“Don’t leave her,” he commanded. “One of you must stay and look after her until you’re sure she’s all right.”
Without waiting for any acknowledgement from them, Kao ran from the room.
15
The dark, rain-drenched streets were filled with fearful crowds, and because there were no lights Abigail several times took wrong turnings in her haste. Only a few isolated hand torches and makeshift lanterns relieved the pitch-blackness, and she frequently heard cadres shouting warnings in the darkness for families to stay away from their damaged homes in case new tremors followed. Blankets and waterproof sheets were being rigged among the roadside trees to provide temporary shelter from the weather, and the shocked, frightened faces of adults and children peered out from beneath them as Abigail pedaled by. When she neared the center of the city the wheels of her bicycle began to bump over bricks and rubble that had spilled into the roads from collapsed walls and roofs, and she had to make several detours on finding that some streets had been closed. Eventually the congestion forced her to abandon the bicycle and she continued on foot, running and stumbling over heaps of rubble that blocked the pavements.
The downpour had not brought any drop in temperature, and Abigail’s hair and clothes were drenched with rain and perspiration by the time she reached the old Imperial City. More than once she lost her bearings, but around the Drum Tower she found that some lights had been restored and she pushed on with new determination through the dense throng of people that had gathered there. The red walls of the ancient roofed gate had partly collapsed, its eaves were twisted and broken, and the silent crowds were staring up at the damage in disbelief. In imperial days the Drum Tower had been a popular meeting place where drums had been beaten regularly to mark the hours of the day, and Abigail could see that the disfigurement of this symbolic landmark had stunned the local people. The traditional belief that comets, earthquakes, and other natural phenomena had always foreshadowed disaster when great dynasties of the past had fallen was ingrained in the Chinese psyche, and Abigail sensed the presence of superstitious fear in the unnatural silence which had settled over the crowds around the ancient tower.
This in turn increased Abigail’s own growing feelings of apprehension as she hurried on through the confusion; she frequently heard unseen women and children wailing and sobbing, and silent men on grim rescue errands pushed distractedly past her in the darkness. Her fears seemed to be confirmed when at last she turned into Nan Chihtze to find that many of the houses along that narrow street had collapsed. Gangs of desperate people were digging and clawing at the rubble by lamplight in several courtyards, and Abigail broke into a run again when she saw in the half-darkness that the outer wall of the house for which she was heading was cracked and leaning outward at a dangerous angle.
Although she had never visited Kao’s home, after sending the gift for his son she had walked down Nan Chihtze several times out of curiosity to identify his house, and on stepping through its sagging gateway, she found that one wall of the house had given way and the roof had fallen in. In a corner of the courtyard a bent old woman clutching a failing flashlight was crouched on a stool sobbing; she made no response when Abigail asked if there was anyone in the ruined building but continued to sob hysterically, and Abigail left her to hurry around to the rear of the house.
She found a broken window in an undamaged section of wall that led into the kitchen and climbed inside without difficulty. Because the fallen roof beams had brought down internal walls and heaps of laths and tiles, she had to crawl on her belly through a tunnel of wet rubble no more than three feet high. She made slow, painful progress, trying to identify rooms and passageways, and several times she came up against impenetrable barriers of debris and had to turn back. But in what remained of a narrow corridor her hand touched something soft, and when she brought her flashlight to bear, its beam illuminated a trouser-clad leg and foot. Moving closer, Abigail saw that it belonged to a young Chinese woman who lay trapped under a heavy rafter. Dust and congealing blood covered the woman’s face, and on noticing that she was no longer breathing, Abigail closed her eyes and lay still for a minute. Then she crawled past her, moving slowly and carefully so as not to bring any more of the dangerously loose debris down on herself.
In the broken doorway of what she guessed was once a small bedroom she heard a faint sound, and holding her breath, she pushed some fallen bricks from her path. Moving cautiously, Abigail slithered into the wrecked room and found herself looking into the open eyes of a small Chinese boy. He was lying on his side beneath a tangle of splintered wood with one fist pashed into his mouth. But he blinked quickly in the glow of her flashlight, and when Abigail moved to his side and put an arm around him, he whimpered softly.
As she crawled back to the kitchen window with the boy in her arms, the wreckage through which she dragged herself shifted and settled about her, grazing her face and hands. But it did not collapse further and after climbing out through the window, she closed her eyes and leaned against the wall in the pouring rain, offering up a silent prayer of thanks for her survival. The boy had begun crying in her arms and she spoke soothingly to him in Chinese as she carried him back to the courtyard.
On her stool the bent old woman stopped weeping and stared up at Abigail in amazement. “Is Ming all right?” she asked hoarsely.
“I think so.” Abigail wiped some of the dust and grime from his face with her hand. “He’s probably lust very badly frightened.”
At that moment the figure of a man appeared in the gateway and although he was wet and disheveled, Abigail immediately recognized Kao. He ran across the courtyard and plucked the sobbing boy from her arms, staring at her in astonishment.
“I don’t think he’s really hurt, Kao,” said Abigail gently. “But there’s a woman still trapped in the house — I fear she may be dead.”
