They were standing before the moat that ran beneath the sixty_ foot-high vermilion rampart of the Tien An Men, and Jakob looked around at the seven curved bridges of white sculpted marble that spanned it. Stone lions and two carved pillars decorated with clouds and dragons guarded the central entrance to the imperial palaces, and the sense of power and grandeur which the Ming dynasty monuments still possessed made it easy to imagine the awesomeness of the old ceremony which Chiao had just described.
“That ritual of the imperial despots was called ‘issuing edicts by golden phoenix,’ “continued Chiao quietly. “Since the Cultural Revolution began, that’s how the chairman of the Communist Party of China has tried to rule. The golden phoenix today is the People’s Daily, which reverently prints every casual remark he makes as though it contained the essence of eternal wisdom. And the people have suffered more from those edicts than they ever did under the worst emperors.” Chiao turned to look directly at him and Jakob saw that even though the old marshal’s eyes were faded, they still retained the steely glint of determination that had sustained him in positions of high authority in the Party and the army throughout all the trials of China’s long revolution.
“So you see, it’s more than our present system of government we’re fighting. It goes much deeper — it’s something in our blood and our very bones. Something perhaps only the spirits of our ancestors are powerful enough to change.”
Jakob smiled. “I’m surprised to hear a lifelong Marxist speak of anything so unscientific as ancestral spirits intervening in China’s affairs.”
“Somebody who’s known China as long as you shouldn’t be surprised at the persistence of our ancient beliefs and customs — no matter what the rhetoric of the Cultural Revolution might have said.”
Chiao turned his back on the Tien An Men to look out over the Square of Heavenly Peace and Jakob followed his gaze. Long lines of Chinese carrying colored paper wreaths were wending their way across the vast concrete plain toward the granite and marble obelisk of the Monument to the People’s Heroes; some were on foot, others rode bicycles in disciplined files, ringing their bells in slow, mournful unison. On the face of the tapering hundred-foot pillar, eight gold-plated characters in the calligraphy of Mao Tse-tung were visible, proclaiming “The People’s Heroes Are Immortal!” but a growing mound of wreaths laid all around its base was already threatening to cover up the lower ideograms.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the Confucian traditions of the Ch’ing Ming festival,” said Chiao, moving off slowly toward the memorial. “In the past, the living were required to sweep their ancestral burial sites so as to placate the spirits of the departed. But this year people of the capital are choosing to celebrate the occasion at the monument to our revolutionary heroes — by paying tribute to Comrade Chou and all that he stood for. It’s a spontaneous example, you might say, of how the past can serve the present.”
Jakob fell into step beside the marshal, scanning the crowds ahead of them. In the April sunshine, the pale lavender granite of the memorial, which commemorated revolutionary martyrs back to 1840, stood out sharply against a background of evergreen pines and cypresses. But although the day was bright, a cold, gusting wind was sweeping across the square and Chiao buttoned the collar of his padded topcoat closer about his throat as they walked.
“I’m honored to have the opportunity’ to witness the grief of the Chinese people at such an important moment in their history,” said Jakob quietly, glancing at the serious-faced files of adults, students, and schoolchildren moving reverently past them, carrying wreaths decorated with beribboned poems and eulogies. “But I’d like you to tell me why I’ve suddenly been allowed back into China again after all these years. I wrote to you many tunes after our last meeting at the university and never received any acknowledgment of my letters. Even during the tour I was allowed to make in 1964, all my requests to contact you were ignored.”
“I couldn’t risk acknowledging even one of those requests. I think you can imagine why it would have been dangerous for me if I was suspected of having friendly relations with such a prominent foreign political commentator.” Chiao increased his pace and hunched his shoulders, speaking in a low, urgent tone. “But although it’s so long ago I’m still very grateful for the help you gave my sister. I arranged your visit in 1964 as a token of my gratitude, although I couldn’t reveal that. And since then, to avoid suspicion I’ve had to ensure through secret contacts that all of your subsequent visa applications were turned down.”
