Without his help, I don’t know how I would have got there.
* Hu Feng is Zhang Guangren’s pen name.
Ten years without ever seeing someone dear to you. What will he be like? Will he be the man in my dreams? Will I recognise him? I don’t know how many times I imagined it, how many times I prepared my little speeches. That night, I stayed awake until the sky had turned white and then jumped out of bed and hurried to the bus stop.
I caught the first bus to Deshengmen, but when we arrived the first bus to the suburbs had already left. I waited for the eight o’clock bus to Shahe, where I had to change again. My belly was empty. Luckily, Shahe is a big town with several restaurants, so I had a bowl of soybean milk and a deep-fried dough cake before boarding the bus to Qincheng.
In the Cultural Revolution, quite a few cadres were kept in Qincheng, so it’s no longer a mystery. In those days, however, you weren’t supposed to talk about it.
The bus was small and rickety. Luckily it was early, so there were still seats, which made it less uncomfortable. The road was smooth, lined on each side by tall white poplars and low willows. Xiaotangshan, my stop, is a market town. A bit further on was an expanse of maize, a bright green curtain. In between were occasional patches of millet, an inlaid decorative pattern typical of the northern landscape. If I’d been on an outing, I would have thought it lovely.
I arrived at my destination. I waited until the other passengers had left before entering a small side road they had told me about. There was an iron gate and a sentry box.
A soldier of the People’s Liberation Army stepped out in front of me. I handed over my things. He made a phone call and told me to go in.
Secretary Shi had arrived ahead of me, by car, and came out with a duty officer. He led me along a concrete path lined on either side by flowerbeds. There were small buildings along the way, with drawn curtains. We walked straight on, to a reception point on the ground floor of a high building. Deep inside the main hall, I could see people escorting a man in a blue shirt and trousers in my direction. Not until he was in front of me could I tell that it was F. In the past, he had a ring of black hair either side of his head, now he was completely bald.
Someone who had always been respected as master of the house was now brought to me under escort. I wanted to hug him and weep. But people were watching me, so I resisted the impulse. He walked up, gripped my hand, and looked at me with his sparkling eyes. He was the same man he had always been. His grip was still firm, and so were his eyes. We stood gazing at one another, like people who could never gaze enough.
The duty officer sent us into the reception area, two rooms connected by a small window. Normally, the visitor and the visited were probably separated by the window, but we were allowed to sit opposite one another across a table. Secretary Shi sat in the other room.
Neither of us knew who should say the first word. Finally, I started:
‘You’re well, I hope. Did you receive the things I brought?
‘I’m well. Yes, I received them.’
‘The children send their greetings.’
‘Oh!’ His eyes widened and began to flash.
‘Xiaoshan finishes high school next year. Xiaofeng didn’t get into university, she has become a farm labourer.’
‘Good. Let Xiaoshan be a worker.’
‘They all hope you can come home soon. You must strengthen your thought reform.’
‘How can you do thought reform in solitary confinement?’
The secretary in the next room snorted. F shot him a glance and fell silent.
I felt miserable and awkward. When the secretary had told me of the visit, he had made clear I was to help F. But how could I help?
‘You can examine idealist literary thought, that’s probably the main issue.’
I immediately regretted my remark. All I could see were his two eyes piercing me. In the past, he would have flown into a rage, but now he lowered his head with a pained expression and let out a long sigh.
‘You had best not ask about that, that’s a problem I can’t solve. If I’m wrong about literary thought, that’s a question of understanding, not of politics.’
‘Wouldn’t it be even better to improve your knowledge? Idealism isn’t so terrible. Even Hegel needed Marx to correct his idealism. Wouldn’t it be better if you yourself were to investigate and correct possible idealism in your literary thought? Who can say he is one hundred per cent Marxist?’
He was really angry, but he managed to control himself. The secretary at the window gave me a look, perhaps to express satisfaction.
F changed the subject.
‘I’ve written a lot of poems – well, not written, but composed and memorised. Some are for you, some are for the children. I’ll recite one for you, perhaps you’ll understand it. I called the one about you “In Praise of Long-Lasting Love”:
‘Despite hardship, you are still devoted to your teaching.
When you see young people, it is as if you see spring.
The world is often difficult,
But you delight in people’s passion.
You can plant beautiful roses
But you can’t buy bread.
You turn myths into children’s stories,
Your heart is always young.
‘There are lots more verses, ten in all. I called my poem about Xiaofeng “In Praise of Goodness”, all I can remember are some bits from near the end:
‘When you were young,
You were separated from your parents
By great distances.
The Pacific War broke out,
And families were dispersed.’
I started sobbing.
‘Please don’t be sad. Let’s recite Xiaoshan’s. It’s called “In Praise of Dreaming”:
‘You asked your daddy when you wanted him to buy you books,
You shouted for mummy when you wanted your pencil sharpened.
Big sister has a loud voice,
Grandma has hearing problems.
‘It also has ten verses.’
‘I won’t be able to memorise them
