Still, he had to consider himself lucky with his position intact as an administrator in the Writers’ Association, and the occasional appearance of his name in the newspapers. The Party authorities tried to keep a working-class poet on the literary scene in a symbolic way. Now in semi-retirement, Bao was given the chance to visit the United States. Bao could have said no to this trip, but he was going to retire soon, and then he would lose all his privileges, including the opportunity of a government-paid trip. It would be a terrible loss of face for a writer of his status to step down without having visited the States. The opportunity was like a chicken rib: not meaty, but too chewable to throw away.
It was then that the phone rang. He wasn’t really in the mood to talk to anybody, but to his surprise, it was Hong Guangxuan, someone he had known in the mid-sixties, in the Beijing Workers’ Culture Palace, in his poetry workshop. Sitting in the audience, Hong listened to his talks and turned in the homework to the “master.” So they became acquainted. After Hong immigrated to the United States in the early eighties, they had lost contact.
Bao moved down to the lobby in strides, carrying that poetry collection. Hong had a Chinese restaurant here, Bao had heard.
“I’m so glad to see you, Master,” Hong said, rising respectfully as in the old days.
“You have not forgotten me, Hong.” Master was a word Bao had long missed. Now thousands of miles away, someone still remembered him as such. He was touched.
“How can I! Those days in the Worker’s Culture Palace,” Hong said. “I heard about the delegation two days ago and I thought about you. In the local newspapers, I read the name of the delegation head-never heard of him before-Chen Cao, but only this morning did I learn from someone else that you were here.”
“Oh, I’m the Party secretary of the delegation,” Bao said. “The Party position won’t be mentioned in the newspapers here.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Hong said. “It’s about ten years since we last met. Things have really changed, as from azure oceans to mulberry fields. How about a long talk over a night meal? There are excellent Chinese restaurants in L.A. As genuine as you can find in Beijing.”
Bao was not hungry. But the prospect of a genuine Beijing night meal was tempting-the more so with someone who shared the memories of the Beijing Workers’ Culture Palace. As he was going out, he thought about giving Chen a call, but he decided not to. It would be a loss of face to seek Chen’s approval in the company of Hong.
Hong moved to a black BMW convertible parked in the driveway, from which he took out a cell phone, pressed a few buttons, and spoke in English.
“You don’t have to drive me around, Hong. No point in going to fancy places. Let’s just go to a quiet place where we can sit and talk.”
“Well, come to my place then. Not a fancy restaurant, but we’ll have our privacy, and my chef will do his best.”
“That sounds like a plan.’’
Hong’s restaurant turned out to be a small one located close to the old Chinatown area. In spite of the red paper lanterns and golden plastic lions at the entrance, the restaurant did not have something like a private room. Instead, Hong treated his “distinguished guest” in a low-ceilinged office above the landing of the narrow staircase. The chef was none other than Hong’s brother-in-law, who served on the desk four cold dishes, cucumber in sesame sauce, sliced pig ears, smoked carp head, and pickled napo cabbage with plenty of red pepper. Hong also took out a bottle of Beijing Erguotou.
“My wife brought it over years ago. The old wine of our Beijing. I have saved it for an occasion like tonight. To your health, Master!”
“Thank you, Hong. It’s just like the old days,” Bao said, raising the cup.
“Just homely dishes, far from enough to show my respect to you. The restaurant is not prepared for your honorable presence tonight,” Hong went on with a touch of bookishness, “which brightens the whole humble place.”
“You don’t have to say that. These dishes are great. In Beijing, I have not had pickled cabbage for a long time. Why? It’s too cheap for restaurants to make profit.”
“They should serve the working-class people.”
“Chinese newspapers don’t talk about the working-class people anymore. The best customers are big bucks. Banquets of fifty or sixty courses. We don’t have to imitate those bourgeois apes.”
“You are right. I have read about the so-called middle or bourgeois class in China. The world is turned upside down! Let’s talk about something else. To the success of your visit.”
“Thank you. To your success too.”
“By the way, who is Chen Cao? Never heard of him. What does he write?”
“A modernist poet.”
“Oh, one of the Misty poets no one can understand?”
“Well, his poems are said to be not that misty,” Bao said, taking a sip at the wine, “but to be honest, I can hardly understand one single short poem out of his whole book.”
“He looks quite young in his picture.”
“In his mid-thirties.”
“How can he serve as the head of the delegation?”
“Yang fell sick, so Chen replaced him at the last minute. A decision made by some people high up there. Chen has published only one poetry collection.”
“He must have connections at the top.”
“That I don’t know,” Bao said gingerly. “He’s from Shanghai. I don’t think too many are familiar with his work.”
“As Chairman Mao said, literature and art should serve the broad masses of workers, peasants, and soldiers. Only a handful of intellectuals would enjoy those obscure poems,” Hong went on, draining his wine in one gulp. “I came to know your work, ‘The Working-Class Are Strong-Backboned,’ I still remember, through a song in the radio. We the working-class are strong-backboned. / Following Chairman, we march forward, / With the country and the world in our heart, / We do not stop on the road of the revolution. / Holding the red flags high, we move on courageously. / We’re the locomotive of the new era.‘ So clear, and so powerful. I memorized it, indeed-”
“Let’s talk no more about it,” Bao said. “You know an old Chinese saying: An aged hero does not want to talk about his glorious past.”
“Think about it. Chen must have studied your famous poems as a middle-school student.”
“Well, because of the new cadre policy, people of his age with a higher education have been rocketing up.”
“Does he work in the Writers’ Association?”
“No, he’s a cop in Shanghai, but he’s a member of the association.”
“Now that’s something. A cop. He could have some secret mission for this trip.”
“Not that I know of,” Bao said vaguely, “but anything is possible with him.”
The chef served on the table an earthen pot of fish soup. The soup was steaming hot, red with dried peppers and indescribable herb. Bao helped himself to a spoonful, which was so spicy that he felt as if there were thousands of ants crawling on his tongue. He had to take a gulp of cold water.
“This is a world changed beyond our comprehension.” Hong smacked his lips, launching into another topic. “Don’t think life is easy for me here. In the restaurant business, so many Chinese are struggling for one small bowl of rice in cutthroat competition. People work like dogs, seven days a week. Visitors from China marvel at my house, at my restaurant, and at my cars, but they don’t know everything here is on the loan. I am breaking under the burden.”