thing is to ask again to be allowed to see him, to write to him, and to send him things.’
To contain my emotion, I raised the coffee cup to my lips.
The previous winter, the children and I had gone to see Dagger Society at the Tianqiao Theatre. I had spotted Old Nie and his wife. He had just been transferred back to Beijing from the Great Northern Wilderness, where he had undergone reform through labour. He had not yet had his rightist hat removed. He was embarrassed and didn’t dare approach us. He just shot us a distant smile, and then dashed off into the auditorium. During the intermission, Big Sister Ying sought us out for a chat. It turned out his daughter had insisted he come to see her perform, it was his first outing. She asked about us, and I answered in as few words as possible. After the performance, I saw them again at the exit and Big Sister Ying again fought her way through the crowd and said she would come to see us in a few days’ time. Third Sister (their relative) saw me but gave no greeting. In the past, she had always been warm, and had sympathised with F. But her troubled life over several years had left her cold and haggard. I could understand, so I fought my way to the front and left ahead of them.
This meeting was different. Sitting opposite me was a dignified senior cadre, neatly and fastidiously dressed, untrammelled by convention, a suitable guest at such a top-grade establishment.
‘I suppose you often come here,’ I said. ‘Have you got your old job back?’
‘I don’t care whether I get it back or not, I wouldn’t go anyway, all I do is collect my salary each month.’
‘That’s good, you can do creative work at home.’
‘I no longer write, I just read. Recently I read Zhuangzi. It was interesting, I understood things I’d never understood before.’
I didn’t dare reply, I had never understood Zhuangzi.
While drinking my coffee, I looked around. The restaurant filled up. The staff escorted guests to prepared tables. They must have been regulars. I glanced at the menu. Western food was at least three yuan per person and other dishes were two to three yuan. Ice cream was one or two yuan. A meal would have cost at least 10 to 20 yuan. This was an eye-opener. There were still rich people in Beijing.
Seeing how surprised I was, Old Nie said coldly, ‘They’re spending remittances from abroad. They get a discount.’
‘Really? We had better go, then, and let them spend their remittances.’
He paid the bill and asked the waitress to wrap some cakes for me to take back for the three children. I was embarrassed – it had cost him five yuan, and now I was supposed to take the cakes home. And the three children were actually one 16-year-old boy.
Xiaoshan had arrived home before me and was waiting anxiously. I told him what had happened. He thought I should write to Xiong Zimin as soon as possible. If someone was concerned about us, we should say thank you.
I posted the letter. For a long time there was no reply. I thought he had probably returned to Wuhan. I didn’t have his Wuhan address, and waiting patiently was no option. So I decided to act on his advice and write a second time to the Ministry of Public Security.
Hu Feng had got to know Xiong Zimin in 1927, during the Great Revolution. After the defeat of the revolution, Xiong and Li Da and others ran a bookshop in Shanghai that published Hu Feng’s first translation, of a Soviet science-fiction novel called Foreign Devil, about an imperialist agent in the Soviet Union after the October Revolution. The bookshop was closed down because it published progressive literature. Afterwards, he returned to Wuhan and did some trading. After the start of the war against Japan, the Eighth Route Army set up an office in Wuhan, where he did some jobs, given his past links and the fact that he was a local man. When Dong’s wife arrived in Wuhan, she lived in Xiong’s house. Hu Feng met Dong there. Xiong was happy to distribute Hu Feng’s journal July, which played a role in the war. The office helped raise money for the journal and supported its publication. Hu Feng knew Xiong had no money and couldn’t even pay his contributors. He himself didn’t take a cent for his work. Hu Feng and Xiong remained friends until 1954. When Xiong came to Beijing with his wife on holiday, he came specially to see us. He was not a literary person, but he had a strong sense of justice. He urged Hu Feng to talk less, write less, and find a simple job. But Hu Feng didn’t know how to play it safe and always ended up saying what he thought, so he became the victim of an unprecedented onslaught.
I knew Xiong was on the National People’s Congress, but I didn’t dare bother him. I was feeling gloomy. I didn’t believe there was anyone in the world good enough not to fear getting into trouble. I thought it was normal for people to avoid me. Now Xiong Zimin had got someone to seek me out, I was happy and astonished.
In my letter to the Ministry I explained that Hu Feng’s old friend Xiong Zimin was a delegate on the National People’s Congress and had criticised me for not asking where Hu Feng was being held, since that was both allowed by law and a matter of basic humanity.
To my surprise, there was a response. I received a letter saying I could send some things for Hu Feng, but it repeated the previous message, that he needed nothing.
I prepared some foodstuffs. I thought, who knows where he’s being held? Perhaps somewhere outside Beijing. So I bought him some tins of anchovies, red-cooked beef, peaches, pineapple, chocolate biscuits and a pound of toffee. For a normal person that doesn’t sound much, but for someone who had been locked up for ten years it would be a feast. (Later, he told me he couldn’t even bear to throw away the toffee wrappers or the tin labels. He gazed at them every day, as if looking again at the outside world.)
I went to the Ministry of Public Security at the appointed time and place. I asked the police guard the way and had to walk for a while before I saw the waiting room. The attendant made a phone call, and asked me to be seated. He probably thought I had come to deliver a report or receive a briefing.
Apart from a man called Shi, my permanent contact, an even more senior cadre appeared, also very courteous. He looked at the things I’d brought and said:
‘We can get them to him quickly.’ He also said, ‘Actually, there’s nothing he needs. You should trust the Party. We’re all committed to reforming him.’
I wasn’t prepared to abandon the chance to see Hu Feng, so I asked again. I even said some old friends thought he was no longer alive.
This time, the reply was not completely dismissive: ‘I’ll tell senior levels. We’ll study the situation and let you know.’
On that note of hope, and of joy at the thought that he would receive the food, I left.
A month later, I received Xiong Zimin’s reply. The People’s National Congress had forwarded my letter, but he was convalescing somewhere else, hence the delay. He expressed his deep concern for the family and urged me to request a meeting with F.
I did so, and I also said the People’s Congress delegate Xiong Zimin had blamed me for not daring to show my concern for Hu Feng. You haven’t let me see him for ten years, how can I answer old friends’ letters, how can I behave as an upright person …
I don’t know if it was because of a change in the situation or because I mentioned the People’s Congress, but a week later Shi and the old cadre visited me to say permission had been granted. Naturally, they urged me to help him by mentioning things that would assist his ideological reform. The Party wanted me to play a positive role.
They gave me the address and a request form for a visit. The