Jakob stared at Chiao in dismay. When the anti-foreign hysteria of the Cultural Revolution subsided he had again begun submitting regular requests for entry visas to the Chinese Foreign Ministry, but although he had received no response, he had never suspected that such a direct and personal embargo had been in force. Two days earlier he had been surprised to receive a confidential telephone call at his office from one of Hong Kong’s prominent Communists, who had asked if he was interested in visiting Peking “to gather some new insights at this important time.” He had been directed to Lowu, the railway crossing point into China, and there he had found that all formalities had been completed for him to visit Peking immediately. Shortly after his arrival at his hotel on Chang An Boulevard, an unsigned note had been delivered to his room, inviting him to meet “an old acquaintance” in front of the Tien An Men. When he stepped out of his taxi beside one of the marble bridges spanning the Golden Water River, Chiao had materialized immediately from among the milling crowds and offered his hand before launching into his resigned soliloquy about his nation’s fading heroes.
“I’m very sorry that I had to deprive you of further visits to China,” said Chiao, stopping suddenly in the middle of the crowded square and turning to face Jakob. “I know how disappointing it must have been for you — for both professional and personal reasons. But perhaps I should also tell you that I was able to help your family in another way. When your daughter applied to return to China and teach here in Peking after the worst of the violence had passed, I was able to take a discreet hand and ensure that authorization was given.”
Again Jakob could only stare at Chiao in surprise. Abigail had stayed on in Shanghai until the wave of anti-British hysteria had forced her to leave in the summer of 1967. Then she had returned directly to London and taught Chinese there for four years before obtaining a new post at the Foreign Languages Institute in Peking. He had not seen her since that rain-swept night in Shanghai when she had ordered him to interfere no further in her life, and she had rebuffed all his subsequent attempts to see her, ignoring every letter that he had written to her in London and Peking. He had obtained his sparse news of her through friends in the field of China studies, and his immediate response to the unexpected invitation to return to Peking had been conditioned only partly by his continuing fascination with events on the Chinese mainland, in the ten years that had passed since their angry confrontation in Shanghai, his feeling of responsibility for the rift between them had weighed ever more heavily on him, and during the journey from Hong Kong he had allowed himself to hope that his visit to the Chinese capital might present him with a chance to try to see Abigail again. He had also quietly resolved, if it became possible, to seek out Kao, of whom he had heard nothing in the intervening years. He had made no attempt to work out what he would say or do, but the instinctive desire to make some amends, which had always been with him, had grown suddenly stronger. Also, the prospect of being able to do something at long last to ease the ache of his own inner emotions had raised his spirits. As he stared at Chiao, the feeling became so pervasive that he found himself wondering illogically whether the Chinese marshal might somehow have understood intuitively what he was thinking about Abigail; then he realized he could scarcely have known anything of his dispute with his daughter and he smiled his thanks.
“I’m glad for Abigail’s sake you were able to help her,” he said sincerely. “But I’d still like some explanation of why you’ve now lifted the ban on me.”
Chiao
subjected Jakob to a long, silent scrutiny; it was clear to the Chinese that the former missionary was still physically robust and alert in his mid-sixties. The hair that had been so fair in his youth had now turned silver but his face had the healthy, weather- burnished color of a man who took advantage of Hong Kong’s sea island climate to keep himself fit and active. Although the wind was cold, Jakob wore no hat and Chiao noticed he had not turned up the collar of his black tailored overcoat.
“We’ve known one another for many years. We’re not close friends but invisible ties of long standing exist between us. The last time we met I enlisted your help by subterfuge. This time I can see you’re suspicious that I might mislead you again — so I’ll try to take you into my confidence from the start.” Chiao paused, glancing left and right to check that they were not overheard; then he fixed his narrowed eyes intently on Jakob again. “Before it was a personal matter
now much wider issues are involved. China’s future is hanging in the balance. Chairman Mao is no longer in full possession of his senses. A terrible struggle for the right to succeed him has begun. Nobody knows how it will end. Even civil war can’t be ruled out.”