16
At midmorning in Hong Kong the next day, Jakob sat at his desk, leafing agitatedly through transcripts of radio reports and agency stories about the earthquake. Although none of them contained much of substance beyond the time and duration of the tremor, he continued by force of habit to read many of the reports over and over again as though hoping that the bald, factual reports might yield new shades of meaning after prolonged study, as political editorials in China’s newspapers often did.
He returned repeatedly to the official New China News Agency report, which was worryingly brief. “A strong earthquake occurred in the Tangshan-Fengnan area in east Hopeh province, north China, at 03:42 hours on July 28,” said the report, adding evasively that “comparatively strong shocks were felt in Peking and Tientsin” and “damage of varying degrees was reported in the epicentral region.” A more straightforward report, from the Reuters news agency in China, said that “a powerful earth tremor shook Peking early today, sending thousands of people rushing onto the streets, smashing windows, and cracking walls.” The tremor, the agency said, had begun at 03:45 local time and lasted about two minutes.
From California and Colorado, American wire services were quoting scientists and geologists in the United States as saying that the earthquake, which appeared to have struck a heavily populated area near Peking, “may have been a major catastrophe.” Tens of thousands of people could have died in collapsing buildings, said the scientists, and instruments in California that recorded the shock showed that it was more severe than the earthquake which destroyed San Francisco in 1906.
As Jakob was rereading the American reports, a young Chinese translator tapped on his door and entered, carrying another sheet of news-agency copy. “This one is reporting a second aftershock, Mr. Kellner,” he said. “It was almost as powerful as the first and it hit the same region a few hours later. The report says there must have been ‘heavy damage’ throughout the whole area. The first tremor was the most powerful anywhere in the world for twelve years — and the most severe to hit China since the Middle Ages.”
Jakob thanked the translator and frowned anxious
ly as he scanned the news story. He had telephoned the I3ritish embassy in Tokyo several times in the course of the morning to speak to diplomat friends who were in touch directly with Peking. Although he had not been able to obtain any news of Abigail, a first secretary had assured him that there was no cause for him to be personally alarmed since no British residents had been reported injured or missing. The diplomat had explained that many dwellings had been cracked and damaged, but none of the homes of foreign residents had been severely affected. Gathering more detailed information about the effects of the earthquake had been difficult so far for people in Peking, he had said, because so many roads were blocked and permission to travel was being denied due to fears of new shocks.
On the desk before Jakob, a half-finished summary of events on the mainland which he had been preparing for the institute’s weekly bulletin was still in his typewriter. He had started it the day before and beneath the flood of news stories about the earthquake lay other press clippings which he had been scrutinizing for his article — they gave details of rumors about Mao Tse-tung’s failing health, the violence and unrest which were spreading across the country, and the political infighting that was developing around Mao’s deathbed. The earthquake and the anxiety it had produced in him had suddenly overshadowed everything, and pulling the now-outdated summary from the typewriter, Jakob crumpled it and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. For a while he sat looking indecisively at the papers on his desk; among the pre-earthquake clippings was one report that said “Since the death of Chou En-lai in January, events in Peking have unfolded like a plot from a Ming dynasty court intrigue,” and another quoted American intelligence sources as saying Mao was fading fast and discussed the possibility of civil war breaking out again once he died. As he ran his eye over the stories, Jakob felt his agitation grow, and when, on hearing a knock at his office door, he looked up to find the same young Chinese translator bringing him a sealed telegram, he feared suddenly that it must contain bad news.
Because of his anxiety he waited until the translator had left his office before tearing open the envelope; then a Long sigh of relief escaped him. The brief message said:
No need to worry. Am safe. Sadly Kao’s wife was killed. But Kao and Ming unhurt. Could you try to come to Peking? Abigail.
As soon as he had read the telegram, Jakob snatched up the telephone and dialed the Hong Kong number of the Chinese Communist who had arranged his unexpected trip to Peking in April. When the man came on the Line, Jakob asked if he could help him return to Peking again without delay.
“This is a very difficult time, as you must know, because of the earthquake,” said the Chinese: “I’m not sure it will be possible.”
“I’d be grateful if you would try,” said Jakob in an urgent tone. “Perhaps through the same channels as before.”
“I will certainly try through those same channels. But I suggest you also make a formal application for a visa.”
“But that could take weeks,” protested Jakob. “Or even months.”
“Perhaps,” said the Chinese politely. “But as I’ve already said, this is a very difficult time.”
17
Why did you come here on the night of the earthquake?” asked Kao in a strained voice. “Surely there must have been many other things for you to think about.”
Abigail considered her reply carefully. “It was just an instinctive reaction, I think. My only flesh-and-blood ties in Peking were here.”
Kao looked away, his expression uncomfortable.
“I’m very glad I came, Kao. And I’m glad I was able to help.” She bit her lip, groping for the right words. “For ten years I’d closed my mind to what happened in Shanghai. I’d resolved never to give it another thought. It wasn’t always that easy, of course. But after I saw my father again in April, I found I felt differently about it all. I realized how much time had passed and I wanted to do something to help put things right. That’s why I sent the toy to Ming.”
