The man poured tea and bade him drink.
Ba Lute waited. The fan turned faster now, as if trying to take flight.
“We do our utmost to keep order,” the man said, “but as a leading light such as yourself knows, the People cannot move in half-steps: they would only fall down, wouldn’t they? To traverse so great a divide, they must leap and sometimes overleap. And it could be that, in the case of Comrade Wen, they have, perhaps, overleapt. However, we live in a time in which the revolutionary dream must run its course, don’t you agree?”
Ba Lute said nothing. The cake tasted old in his mouth.
“It appears,” the man said, “that Comrade Wen and his wife had a hidden cellar on his family’s ancestral land.”
Ba Lute drank the remaining tea in his cup and looked thoughtfully at the pot. “That is no crime, Comrade.”
The man waited and let silence stand in for contradiction. “Of course,” he continued, “the contraband always surfaces. We confiscated everything. Books, records, some valuable heirlooms. He had the Book of Songs and the Book of History. He also possessed books from America. I am surprised,” he said, allowing a brief pause, “that you did not know.”
Ba Lute looked at the wall behind the man. There was no mistaking the sudden change in tone, all that confused poetry, that shiny sweat, suddenly vanishing like a mist.
“I did not know,” Ba Lute said evenly.
“Mmmm.”
The man stood up, reached up to a long string and stopped the fan. It slowed to a halt, and left the room confined and utterly still. “As cadres, we, of course, can only serve the People and follow the Party line. We turned him over to the revolutionary committee and they passed judgment. He was found to be a dangerous element.”
Big Lute’s throat was dry, but no more tea was offered.
“Re-education through hard labour,” the man continued, sitting down again. “This was the conclusion and he was duly taken away.”
“And his wife, Comrade Swirl?”
“Convicted rightist and shameless bourgeois element. The same punishment.” The man seemed to thrive in the heat now. He looked pink and golden. “This hidden library may have been built by Comrade Wen’s mother during one war or another, to hide these rare books from invaders. She died last year so how can we know? Perhaps you’ve heard of her father, Old West? A reactionary element, very close to the Imperialist regime in his day. Of course, Old West was once a celebrated scholar sent abroad to serve his country and such hiding places were once common…Well, who am I to judge? We are only a small village. We are still learning the correct line.” The man smiled at Ba Lute. How strange this smile was, part pity, part warning. “The revolutionary committee operates under Chen Yi, does it not?” the man said smoothly. “I imagine that Chen Yi might have informed you of the sentence that was handed out.”
“Tell me,” Ba Lute said, ignoring the man’s insinuation, “how was the library discovered?”
“Comrade Wen and his wife were in the fields as usual. Their daughter climbed down into the opening. It was she who discovered it. The melting ice must have dislodged the entrance.” He poured the last of his tea into a potted plant on the floor, then he replaced the cup soundlessly on the table. “It was warm down there. More comfortable, in fact, than where they were living. One of the villagers was crossing the field, and he saw Comrade Zhuli disappearing, as if swallowed up by the earth.”
The village head studied him openly. Ba Lute stared back, unrepentant. Behind the laboured elegance, the cloaked eyes, and the man’s soft, sweating nose, his unwavering expression was familiar. The silence between them grew thoughtful. Ba Lute closed his eyes and then looked at the village head again. He felt as if he had exited the office and then re-entered through a different door. “I knew you at Headquarters. Back in ’46. Didn’t I?”
The man’s face lit up with pleasure.
Ba Lute continued. “You were recruited for the orchestra. Maybe it was ’44, could it be?” He could see these eyes now, that shiny bald head, behind an oboe. The orchestra leader had gone to the villages to recruit youngsters, and his friend, Li Delun, had taught them how to play. “These kids have never even seen an instrument in their dreams!” Delun had said. Even the way the new recruits held their oboes and trumpets was humorous, walking with them as if with a brand new girlfriend. “Ah, ah, ah, ah,” Ba Lute said, trying to clear his thoughts.
“Wasn’t it a memorable time?” the man said. “Learning to play the oboe in the middle of the Japanese invasion, reforming our thoughts and holding ballroom dances every Saturday night. The great leaders like to waltz. This surprised me.”
“There is no music ensemble here,” Ba Lute said.
“No, not here.”
“Do you still have your oboe?”
Silence. The man hesitated, unsure if a joke was being made at his expense. “Yes,” he admitted.
“Old One-two,” Ba Lute said, suddenly remembering the man’s name. They had all taken part in the same self-criticism sessions, which in reality were open attacks on one another. This man had been strict but he had not been a sadist like some of the others. “We nicknamed you One-two, because you could never count inside your head.”
The man laughed. The sound was so unexpected, Ba Lute started and knocked over his empty cup. The man quickly righted it. “You’re right. The trombonist gave me that name,” he said. “It stuck.”
Ba Lute was so thirsty even his eyes felt dry. An image came to him of this room and all the past rooms he had known, he tried to see how all the doorways and entrances fit together, but none of the corners would hold still. “Tell me your requirements,” he said finally.
“My friend, you misunderstand me.”
“I would like permission to visit them. Are they being detained nearby?”
“Comrade,” the man said, “that is not possible.” He blinked rapidly as if his feelings had been injured. “They were sentenced to labour in the Northwest. In the meantime, the revolutionary committee had no choice but to demolish their hut.”
So the letter had not exaggerated, Ba Lute thought. They were gone.
One-two stood up from the desk. “You must know how things are. You are justly celebrated! A champion of the land reform campaign, a triumphant musical foot soldier. We hardened ourselves at Headquarters, didn’t we? We were the first to be reformed through struggle. As Chairman Mao says, true rebellion is not organized or beautiful. Heroes like you built the road. I’m only following the path.”
How could such flattering words feel like mockery? The office was terribly clean, terribly bright.
“More tea?” the man asked.
“No. Thank you.”
“Is there something else I might assist you with?”
Ba Lute stood, raising himself up to his full height. The village head shifted uncomfortably. “Thank you, Comrade,” Ba Lute said. “You’ve been very helpful. I’m sure we’ll have the chance to speak again.”
“Now I remember,” the man said, though of course he had never forgotten. “The wife of my deputy met your wife on the bus and, though the journey was only a day, they formed a bond together. Since then, she has kept a watchful eye on Zhuli. Delivering her to safety.”
Ba Lute felt the walls shifting once again.
“One should be careful of the sun,” the man said, as if talking to himself. He reached out, pulled the string, and the fan started up once more. “One should learn to practise in the shade.”
—