London? Because no country in all the Americas recognizes Communist China, except (just lately) Cuba. A letter from Mr Chu Tu-nan, president of the Chinese People’s Association for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries, had notified us that our Chinese visas would be granted to us in London.
About five o’clock in the afternoon, then, we present ourselves at the office of the Chinese chargé d'faffaires for this little formality. A young Chinese, all smiles and unction, admits us to the old house at 49 Portland Place. “Mr Lin is waiting for you,” he says.
We, as it turns out, wait for Mr Lin—in a vast drawing-room that has known better days. Old furniture upholstered in green velvet, a large worn carpet: they haven’t had occasion to throw a party hereabouts since the good old days of Chiang Kai-shek.
Mr Lin is late. The furniture is mildewing, the carpet is fraying— along with our patience. “There’s probably a plane leaving for Peking this very evening…”
We are exchanging criticisms on the immense Mao Tse-tung in technicolor enthroned above the fireplace, when a slender personage wearing a smile too big for him enters discreetly, on tiptoe: Lin himself!
Delighted to see us, of course. He runs from one to another, distributing friendly words, Chinese cigarettes, matches. We exchange commonplaces with the greatest possible conviction. “You have been to China before?”
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