people was a
bit more difficult to face. Once again, the tough-minded and the pragmatic had
found it possible to be just a little lenient with themselves.)
The “counterrevolutionaries” of that Beijing spring had dispersed after the crackdown by
the ancient murderers; those who had not been captured and executed, that is.
Some had come together in France , and still issued their press releases to
an increasingly indifferent world. Three or four groups had settled in
different parts of the United States , to bicker among themselves and continue
their educations in American universities and eventually, no doubt, become
employees of major hospitals and insurance corporations. Those who had stayed
in China emerged only rarely from their hiding places to post declarations on
walls that hardly anyone ever saw. Li Kwan was among the few who had chosen to
stay in Hong Kong , to that city’s increasing discomfort,
where they had been until recendy relatively safe and yet still close to China , where their presence could still be a
significant reminder, much more so than anywhere else on Earth.
But now normalization had come also
to Hong Kong . And now Li Kwan, illegally in the city,
would if captured be returned to the ancient murderers of Beijing . But of course Hong Kong was a civilized and democratic city. It
would certainly not deport Li Kwan without absolute assurances from the Chinese
government that Li Kwan would receive a fair and open trial; assurances already
given.
And, too, there’s 1997.
* * *
The entire hotel was
air-conditioned, everywhere from the huge ornate dark gold lobby to the tiniest
shop. Kwan paused briefly inside the revolving doors, body adapting to the
chill as he looked warily left and right, and still everything seemed safe. He
walked forward, slowly, and waited to be recognized. (“I’ll know you from your
picture,” the reporter had said on the telephone, when the intermediaries set
up the call, and he hadn’t had to explain which picture he meant.)
Midway across the lobby, a large
shambling man heaved himself out of one of the low armchairs and moved toward
Kwan. He looked to be about fifty, in an open-collared shirt and brown suede
jacket and rumpled chinos. Three leather camera cases dangled from him. For
some reason, Americans, when far from home, always look as though they’ve
recently fallen from a motorcycle: clothing a bit disarrayed, manner a bit
harried and nervous, but somehow optimistic and relieved because no real damage
had been done. The reporter was like that. He had a pepper-and-salt beard,
thinning curly hair, dark-rimmed spectacles, amiable smile. “Mr. Li?”
“Yes.”
“Sam Mortimer.” He put out his hand,
gave Kwan’s a firm and honest shake. “Too early for a drink?”
“Oh, yes,” Kwan said, smiling at the
idea. It was probably several years too early for a drink; Kwan saw nothing to
be gained from alcohol at this stage in his life.
“Tea, then,” Mortimer said,
gesturing toward the hotel’s interior cafe. “We can sit and be comfortable.”
The cafe was irregularly shaped, its
predominant color that of flamingos. Along one curving wall, windows looked out
at a rock garden and, beyond it, the swimming pool, in which one man windmilled
doggedly back and forth, back and forth, while a dozen swimsuited people lay on
chaise longues in the sun. Kwan and Mortimer took a table for two next to one
of these windows, and Mortimer opened one of his camera cases, which contained
a cassette recorder, a notepad, and several pencils. “Mind if I record this?”
“Not at all.”
It wasn’t Kwan’s first interview,
not by a long shot, and he had only the one subject of interest,
bit more difficult to face. Once again, the tough-minded and the pragmatic had
found it possible to be just a little lenient with themselves.)
The “counterrevolutionaries” of that Beijing spring had dispersed after the crackdown by
the ancient murderers; those who had not been captured and executed, that is.
Some had come together in France , and still issued their press releases to
an increasingly indifferent world. Three or four groups had settled in
different parts of the United States , to bicker among themselves and continue
their educations in American universities and eventually, no doubt, become
employees of major hospitals and insurance corporations. Those who had stayed
in China emerged only rarely from their hiding places to post declarations on
walls that hardly anyone ever saw. Li Kwan was among the few who had chosen to
stay in Hong Kong , to that city’s increasing discomfort,
where they had been until recendy relatively safe and yet still close to China , where their presence could still be a
significant reminder, much more so than anywhere else on Earth.
But now normalization had come also
to Hong Kong . And now Li Kwan, illegally in the city,
would if captured be returned to the ancient murderers of Beijing . But of course Hong Kong was a civilized and democratic city. It
would certainly not deport Li Kwan without absolute assurances from the Chinese
government that Li Kwan would receive a fair and open trial; assurances already
given.
And, too, there’s 1997.
* * *
The entire hotel was
air-conditioned, everywhere from the huge ornate dark gold lobby to the tiniest
shop. Kwan paused briefly inside the revolving doors, body adapting to the
chill as he looked warily left and right, and still everything seemed safe. He
walked forward, slowly, and waited to be recognized. (“I’ll know you from your
picture,” the reporter had said on the telephone, when the intermediaries set
up the call, and he hadn’t had to explain which picture he meant.)
Midway across the lobby, a large
shambling man heaved himself out of one of the low armchairs and moved toward
Kwan. He looked to be about fifty, in an open-collared shirt and brown suede
jacket and rumpled chinos. Three leather camera cases dangled from him. For
some reason, Americans, when far from home, always look as though they’ve
recently fallen from a motorcycle: clothing a bit disarrayed, manner a bit
harried and nervous, but somehow optimistic and relieved because no real damage
had been done. The reporter was like that. He had a pepper-and-salt beard,
thinning curly hair, dark-rimmed spectacles, amiable smile. “Mr. Li?”
“Yes.”
“Sam Mortimer.” He put out his hand,
gave Kwan’s a firm and honest shake. “Too early for a drink?”
“Oh, yes,” Kwan said, smiling at the
idea. It was probably several years too early for a drink; Kwan saw nothing to
be gained from alcohol at this stage in his life.
“Tea, then,” Mortimer said,
gesturing toward the hotel’s interior cafe. “We can sit and be comfortable.”
The cafe was irregularly shaped, its
predominant color that of flamingos. Along one curving wall, windows looked out
at a rock garden and, beyond it, the swimming pool, in which one man windmilled
doggedly back and forth, back and forth, while a dozen swimsuited people lay on
chaise longues in the sun. Kwan and Mortimer took a table for two next to one
of these windows, and Mortimer opened one of his camera cases, which contained
a cassette recorder, a notepad, and several pencils. “Mind if I record this?”
“Not at all.”
It wasn’t Kwan’s first interview,
not by a long shot, and he had only the one subject of interest,
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