just as there was no knowing what political tide had swept him
aside, 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 Car-stairs 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
aside, 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 Car-stairs 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
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