Barbarian Lost by Alexandre Trudeau

overwhelming Communist victory in China.
    By winning in the north, the Communists won over the Manchu clan and Mao had succeeded: a man from Hunan had convinced all of China, even the northerners, that the heavens had opened to him and through him would bless China with a new order. Mao never could have done this without Lin Biao and countless others. But nonetheless, the East was Red.
    A bizarre culmination of events led to a tragic end for Lin Biao. In the late 1960s, the general rose to become Mao’s designated successor and one of the leaders of the Cultural Revolution. But in the maddening events of the revolution, Mao grew tired of his champion and turned on him. Sensing the walls closing in on him, Lin made a break for it and attempted to flee China for the Soviet Union. His plane reportedly crashed in the mountains of Mongolia.
    History will probably lose track of the spiralling of events thatled to Lin Biao’s disgrace, flight and death. Such is already the fate of the Cultural Revolution—those at the top responsible for the madness are all dead; those who took part in it, like those who suffered it, do not want or need to remember it, and now even they grow old.
    Chinese historians gloss over the Cultural Revolution as if it barely existed. Foreign historians mostly characterize it as something sinister, grotesque, infantile and bizarre. No one can fully explain it. But here in the Manchu fringe of the old capital, Lin Biao is proudly remembered by this old man as a warrior chief whose banner you definitely wanted to fight under.
    Two elderly woman show up carrying baskets of vegetables. They gently chide the old man for shooting his mouth off to strangers. They’re friendly but direct with us.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œA tourist and his guide,” Viv says.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?”
    â€œA place to eat.”
    After a lengthy deliberation, they finally agree on one household near the entrance of the village that might serve food. By now, the women are positively chatty. Viv gets them to talk about water.
    They have running water in the morning, they say without the faintest intimation that such a thing wouldn’t be perfectly usual and obvious. Perhaps they remember having to fetch water from a well, so a tap into the house that gives water a few hours every day must seem luxurious.
    â€œBeijing gets its water right here,” Viv tells me. “It flows all day in Beijing, but see how it is rationed here? Further afield, it’s scarce. I remember reading several articles saying that people on the fringes of Beijing don’t always have enough water for their crops.”
    We head toward the house that was recommended to us. It turns out to be right next to where we parked the car. We fetch the driver and ask him to join us for lunch. After an exchange of questions, the woman of the house understands her opportunity. She leads us through a building and into a courtyard surrounded by a few brick houses. Our hostess is in her mid-thirties and is assisted by an older woman. Her young son is also present, just back from school.
    They are peasants, weathered, pragmatic and tough. On this sunny, warm autumn day, it’s lovely in the courtyard. Half the space is brick-floored; the other half, planted earth. The fall harvest is near. The corn is ripe and golden. The vines climb on a trellis, providing dappled shade to a good part of the floored courtyard. Gourds hang down, fat and rich. Stools are pulled out of a wooden kitchen hut that has been built against the back wall of the courtyard; they are placed around a table beneath the vines. We’re brought hot water to drink and invited to sit down.
    I study the outdoor stove. A brick base cradles an immense steel wok. Our hostess fires it up by throwing dried corn husks and chaff into hot embers beneath it. Moments later, she’s frying a handful of fresh herbs and garlic. The woman notices me hovering about and