I can’t remember them. The one about me was called ‘‘In Praise of Long-Lasting Love’’. He composed one about your sister, ‘‘In Praise of Goodness’’. The one about older brother was called ‘‘In Praise of Sincerity’’.’
‘He chose good names.’
‘Yours was ‘‘In Praise of Dreams’’.’
‘Why did he call it that? Do I daydream? Do I like dreaming? I don’t think so.’
‘I think he meant you’ve always been as if in a dream. You weren’t even eight. You didn’t know anything. I do remember some lines:
‘Your heart is as pure as your eyes are bright,
So naïve and innocent.
As soon as you finish supper
You open the door and off you go;
When the police arrived
We pretended they were guests.
‘That was when they came to arrest us. We couldn’t tell you, we just urged you to sleep. When they took us away in the middle of the night, we kissed you and wished you sweet dreams.’
I couldn’t continue.
One day, Old Tian suddenly turned up. I hadn’t seen him in ten years. When I opened the door, I gasped. None of our old friends had visited me for years, mostly because it was difficult to communicate, or they had lost their freedom. I also felt it was unwise for them to seek trouble. But here he was, calm and self-possessed, not caring what might happen. He told me he was going to see a friend who lived nearby, to learn some English. He knew I lived here, so he had dropped by.
He wanted to know about Hu. I told him what had happened. I added:
‘He’s incorrigible, do you know he’s composing poems in his cell? Some are about his family, others about his friends. He chose a beautiful name for them, ‘‘Songs in Memory of Spring’’. He recited some, but I can’t remember them.’
‘You have to keep up your morale. Then you’ll never be defeated.’
We told each other our news of the last few years, and about our friends. I felt as if he had opened a window and a small breeze had blown in from another world. I’d been too out of touch. I knew this or that literary figure had climbed the ladder, fallen into disgrace, or played up to those in power, but I also knew a single wrong word, however true, could lead to the break-up of a family. All these perils left me terror-stricken.
He hadn’t been implicated in our case, but he was still wearing three denunciatory ‘hats’ put on even earlier. Now his entire family of eight people was living on 100 yuan a month.
I was moved most by the case of Old Nie and his wife. In 1955, Hu Feng and his friends were branded a ‘counter-revolutionary clique’. I had assumed it wouldn’t affect the Nies. Ever since the start of the campaign to criticise him, F had avoided discussing literary issues with Old Nie, for fear that he might say something wrong, so he hadn’t let him know about F’s 300,000-word memo about the situation in literary and art circles. At the time, Old Nie wasn’t interested in such subjects, he was only interested in classical literature. But somehow or another he had got dragged into it, and was even expelled from the Party. Afterwards, he stopped going to work and just read books at home. I suppose you could say he shut himself up to ponder his mistakes.
In 1957, Chairman Mao summoned help for his campaign to rectify the Party. Big Sister Ying was studying at the Socialist College. When she heard the news, she was excited. Inspired by her love for the Party and the country, she resolved to bare her heart. In the spirit of say all you know, speak without reserve, she offered some comments, including about the Hu Feng case. When she arrived home she discussed it with Old Nie and wrote down her opinions. They had got to know Hu Feng in 1929 in Japan. Later, they had worked together in the anti-Japanese movement and had helped F publish a mimeograph, New Culture, which propagandised for the resistance and the revolution. As a result, they had been arrested and deported. Later, they joined the League of Left-Wing Writers under Lu Xun. How can you conclude someone is a counter-revolutionary on the basis of a few brief notes? They were at a loss to understand. So Ying wrote down her views and Old Nie revised them. How were they to know that shortly afterwards some students at Beijing University also raised the Hu Feng case and members of the Democratic Party made a lot of criticisms of the Communist Party? The rectification campaign turned into an Anti-Rightist Movement. Ying had to go on stage and receive the masses’ criticism. Then the investigation switched to Old Nie, and the pair were branded rightists.
Nie was sent to the Great Northern Wilderness to do manual labour. Ying was removed from her leadership post and transferred to the People’s Political Consultative Conference to edit biographical materials written by pardoned Kuomintang officials.*
When I heard this, I remembered how Old Nie had invited me to meet him. I was suddenly overwhelmed with respect for what he had done. Would a lapdog or a coward have done it? He was not the man he had once been – he no longer had the carefree air of a literary celebrity. He had been tempered by hardship and become a man dedicated to justice and loyalty, a rarity.
Tian sat for a couple of hours and then said he had to hurry home, to cook for his child. I said:
‘I’m really grateful for your visit. But don’t come again. You’ll get into trouble.’
He gave me a mischievous smile. Gesturing at his aluminium mess tin, he said:
‘In it is a steel needle for doing acupuncture. If anyone comes in, I’ll say I’m your acupuncturist.’
I laughed.
A talented author ought to wield the pen, not the needle. A warrior on the literary front had become a kindly father who cooked for his child. What a change!
* The Kuomintang or KMT, sometimes romanised as Guomindang (GMD), was the dominant party in the early Republic of China, from 1912 onwards.
A Gaol Visit, Not a Family Visit
Carrying two string-tied bundles of Marx and Engels’ Complete Works in Japanese, I set out again on the journey to Qincheng. Having learned my lesson, I ate a bowl of noodles before setting out. But there were drawbacks: it was the rush hour, and I had to push my way on and off with my two bundles. Even though I managed to squeeze through, there were no seats left.
At Shahe, where I had to change, I didn’t dare leave the parcels unattended. I sat under the hot midsummer sun watching the watermelon sellers on the opposite pavement and the juice dribbling down the chins of their customers. But I couldn’t risk running over to buy a slice, so I just sat and watched.
When the bone-shaker from Shahe to Qincheng turned up, it was hard enough to stand, let alone get a seat, especially with the books. I had to keep a tight hold on them and at the same time sway and bob in time with the bus. By the time I reached Qincheng, my hands ached and my leg had gone numb. Luckily, it was the terminus, so I could take my time alighting.
There were some PLA men on the pavement greeting an old lady from the countryside. Some took her parcel, others took her basket. She was probably visiting a relative in the guards’ unit. One younger-looking PLA man, perhaps the leader, had nothing to carry and ran over and offered to help me. Without thinking, I declined.
Actually, I was tired and hot, so I dropped behind and hid in the trees. I put the books down and sat on them. Here, I was out of the sun, and in a while a breeze blew up and the sweat on me dried. I stayed sitting there until the PLA men had disappeared through the gate, and then I got up and walked over to it. It was ages before anyone called me in – perhaps they were having a midday nap. I also had to wait in the reception area. I flicked through a list of presents you were allowed to bring. On the last page it said, ‘Watermelons – one.’ I thought, next time I’ll bring one, he’s