‘China needs more smart boys like Kai,’ Jianjun persisted.
‘Or smart girls, Father,’ Ting suggested.
But Jianjun wanted a grandson. ‘I’m sure Kai would like a son,’ he said.
Yu took a steamer off the stove, filled a basket with bao buns, and handed the basket to her husband. ‘Put those on the table for me, please,’ she said.
She quickly dished up a platter of stir-fried pork with green peppers, another of home-made bean curd, and a bowl of rice. Jianjun poured more baijiu for himself; the others declined. Ting, eating sparingly, said to Yu: ‘You make the best buns ever, Mama.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
To keep Jianjun off the grandchildren topic, Kai told him about President Green’s UN resolution, and the diplomatic contest over votes. Jianjun was inclined to be scornful. ‘The UN never makes any real difference,’ he said. The traditionalists believed that conflict was never really resolved by anything but fighting. Mao had said that power grows out of the barrel of a gun.
‘It’s good that young people should be idealists,’ Jianjun said with all the condescension that a Chinese father felt entitled to.
‘How kind of you to say so,’ said Kai.
The sarcasm went right over his father’s head. Jianjun said: ‘One way or another, we will have to break the American ring of steel.’
Ting said: ‘What’s the ring of steel, Father?’
‘The Americans encircle us. They have troops in Japan, South Korea, Guam, Singapore and Australia. As well as that, the Philippines and Vietnam are friends of the US. The Americans did the same thing to the Soviet Union – they called it “containment”. And in the end the Russian Revolution was strangled. We have to avoid the fate of the Soviets, but we won’t do it at the UN. Sooner or later we will have to smash the ring.’
Kai agreed with his father’s analysis but had an alternative solution. ‘Yes, Washington would like to destroy us, but America isn’t the world,’ he said. ‘We’re making alliances and doing business all around the globe. More and more countries see that a friendship with China is in their interests, no matter that it annoys the US. We’re changing the dynamic. The struggle between the US and China doesn’t need to be settled by a gladiatorial contest, winner takes all. Better to move to a position where war isn’t necessary. Let the ring of steel rust and crumble.’
Jianjun was immovable. ‘A pipedream. No amount of investment in Third-World countries will change the Americans. They hate us and they want to wipe us out.’
Kai tried another approach. ‘It’s the Chinese way to avoid a battle whenever possible. Didn’t Sun-Tzu say the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting?’
‘Ah, you try to use my belief in tradition against me. But it won’t work. We must always be ready for war.’
Kai found himself becoming frustrated and annoyed. Ting saw this and put a restraining hand on his arm. He took no notice. Scornfully, he said: ‘And do you think that we can defeat the overwhelming power of the United States, Father?’
Yu said: ‘Perhaps we should talk about something else.’
Jianjun ignored her. ‘Our military is ten times stronger than it was. Improvements—’
Kai interrupted. ‘But who would win?’
‘Our new missiles have multiple warheads that are independently targeted—’
‘But who would win?’
Jianjun banged his fist on the table, rattling the crockery. ‘We have the nuclear bombs necessary to devastate American cities!’
‘Ah,’ said Kai, sitting back. ‘So we come to nuclear war – very quickly.’
Jianjun was angry too, now. ‘China will never be the first to use nuclear weapons. But to avoid the total destruction of China – yes!’
‘And what good would that do us?’
‘We are never going back to the Era of Humiliation.’
‘In what circumstances, exactly, would you, Father, as vice-chairman of the National Security Commission, recommend to the president that he attack the United States with nuclear weapons – knowing that annihilation would almost certainly follow?’
‘Under two conditions,’ said Jianjun. ‘One: that American aggression threatens the existence, sovereignty or integrity of the People’s Republic of China. Two: that neither diplomacy nor conventional weapons are adequate to counter the threat.’
‘You really mean it,’ said Kai.
‘Yes.’
Yu said to Jianjun: ‘I’m sure you’re right, my dear.’ She picked up the bread basket. ‘Have another bun,’ she said.
CHAPTER 7
Kiah was bringing her laundry back from the lake shore, a basket on one hip and Naji on the other, when a large black Mercedes car drove into the village.
Everyone was astonished. A year could go by without a visit from a stranger, and now they had had two in a week. All the women came out of their houses to look.
The windscreen reflected the sun as a burning disc. The car stopped for the driver to speak to a village man weeding a patch of onions. Then it went on to the house of Abdullah, the senior of the elders. Abdullah came out and the driver opened the rear door. Clearly the visitor had the good manners to speak to village elders before anything else. After a few minutes Abdullah got out, looking pleased, and went back into his house. Kiah guessed he had received some money.
The car returned to the centre of the village.
The driver, wearing pressed trousers and a clean white shirt, got out and walked around the car. He slid open a rear passenger door, revealing a glimpse of tan leather upholstery.
The woman who emerged was about fifty. She was dark skinned, but she wore expensive European clothes: a dress that revealed her figure, shoes with heels, a wide-brimmed hat to shade her face, and a handbag. No one in the village had ever owned a handbag.
The driver pressed a button and the door closed with an electric whirr.
The older village women stared from a distance, but the youngsters crowded around the visitor. The teenage girls, barefoot in their hand-me-down dresses, stared enviously at her clothes.
The woman took from her handbag a pack of Cleopatra cigarettes and a lighter. She put a cigarette between her red lips and lit it, then inhaled deeply.
She was the epitome of sophistication.
She blew out smoke and then pointed to a tall girl with light-brown skin.
The older women moved close enough to hear what was said.
‘My name is Fatima,’ said the visitor in Arabic. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Zariah.’
‘A lovely name for a lovely girl.’
The other kids giggled but it was true: Zariah was striking.
Fatima said: ‘Can you read and write?’
Zariah said proudly: ‘I went to the nuns’ school.’
‘Is your mother here?’
Zariah’s mother, Noor, stepped forward with a cockerel under her arm. She raised chickens, and undoubtedly had picked up the valuable bird to keep it safe from the wheels of the car. It was grumpy and indignant, and so was Noor. She said: ‘What do you want with my daughter?’
Fatima ignored the hostility and replied pleasantly: ‘How old is your beautiful girl?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Good.’
‘Why is that good?’
‘I have a restaurant in N’Djamena, on the Avenue Charles de Gaulle. I need waitresses.’ Fatima adopted a brisk, matter-of-fact tone of voice. ‘They must be intelligent enough to take food and drink orders without making mistakes, and they must also be young and pretty, because that is what customers want.’
The crowd became even more interested. Kiah and the other mothers moved closer. Kiah noticed an aroma as if someone had opened a box of sweets, and realized the fragrance came from Fatima. She seemed like a creature from a folk tale, but she was here to offer something down to earth and much sought after: a job.
Kiah said: ‘What if the customers don’t speak Arabic?’
Fatima looked hard at her, assessing her. ‘May I ask your name, young lady?’
‘I’m Kiah.’
‘Well, Kiah, I find that bright girls can quickly learn the French and English words for the dishes they’re serving.’