comrade Chairman. Open the windows by all means.” He leaned forward in his seat opposite the Party chief. “But there is someone sleeping by your bedside who would see you fail.”
“Who?” the old man demanded, understanding Lin meant someone very close to him.
“Zhao Ziyang.”
“Nonsense, he is among my most trusted supporters.”
“My Intelligence sources say otherwise,” Peng Han declared. “The general secretary of the Party blames the problems of inflation and the failure of economic reforms on you. He hopes to distance himself, so he may take over.”
Deng’s face flushed with fury. He half rose. “How dare he?”
“I also have information that he openly sides with student demands for a more liberal society, encouraging protests across China, trying to create national turmoil.” The Intelligence officer briefly recounted student boycotts on campuses from Guangchou to Changsha to Shanghai to Xi’an, graphically highlighting the violence resulting from these demonstrations.
“If this chaos is allowed to continue, it will develop into a counterrevolutionary rebellion. The leaders wish to overthrow the Communist Party and the socialist system,” Lin emphasized. “They want to topple you and transform the People’s Republic of China into a bourgeois republic.”
The silence was long and tense. If true, Deng thought, this represented the biggest challenge to the authority of the Party since the Cultural Revolution. A final shameful discrediting of the legitimacy of his rule and enormous loss of face. Everything he had worked for — the supremacy of the Communist Party, the unity of China, maybe the future of socialism — threatened by a bunch of kids demanding democracy. “General, what do you advise?”
“Harsh measures are called for,” Tong declared. “You must repress the student movement no matter what the bloodshed.”
Exhausted, Deng sank down in his seat. “All right. Do what you have to do.”
Xi’an, China
Seng cut the hospital tour short for Lili’s sake. Still, in less than an hour he had shown her pediatrics, obstetrics-gynecology, intensive care, and surgery. It was an odd experience seeing the old and makeshift juxtaposed with the new and modern — jaundiced neonates in rusted bassinets under bilirubin lights; IV aminophylline delivered to asthmatics through dirty, cracked, brown rubber tubing; pneumonia patients on respirators set beside phlegm-filled spittoons. Seng said they were learning; acknowledged they still had a long way to go.
The hospital’s statistics were impressive: 1,500 outpatient visits per day; 300 inpatient beds, always occupied; 1,200 births per year; 297 medical personnel, of whom 100 were doctors, an equal number of nurses, and 45 technicians. Lili was particularly interested to learn that more than half the doctors were women.
“Western physicians look on themselves as an elite class. They feel above the masses and beyond criticism,” Seng related. “With us it’s quite different. Here the doctor is an integrated member of the community. He has particular functions that are no more important than those of a school teacher, a cadre, or a factory worker.”
As they walked through the hallways, Seng told her this attitude could be demonstrated in the relationships between members of the hospital staff. “We are all here to serve the patient and we do so according to our skills — even if it sometimes means a doctor emptying a bedpan or a nurse writing orders. The efficiency of any one person will depend on how much he is willing to identify with the masses. This is the message of our great leader, Mao.”
“And no one complains?” Lili mused out loud, wondering how such an egalitarian theory worked in reality.
“All Chinese are not one hundred percent virtuous or idealistic, it’s true, but because of Mao we have a national sense of direction.”
Proselytizing about Mao? In the short time she’d been in China, Lili had learned that few still held the Great Helmsman in high esteem. Some said he’d made “mistakes,” others simply didn’t mention him at all. Almost no one gave him unqualified praise anymore. She turned to Seng and saw the same expression that had made her uncomfortable in Los Angeles and again this morning — a fanaticism burning in his eyes that seemed ominous.
Seng studied her shrewdly. “Ordinarily our staff attends political meetings in the afternoon, but since your visit is special, we’ll excuse Dr. Cheng today. Here is the medical ward.” He motioned towards a group in white coats. “Rounds are just ending.”
The scene was so familiar that Lili was immobilized. Doctors gathered around a patient’s bed, discussing the relevant points of a case. But this was China after all. Seven thousand miles from her home. And the man in the center of the group, gesturing, explaining, the slender, elegant figure was her grandfather. Her gasp was audible clear across the room. He turned and met her gaze.
“Granddaughter.”
She came toward him and as if in slow motion, the decades rolled back, returning Ni-Fu Cheng to the day, forty years before, when he’d sent his daughter, Su-Wei, on her journey to America. The light caught the jade locket around Lili’s neck and he was on the Shanghai dock again:
Do you know what this means?
Shou? It means long life.
Wear this always and never forget that you are Chinese. Someday you will return to your country, and we will be together again.
Ni-Fu held his arms out to Lili as he had forty years before to Su-Wei and held her close, too overwhelmed to control the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
In his room, Chi-Wen tried to read The Old Man and the Sea.
Now they have beaten me, he thought. I am too old to club sharks to death. But I will try it as long as I have the oars and the short club and the tiller.
Santiago never lost his courage, fighting until the bitter end, even though he recognized the hopelessness of bringing in his fish. A nice story, but what did any of it have to do with him, with his life?
