There was no obvious police presence around the hotel; good. The fact is, Hong Kong was a decent city full of decent people, with a government as decent as most; but Hong Kong had to bear in mind 1997, just around the corner. In 1997, the British lease would end, and Hong Kong would revert to the authority and control of the mainland Chinese government. The quickly receding events in Tiananmen Square were to be deplored, but for the politicians reality had to be faced. (Some reality, of course, had to be faced rather more squarely than other reality: 1997, for instance, was relatively easy to face. The image of the tanks on top of the bodies of the people was a bit more difficult to face. Once again, the tough-minded and the pragmatic had found it possible to be just a little lenient with themselves.)
The “counterrevolutionaries” of that Beijing spring had dispersed after the crackdown by the ancient murderers; those who had not been captured and executed, that is. Some had come together in France, and still issued their press releases to an increasingly indifferent world. Three or four groups had settled in different parts of the United States, to bicker among themselves and continue their educations in American universities and eventually, no doubt, become employees of major hospitals and insurance corporations. Those who had stayed in China emerged only rarely from their hiding places to post declarations on walls that hardly anyone ever saw. Li Kwan was among the few who had chosen to stay in Hong Kong, to that city’s increasing discomfort, where they had been until recently relatively safe and yet still close to China, where their presence could still be a significant reminder, much more so than anywhere else on Earth.
But now normalization had come also to Hong Kong. And now Li Kwan, illegally in the city, would if captured be returned to the ancient murderers of Beijing. But, of course, Hong Kong was a civilized and democratic city. It would certainly not deport Li Kwan without absolute assurances from the Chinese government that Li Kwan would receive a fair and open trial; assurances already given.
And, too, there’s 1997.
The entire hotel was air-conditioned, everywhere from the huge ornate dark gold lobby to the tiniest shop. Kwan paused briefly inside the revolving doors, body adapting to the chill as he looked warily left and right, and still everything seemed safe. He walked forward, slowly, and waited to be recognized. (“I’ll know you from your picture,” the reporter had said on the telephone, when the intermediaries set up the call, and he hadn’t had to explain which picture he meant.)
Midway across the lobby, a large shambling man heaved himself out of one of the low armchairs and moved toward Kwan. He looked to be about fifty, in an open-collared shirt and brown suede jacket and rumpled chinos. Three leather camera cases dangled from him. For some reason, Americans, when far from home, always look as though they’ve recently fallen from a motorcycle: clothing a bit disarrayed, manner a bit harried and nervous, but somehow optimistic and relieved because no real damage had been done. The reporter was like that. He had a pepper-and-salt beard, thinning curly hair, dark-rimmed spectacles, amiable smile. “Mr. Li?”
“Yes.”
“Sam Mortimer.” He put out his hand, gave Kwan’s a firm and honest shake. “Too early for a drink!’”
“Oh, yes,” Kwan said, smiling at the idea. It was probably several years too early for a drink; Kwan saw nothing to be gained from alcohol at this stage in his life.
“Tea, then,” Mortimer said, gesturing toward the hotel’s interior café. “We can sit and be comfortable.”
The café was irregularly shaped, its predominant color that of flamingos. Along one curving wall, windows looked out at a rock garden and, beyond it, the swimming pool, in which one man windmilled doggedly back and forth, back and forth, while a dozen swimsuited people lay on chaise longues in the sun. Kwan and Mortimer took a table for two next to one of these windows, and Mortimer opened one of his camera cases, which contained a cassette recorder, a notepad, and several pencils. “Mind if I record this?”
“Not at all.”
It wasn’t Kwan’s first interview, not by a long shot, and he had only the one subject of interest, so both the questions and the answers were already determined, were already in fact several times in print. But that was all right; the essence of news, as the news gatherers see it, is the recording of simple objective reality. This conversation is actually taking place, here and now, verifiably, and is therefore much more newsworthy than any other previous conversation, no matter how identical.
They went over the usual ground in the usual order, Mortimer checking off questions already written into his notepad, occasionally making an additional note, or underlining some part of the question. The background of Li Kwan: Father a teacher, mother a doctor, himself a quick student, already a university graduate, continuing his studies in history and English, planning to enter the diplomatic corps. The arrival in China of the American president, Bush, leaving a confused sense of opportunity lost. Then, soon after, the arrival of the Soviet premier, Gorbachev, and the sense that opportunity must be taken now. The demonstrations in favor of Gorbachev leading somehow naturally to the demonstrations against corruption and privilege among the Chinese ruling elite, leading to the hunger strike, leading to the upsurge of popular support.
“Looking back now,” Kwan said, smiling faintly at his former naivete, “What we did reminds me of the American protestors of the nineteen sixties, who formed a circle around the Pentagon, joined hands, and attempted to levitate the building with their minds. They thought they would actually do it, you know, they expected to see the building rise up from the ground. We thought we would actually do it, too, and our conviction held the army back for more than a week.”
Mortimer said, “Do you know a lot about the United States? Not history, I mean, but things like levitating the Pentagon.”
“That is history.”
Mortimer smiled, indulging him. “Those people were silly,” he said. “You don’t mean to say that the students in Tiananmen Square were silly.”
“Of course, I do,” Kwan insisted. “Anyone who follows his aspirations beyond common sense, beyond the bounds of reality, is silly. But we have to be silly, some of us have to be silly, if the human race is to get anywhere.”
Mortimer was troubled by that. It showed in his friendly face, but he didn’t pursue it. Instead, he went on to the next question in his notebook. And the next. And the next. Through the past, and into the future: “What do you think will happen in China now?”
“Change,” Kwan said. “Some for the good, some for the bad. But always slow The habit of the people, for centuries, is to obey.”
“If the Hong Kong authorities get hold of you, they’ll send you back. There’ll be a trial, a public trial. You’ll get to speak. Would that be good for your cause, or bad?”
A strange question. Kwan said, “It would be bad, of course, because then I would not be able to have any more interviews like this. There are not many voices right now We can’t afford to lose any of them.”
“How about a public statement at your trial? Wouldn’t that have an impact?”
“The trial would last one day,” Kwan told him. “I would get to say very little. The second day, I would be taken outside and told to kneel. A pistol would be put to the back of my head, and I would be killed. The third day, the government would send my family a bill for the bullet.”
Mortimer’s eyes widened at that. “A bill? You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But why? For God’s sakes...”