“It was very kind of you.” Kao shifted uneasily on his chair. “And I thank you for helping Ming. But you must never contact me or come here again.
They were sitting in what had once been the kitchen, now the only habitable section of the stricken courtyard house. Tarpaulins had been nailed temporarily over the new roof rafters above the room, but the remaining walls of the house were still under construction because a shortage of bricks had halted rebuilding work all over the damaged capital. On the night of the earthquake Abigail had retreated quickly from the crumbling courtyard when neighbors gathered to comfort Kao and Ming; she had waited two weeks before delivering a sealed note to the house, asking if she might pay an arranged visit, and had suggested an early evening hour in the middle of the following week. She had dressed herself soberly in trousers and a cool shirt and on her arrival Kao had been waiting alone in the dilapidated kitchen, his face pale and unsmiling. He had explained haltingly that his son was being cared for in an adjoining house by the old amah Abigail had already met on the night of the tremor and that his wife’s funeral had been held ten days earlier. He had poured tea for them both, but his strained, formal manner suggested from the outset that he wished the meeting to end as soon as possible.
“You and Ming have had a terrible shock,” said Abigail softly. “And I know that you probably still feel bitter about what happened in Shanghai. But isn’t it time for us to try to come to terms with the past?” She paused, fighting a tearful feeling. “We share the same father. . . . We’re brother and sister, Kao. . . . Even if it’s impossible to acknowledge it publicly, might it not help us all if we tried to see things now in their true light?”
“I’ve always seen things in their true light,” said Kao with a sudden vehemence. “That’s the trouble. Even now when I think of that night we spent together I burn with shame at my own weakness and foolishness.”
“But there’s no need to feel like that.” Abigail smiled sadly at him. “No man should try to deny his emotions. My feelings for you were very strong. There was something wonderful between us. It was an awful blow to learn the truth as we did — in a way it made many inexplicable things clear. But we weren’t to blame.”
Kao picked up his porcelain beaker of tea, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles showed white around its rim. “I felt more angry and helpless that night at my mother’s house than I’ve ever felt in my life! My heart turned to ice inside me. I felt betrayed and alone in the world as if I’d never had any parents. . . . Since then I’ve wished a million times that I’d never gone there . . . since then I’ve never once allowed false sentimentality to keep me from carrying out my duties!”
He gulped down several mouthfuls of hot tea and Abigail stared at him in dismay. “Kao, why are you so bitter? So much hatred is destructive. I grew up believing my father cared nothing for me and I became so obsessed with the idea that it almost destroyed me. But I came to see it was just an obsession. I found that if you spend all your time regretting the past, you forfeit the inner peace your soul needs to survive. You throw away the future.”
Kao’s expression became indignant. “I grew up believing in the revolution. I trusted the word of my mother. She told me my father was a hero of the Japanese war — but he turned out to be nothing more than a foreign Christian missionary!”
“Your mother showed great courage on the Long March and at every other stage of the revolution — and your father is a hero,” said Abigail emphatically. “In April in Tien An Men Square he risked his life to save yours . .
Kao stared at Abigail in astonishment. “The foreigner with the camera
She nodded. “Yes, he took the pictures openly to draw the mob away from you. He knew the risk he was running.”
Kao put down his cup, and resting his elbows on the table, he covered his face with both hands. For a long time they sat without speaking and Abigail refilled their teacups.
“When Father first saw you at Pei-Ta he must have seen himself again in his youth,” she said in a pensive voice
. “He saw a determined young man, passionately devoted to his cause. The cause was very different from what his own had been. It must have been a double agony for him to discover his son in those circumstances. But he still risked making the greatest sacrifice of all for you. Isn’t that worth acknowledging?”
“Irrevocable choices were made long ago,” said Kao, speaking dully through his fingers. “My mother made the first choice for mc and Chairman Mao made another when he took the decision to carry the revolution through to the end. I made my own choice when I decided to devote myself to the class struggle and oppose those taking the capitalist road, Against all that, what are these vague notions of ‘family’ worth? Acknowledging them would certainly destroy rue — then what would I have left?”
“In the end, Kao,” said Abigail slowly, “the love of their family is the greatest gift that anyone is given in this world.”
“Then I’ll manage without that particular gift.” Kao spoke with a mixture of weariness and resignation and uncovered his face to look at her. “Please go now, Abigail. There’s nothing more to be said.”
18
For you, Comrade Kao,” said Chiang Ch’ing, speaking with exaggerated emphasis from the doorway of his office, “there will be a second funeral to attend very soon.”
Kao looked up sharply from his desk. The innuendo in the voice of the wife of China’s dying leader was unmistakable and he felt himself grow tense. ‘Do you mean that the chairman —“
“No, not yet. But the end is very near.” She advanced into his office, walking with short, mincing strides, and stopped by his desk. “Parkinson’s disease causes a progressive rigidity in the muscles. Now there’s only one stage of rigidity left to go.”
Anthony Grey Page 75