“But why should you wish to talk to me about this?” asked Jakob carefully. “What do you have to gain this time?”
“Many journalists and writers trust your judgment and the information your institute distributes. You have a special understanding of our politics as a result of your earlier experiences in China. What you write influences many others . .
“Perhaps — but I don’t think you should overestimate that influence.”
“In the present climate, with so much at stake, few of us can trust even our oldest friends. The decision of every army unit commander, every police group leader, and every militia chief could prove decisive when the final moment arrives. . . . Your influence extends even to those who prepare Chinese-language broadcasts which are beamed into China from abroad. Now do you see why it’s important that you are well informed at this time of crisis?”
Jakob stared hard at Chiao, wondering even now whether he was being told the full story. Then he saw a shadow of anxiety appear in his companion’s expression and he noticed that some of the foreign diplomats and journalists resident in Peking were beginning to appear among the mourners; a few carried cameras and all of them were watching the spontaneous demonstration of affection for the dead premier with great interest. His conversation with Chiao was attracting no more than casual glances, but the Chinese marshal evidently decided that the discussion would be more private if they kept on the move, and he started walking quickly again toward the martyrs’ memorial.
“It’s important to understand that when Chairman Mao dies, few will really mourn his passing.” Chiao was speaking in a clipped voice and staring down fiercely at the paving stones of the square as though he were a little ashamed of what he was saying. “Most Chinese are exhausted from the constant political campaigns. They want peace in their lives now. They’ve given themselves to the revolution for decades — now they need some tangible reward in return. They’ve no time for the empty idealism of the ultra-leftists who’ve grouped themselves around Madame Mao. The peasants don’t want their private plots to be taken away, the industrial workers don’t want bonuses and wage incentives abolished. They all want a little taste of prosperity instead of endless class war against imaginary enemies. . .
“What does Chairman Mao want them to have?” asked Jakob. “Which group does he support?”
Chiao let out an explosive sigh of exasperation. “Neither. He detests Comrade Teng Hsiao-ping. He’s convinced Comrade Teng would destroy his revolution with his ‘capitalist’ ideas. That’s why he gave strict orders in February that Comrade Teng must never succeed to the premiership.”
“From outside it looks as though Chairman Mao is supporting the leftists.”
Chiao shook his head vigorously. “That’s not true. He detests his wife too. He ordered her to move out of their home more than a year ago. He’s very suspicious of her ambition. Calamity has always struck whenever a woman has exercised power in China. That’s why Comrade Hua was appointed acting premier as a compromise. But now the chairman’s mind is unstable. He’s too ill to attend meetings. Sometimes he’s lucid, at other times he’s not. He’s dying in agony because he fears death and the destruction of all his achievements.”
The crowd of wreath bearers was growing thicker as they neared the martyrs’ memorial, and Jakob and Chiao had to slow their pace. Among the crush of people mounting the balustraded platforms around the plinth, some individuals were declaiming their eulogies to Premier Chou before adding their wreaths to the pile, and their words were ringing loudly across the quiet square.
“It sounds as though Chairman Mao is dying a very lonely man,” said Jakob, lowering his voice.
Chiao nodded. “His isolation feeds his fear. I think that’s why he continues to give audiences to visiting statesmen and prominent foreign guests despite his illness. While his energy lasts he likes to discuss history and philosophical questions. I think in those subjects he finds some relief from his mental anguish.”
“Doesn’t he see anyone else?”
“The acting premier visits him occasionally. But only Chiang Ch’ing and members of her group have regular direct contact. She’s still his wife, remember. She controls his telephones and all the working papers he receives. Sometimes he sees his nephews and nieces and their cronies — imperial blood ties and the whispered flattery of courtiers, you see, have replaced the socialist constitution. And behind everything lies the threat of the gun.”