Chi-Wen slammed the book shut. Ever since his talk with Dr. Cheng, his mind kept wandering back to another meeting nearly twenty-five years ago. As if it were yesterday, he could still recall the doleful quality in his father’s voice imploring Chi-Wen to help him, to speak for him, to save him:
Please. So hard for a Chinese father to beg a son.
I cannot. Not if he wanted to save himself.
The anguished look as his father recognized betrayal in Chi-Wen’s eyes.
Father.
He’d criticized him publicly, the despair and loss of face eventually had driven his father to suicide.
How could I have done that to you?
Lili had excused him, saying he was young — only eight years old. But Chi-Wen could never adequately describe to her the pain he suffered still at the memory of his betrayal. Pain that beat like a hammer on the anvil of his soul, always there.
Now Dr. Cheng was asking for his help. And like so many years ago, Chi-Wen was expected to betray someone he loved to save himself. A man who’d become almost a father to him.
He was preoccupied with Seng’s ultimatum. Nine more days. That was his dead-line. Time was running out.
Ren, joss. Doubt about the supreme validity of the Taoist Way had never troubled him before.
Hope? Love? He’d assumed that the liberation of the heart from
the disruptive influence of unbridled passion, the spirit purified of desire, was the ideal to strive for; that the way of acceptance was superior to the way of action.
A black wave of despair such as he had never known, washed over Chi-Wen. Alone, unable to think, he fled his room, seeking the anonymity of the street.
All afternoon Lili and Ni-Fu talked, trying to catch up on the many years lost between them. Seng had offered the meeting room just off his office.
“Tonight we have a banquet planned. Right now you two should be alone.”
Lili thought the gesture especially thoughtful, reinforcing her earlier reversal of opinion about the medical director.
Ni-Fu, of course, knew better, and while he welcomed private time with Lili, was certain the room was bugged. No matter. For Lili’s protection, he would not reveal the true nature of his work — at least not yet. He only spoke in generalities, preferring to gaze at his granddaughter — so much of Su-Wei and Qing Nan in her features — and learn about her life. In three hours he’d discovered a great deal about this beautiful independent-minded young woman who refused to learn Chinese, raced motorcycles in high school, spurned sororities in college, and fought for programs for the homeless in medical school. “So you didn’t think your Dr. Trenton would give you the geriatrics fellowship over Ed Baxter. That’s not the reason you decided to leave your residency and come to China, is it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who’d run away from anything.”
It took her a moment to recover. He was so perceptive. “You’re right. It wasn’t that. It was everything at the same time — Dr. Trenton, Ed Baxter, Mrs. Manley, Mr. Sanderson, the fellowship, Dylan, Dr. Seng, Mother’s death. I needed to get away, to find myself.” The moment the words tumbled out she realized how wholly American was the concept of finding oneself, how self-indulgent it must sound to someone living in China, and she wanted to explain, but Ni-Fu said simply, “I understand.”
So natural. As if he understood everything about her. Lili looked at her grandfather. Tall, thin, sharp cheekbones, and smooth skin peculiarly ageless for a seventy-five-year-old man; dark, clear eyes that looked at the world with calm appraisal; this handsome, gray-haired man who spoke perfect English with the same British accent Chi-Wen had. He was a wonderful listener with the bedside manner of Marcus Welby.
She’d been flustered and nervous, talking too much, but then it wasn’t every day you met a grandfather you grew up thinking was dead. Ni-Fu put her at ease, sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing as she shared the vignettes of her life. He listened and sympathized. A kind man, she thought, peering into his eyes, marveling at the comfortable intimacy that had sprung up so quickly between them. Only a short time and she felt she had always known him. “Mother loved you so much.”
Ni-Fu’s eyes filled. A whole lifetime lost. Was it worth the sacrifice? “Tell me, granddaughter, was your mother happy?”
Happy? How to answer? Lili remembered the picture of her parents standing together, not touching, not reacting for the camera. Not happy, not sad, just accepting. Contrasted with the one of Su-Wei as a child with her father. Ni-Fu would have remembered that little girl, confident, carefree as she held his hand. Probably the last time Su-Wei was really happy. Before her own mother died, before war broke out, before her life changed forever.
She touched the locket around her neck. Someday I hope you will return to China for me. I will live in you now.
Happy? Somewhere Su-Wei knew she had come home. “Yes, Grandfather, I think she was happy.”
Ni-Fu seemed comforted by her words. “I hope so.”
Lili wanted to ask how he could have sent her off alone to America, but sensed this wasn’t yet the time. Later she would press him about that and more. She sighed.
“What is it, child?”
“I’m overwhelmed. I mean finding you — alive. It’s all such a shock.”
Ni-Fu took Lili’s hand in his. “For both of us.”
She smiled at him. “I am glad I came to China.”
Ni-Fu would have liked to say he was glad too, but though he returned her smile, it was counterfeit, concealing his fear.
After walking aimlessly for several hours, Chi-Wen found himself near Xin Cheng Square. Around the corner, several hundred students and teachers from Jiaotong University demonstrated in front of the provincial government complex. More than a thousand citizens on both sides of the street joined in clapping hands and shouting slogans.
