condemned of revisionist thinking or of being an anti-revolutionist.
There were the other unknowns and variables as well: the fact that the only information they had about the logging camp was its existence somewhere in the Tian Shan mountain range and surrounded on three sides by a stream of water so fast-flowing that it couldn’t be crossed except on horseback. Not that the poor devils needed such barriers, he reflected, because if a prisoner decided to escape, where could he go? He needed identity papers, authorization for travel, and coupons for food and clothing, and wherever he went he would still be in China.
Such thoughts as these didn’t undermine his confidence, they were merely parts of a logistics problem that would have to be solved as they left Xian and drew closer to Urumchi and to the Tian Shan range. He knew that he was well trained, that he was nerveless and capable, and he spoke the language fluently. The most aggravating unknown was Mrs. Pollifax. He objected very much to having the success of his assignment rest just now in someone else’s hands, much less those of a foolish middle-aged lady. He had fought against this from the beginning, insisting he manage the contact himself, but Carstairs had said, “We can’t risk you, the contact in Xian is too pivotal, too dangerous. If you should be caught—if Guo should betray you—we’d lose you, and you’re irreplaceable because of your background in the country. The situation needs someone entirely different, someone so outwardly innocent that she’ll deflect suspicion.”
“She?” he’d repeated sharply.
And Carstairs had smiled pleasantly and said, “Yes, we have a woman in mind.”
So here they were, the two of them, locked together into this situation for better or for worse, flying over mountains the color and shape of camels’ humps, in a country whose culture was among the most ancient in the world. And he loved this country, which was a strange thing to discover because he loved so few things. Because of this he knew that he hated Mao for setting China back decades with his cultural revolution that wiped out intellectuals, closed universities, nearly destroyed art and science, and, in turn, brought only a new form of corruption out of the corruptions he’d intended to erase. Well, that was long since over; both Mao and the more liberal Chou were dead, and new leaders in command, but the country was still filled with Maoists. He thought wryly of the current political metaphor, “the two ends are hot and the middle is cold,”a very Chinese way of saying that change was passionately wanted at both the top and the bottom of the society, but sitting squarely in the middle in many areas were Mao’s bureaucrats, threatened by the progressive changes, indignant, clinging in fury to the old status quo. The reformers were listening, though: how could they help but hear the people at the Democracy Wall in 1979? The people still waited with infinite patience for the democracy that had been promised them once by Mao.
He turned and looked at the two men beside him, wishing he might ask them a thousand questions. Seeing him glance toward them they smiled, eager to show their friendship.
“Ni hao,”
he said, carefully avoiding any tonal pronunciation, rendering the greeting flat and drawling and clumsy.
The man next to him nodded vigorously; the second man by the window leaned forward to give him an eager smile and a thumbs-up gesture, and he was offered a Double Happiness brand cigarette, which he politely refused. As they returned to their conversation he glanced down the aisle and saw Mrs. Pollifax and her two seat companions stand up and change places with an extravagant exchange of bows and smiles: she was being given the window seat, and he wondered wryly how she had accomplished this without language.
He wondered, too, how much she guessed when she had been told so little.
He wondered if it had occurred to her yet that if Mr.
There were the other unknowns and variables as well: the fact that the only information they had about the logging camp was its existence somewhere in the Tian Shan mountain range and surrounded on three sides by a stream of water so fast-flowing that it couldn’t be crossed except on horseback. Not that the poor devils needed such barriers, he reflected, because if a prisoner decided to escape, where could he go? He needed identity papers, authorization for travel, and coupons for food and clothing, and wherever he went he would still be in China.
Such thoughts as these didn’t undermine his confidence, they were merely parts of a logistics problem that would have to be solved as they left Xian and drew closer to Urumchi and to the Tian Shan range. He knew that he was well trained, that he was nerveless and capable, and he spoke the language fluently. The most aggravating unknown was Mrs. Pollifax. He objected very much to having the success of his assignment rest just now in someone else’s hands, much less those of a foolish middle-aged lady. He had fought against this from the beginning, insisting he manage the contact himself, but Carstairs had said, “We can’t risk you, the contact in Xian is too pivotal, too dangerous. If you should be caught—if Guo should betray you—we’d lose you, and you’re irreplaceable because of your background in the country. The situation needs someone entirely different, someone so outwardly innocent that she’ll deflect suspicion.”
“She?” he’d repeated sharply.
And Carstairs had smiled pleasantly and said, “Yes, we have a woman in mind.”
So here they were, the two of them, locked together into this situation for better or for worse, flying over mountains the color and shape of camels’ humps, in a country whose culture was among the most ancient in the world. And he loved this country, which was a strange thing to discover because he loved so few things. Because of this he knew that he hated Mao for setting China back decades with his cultural revolution that wiped out intellectuals, closed universities, nearly destroyed art and science, and, in turn, brought only a new form of corruption out of the corruptions he’d intended to erase. Well, that was long since over; both Mao and the more liberal Chou were dead, and new leaders in command, but the country was still filled with Maoists. He thought wryly of the current political metaphor, “the two ends are hot and the middle is cold,”a very Chinese way of saying that change was passionately wanted at both the top and the bottom of the society, but sitting squarely in the middle in many areas were Mao’s bureaucrats, threatened by the progressive changes, indignant, clinging in fury to the old status quo. The reformers were listening, though: how could they help but hear the people at the Democracy Wall in 1979? The people still waited with infinite patience for the democracy that had been promised them once by Mao.
He turned and looked at the two men beside him, wishing he might ask them a thousand questions. Seeing him glance toward them they smiled, eager to show their friendship.
“Ni hao,”
he said, carefully avoiding any tonal pronunciation, rendering the greeting flat and drawling and clumsy.
The man next to him nodded vigorously; the second man by the window leaned forward to give him an eager smile and a thumbs-up gesture, and he was offered a Double Happiness brand cigarette, which he politely refused. As they returned to their conversation he glanced down the aisle and saw Mrs. Pollifax and her two seat companions stand up and change places with an extravagant exchange of bows and smiles: she was being given the window seat, and he wondered wryly how she had accomplished this without language.
He wondered, too, how much she guessed when she had been told so little.
He wondered if it had occurred to her yet that if Mr.
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