Jakob fell silent, suddenly feeling the chill of the wind through his thin wool overcoat.
“Chairman Mao knows of your presence in Peking,” said Chiao, shooting a sideways glance at Jakob. “I had a message passed to him, reminding him of your last meeting at the stone fortress of Chokechi. He said he remembered you well and expressed a wish to meet you again — as I hoped he would. It will add an important legitimacy to your visit if you are received by Chairman Mao. Do you agree?” Jakob glanced toward the memorial. Some students were beginning to clamber up onto the balustrades to make their speeches praising Chou En-lai and he became forcibly aware of the growing sense of tension in the square.
“I certainly agree,” he said quietly. “I’d regard it as a great honor to meet Chairman Mao again.”
2
The lower plinth of the Monument to the People’s Heroes, built in the shape of a cherry-apple flower, was faced with green polished granite. On its sides, white marble bas-reliefs depicted heroic scenes from China’s revolution stretching back to the anti-British Opium Wars of the mid-nineteenth century, and as Chiao led the way up one of the balustraded stairways, the crowds parted automatically to allow him passage. He neither spoke nor looked directly at those around him but Jakob saw that something iii the dignified bearing of the white-haired marshal won him immediate respect, even though he was dressed inconspicuously. The wreaths were now heaped head-high around the base of the tall central column and when they reached the upper platform, Chiao bent forward to draw Jakob’s attention to some of the verses written on them.
“Look, the messages are very emotional.”
Jakob followed Chiao’s pointing finger and read a poem that said:
“With the death of Premier Chou, the sun has sunk from sight.
Unhappy clouds are rising.
Soon the nation will falter.
Then it will feel the gap left this great man.”
Another proclaimed. “Premier Chou was our beloved father. Now there is a conspiracy in the Party to overthrow his policies.”
“You see,” said Chiao quietly, moving to another position. “Here’s one wishing long life to Yang Kai-hui, the first wife of Chairman Mao. She was executed by the Nationalists. Another says ‘Down with the Dowager Empress!’ They’re both subtle attacks on Chiang Ch’ing.”
Jakob drew closer to read the inscriptions for himself. One said:
“We swear to protect Premier Chou and his successors! We will fight a bloody battle to the end!” Another warned:” We will have no mercy with traitors inside the Communist Party who mislead the masses.” A third promised: “We will fight to the death against anyone who tries to interfere with Premier Chou’s legacy of modernization.”
On glancing up Jakob saw that the marshal was visibly moved by some of the verses; unaware of his own reactions, he sometimes nodded his head in a little tacit gesture of approval or closed his eyes briefly after absorbing an emotional poem. Around them, the crowd continued to add new tributes respectfully to the heap and only occasionally did a shouted recitation break the silence. When Chiao turned to make his way down one of the four stairways, Jakob followed wordlessly, making no attempt to intrude on his mood. For some time they walked side by side among the crowds spilling across the square without speaking and Jakob found he had to bite back the questions which were uppermost in his mind.
“Many of us owed debts of enormous gratitude to Premier Chou,” said Chiao at last. “His farsightedness and his cool nerve often saved us from chaos.”
“I saw Red Guard newspaper reports of your ‘trial’ at the Workers’ Stadium,” said Jakob hesitantly. “When I read those insane accusations that you had ‘helped an imperialist spy’ in the thirties I feared the worst for you.”
“Fortunately Premier Chou was able to intervene in the end,” said Chiao, his voice cracking with emotion. “If it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t be here now.”
“You must have endured great hardships,” said Jakob gently. “You disappeared for a long time.”
“Not as long as men like Comrade Peng Teh-huai!” Chiao swung around on Jakob, his eyes suddenly burning with pent-up emotion. “You saw the heroic commander of the Third Army Corps many times on the Long March, didn’t you?”
Anthony Grey Page 68