“Down with guandao!”
“Long live democracy”
“Down with rule by individuals, long live rule of law!”
“Freedom of the press!”
So the winds of change were now blowing in Xi’an. About to turn away, Chi-Wen was drawn by some irresistible force. He moved closer to several intense-looking young men sharing a podium and a loudspeaker.
“Comrades, my name is Zheng Tu,” one of them announced in a clear, high-pitched voice. “Two days ago more than thirty students were hurt by police trying to stop us. A twenty-four-hour curfew was imposed.”
Grumbling arose from the crowd.
Armed policemen lining the periphery remained passive, though Chi-Wen wondered for how long.
“Do not despair, friends. We will not be defeated! Our pro-democracy movement is just beginning.” Tu jumped down from the podium to shake the hands of a few of the guards and cheers went up for the soldiers.
“People’s police have the love of the people!”
“We love the police!”
Back on the podium, Tu declared: “Our leaders have trampled on the constitution, but we defend it! Our rally is to get those in power to pay attention; to make them take a firm stand. We must straighten the bent backs of the old tree trunks!”
“Those old trunks love their power,” someone in the crowd asserted. “They’ll never listen!”
“You cannot change the soup without changing the ingredients!” another agreed. “Forty years they’ve ruled. It’s time to step down!”
“They’ll never give up their power and they’ve already shown they’ll use force against Chinese citizens who speak in favor of democracy.”
“Didn’t Mao himself say that revolution is no picnic,” another called.
Tu held up his hand for quiet. “We’ll accomplish our goal without violence as an example for our leaders. It won’t be a battle of tanks and bullets. We’ll make a peaceful petition asking for negotiation.” He held up a two-inch thick Xeroxed Manual for Nonviolent Action. “This is our weapon. We’ll fast and sit-in and parade and give out
flowers until the People’s Congress meets on June twentieth.”
Chi-Wen listened as Tu spoke passionately of the problems. Like the words of student leaders in Guangchou and Shanghai, Chi-Wen knew them to be true. Demands for higher education, satisfactory jobs, decent housing, and a modicum of self-expression were justified. Unhappy memories of the Cultural Revolution and the struggle of recent economic reforms amid rampant government corruption fueled the protesters’ appetite for change. But could reasoning, parading, fasting, and flowers accomplish the peaceful end Tu promised? Could it transform China into a country where one could live freely?
As if reading his mind, Tu said, “Let me tell you a story of the swimmer who was picked out of her cradle by Olympic scouts, taken from her family, and trained to be a star. She was lucky enough to get into an accident that ruined her swimming career. Now she’s free to do something else with her life.”
A rousing cheer.
A woman next to Chi-Wen gave a victory sign and at once the entire group raised their hands.
“Come on! Come on!” the woman elbowed Chi-Wen. “Aren’t you going to join us?”
Ren. For so many years he had endured. Could he continue?
Joss, he thought. Or was it?
Hope. Dr. Cheng said it was not dead. It merely needed to be rekindled.
“It is not dangerous to dream,” Tu declar
ed.
“Well?”
Chi-Wen stared at the woman waiting for his response.
He knew the answer; had always known it somehow. I must not let this happen. Not to Ni-Fu Cheng. Not to Lili. Not to China.
“Will you join us?”
Finally, he raised both hands in the sign of the V. “Yes, comrade. I will.”
6:00 p.m.
Traditionally, the Chinese banquet offers more than good food. This intimate social experience is a way of honoring special guests in a carefully controlled atmosphere of exaggerated conviviality.
Such was the case with the banquet prepared in Lili’s honor. Plenty of good-natured teasing, jokes, endless talk about food, but nothing that could be construed as serious fare. It was the first time Lili had relaxed since arriving in Xi’an. Her cheeks flushed with too much maotai, the fiery 106-proof Chinese liquor, she found the ritual a delight.
Her only disappointment was that Chi-Wen sat at the far opposite side of the room. She had dressed especially carefully, her tight silk sheath accentuating her curves. The one time she caught him looking at her, his gaze quickly slid away. Well, damn it, if he wasn’t interested in her, she’d ignore him as well.
A few dozen members of the Shaanxi Province Hospital and Xi’an Institute staff were seated at several round tables where all glasses were kept full and plates were piled high. Dishes were served according to the prescribed sequence, starting with cold appetizers and continuing to over ten courses that balanced the five basic tastes of Chinese cuisine: sour, hot, bitter, sweet, and salty. As guest of honor, Lili received the choicest part of the fish as well as the entire chicken drumstick. Out of politeness she continued to eat beyond bursting.
Dr. Seng who sat between Lili and her grandfather, stood and raised his glass for the third time. He spoke in Chinese, then translated in English for Lili’s benefit. “We have welcomed our honored guest, Dr. Quan, and we rejoice in this family coming together again,” he said, pointing to Lili and Ni-Fu. “Now I would like all of you here to join me in a toast to their continued good fortune. “Ganbei.” In the time-honored tradition. he emptied his glass with a single chug.
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