In that place (the bank), Tom Cheng said, "We have Mike, Julian, Jan, Wayne and Bob."
Tom said he was thirty-four, which was just the age of the generation that had been involved in the Cultural Revolution—he would have been about sixteen at the height of it. But had the Cultural Revolution penetrated to the remote town of Altay?
"Oh, yes!" Tom said. "We had it there. I was in middle school."
"Did you have Red Guards?"
"Yes. I was a Red Guard! In my own school! I was an organizer!"
Tom Cheng wore a yellow sweater and Chinese blue jeans and white sneakers. He carried a portable radio and a plastic holdall stenciled Shanghai. All this was regarded as stylish. All he lacked was sunglasses.
I said, "Did you criticize your teachers for being rightists?"
"Yes!" he said eagerly.
"Did you have a Little Red Book?"
"Yes. The Thoughts of Chairman Mao."
"Did you sing songs?"
"Oh, yes. 'The East Is Red' and the others—all the songs."
"Did you criticize running dogs and people who took the capitalist road?"
"Yes!" Why was he smiling?
"Did you break things in Altay?"
His face fell. He paused a moment and peered at me, looking sheepish, and took a deep breath. He said, "You were in China then, eh?"
8. Train Number 104 to Xian
Chinese trains could be bad. In twelve months of traveling—almost forty trains—I never saw one with a toilet that wasn't piggy. The loudspeakers plonked and nagged for eighteen hours a day—a hangover from the days of Maoist mottos. The conductors could be tyrants, and the feeding frenzy in the dining car was often not worth the trouble. But there were compensations—the kindly conductors, the occasional good meal, the comfortable berth, the luck of the draw; and, when all else failed, there was always a chubby thermos of hot water for making tea.
Yet whatever objections I could devise against the trains, they were nothing compared to the horrors of air travel in China. I had a small dose of it when I left Urumchi for Lanzhou—there was no point in retracing my steps on The Iron Rooster. I was told to be at the airport three hours early—that is, at seven in the morning; and the plane left five hours late, at three in the afternoon. It was an old Russian jet, and its metal covering was wrinkled and cracked like the tinfoil in a used cigarette pack. The seats were jammed so closely together my knees hurt and the circulation to my feet was cut off. Every seat was taken, and every person was heavily laden with carry-on baggage—big skull-cracking bundles that fell out of the overhead rack. Even before the plane took off people were softly and soupily vomiting, with their heads down and their hands folded, in the solemn and prayerful way that the Chinese habitually puke. After two hours we were each given an envelope that contained three caramel candies, some gum and three sticky boiled sweets; a piece of cellophane almost concealed a black strand of dried beef that looked like oakum and tasted like decayed rope; and (because the Chinese can be optimistic) a toothpick. Two hours later a girl wearing an old mailman's uniform went around with a tray. Thinking it might be better food, I snatched one of the little parcels—it was a key ring. The plane was very hot and then so cold I could see my breath. It creaked like a schooner under sail. Another two hours passed. I thought, I am out of my mind. An announcement was made, saying in a gargling way that we would shortly be landing. At this point everyone except the pukers stood up and began yanking their bundles out of the racks; and they remained standing, pushing, tottering and vaguely complaining—deaf to the demands that they sit down and strap themselves in—as the plane bounced, did wheelies on the runway and limped to Lanzhou terminal. Never again.
"What you think of Chinese airplane?" Mr. Fang asked in a rare burst of English.
"Lamentable."
"Thank you!" he said. "Maybe we take plane to Xian?"
"You take the plane. I'll take the train."
"Tomorrow?" he said hopefully.
"Tonight."
Mr. Fang seemed weary. If I tired him out he might leave me alone. He was not actively offensive; but it made me uneasy always to see him ten steps behind me, silently looking on, clutching his dictionary, and now probably looking up the meaning of the word lamentable.
There was a dwarf at Lanzhou Station—an exceedingly small dwarf, less than three feet tall. At first I thought he was a child, but he had a wrinkled face and a sort of frowning and anxious expression; a tiny hat, tiny slippers. He walked very briskly. That was the first giveaway—children never walk with such conviction. And then people began to stare. I followed this dwarf through the station.
People pointed, some shrieked and called out. A Chinese man fumbled with a camera but was not quick enough to take a picture. A child saw the dwarf and yelled to his mother. And then, strangest of all, he was seen by a group of about fifteen deaf-and-dumb people. They were enthusing noiselessly and wildly signaling—pointing at the stern little man. They tried to surround him as they gesticulated and mimed their fascination, not realizing how grotesque they were in their dumb-show ridicule and that this dwarf was just a person on his way home. Then there were hoots of laughter, from Chinese who found the deaf-and-dumb people funny and the dwarf hilarious. The dwarf hurried away, while the crowd stared at these handicapped people who were speaking to each other like Siamese dancers, flicking their fingers. The Chinese never seemed to hide their interest in anything. They stared frankly—they put their faces against my book as I read it; when I opened my wallet, they peered in; when I unzipped my bag, a crowd gathered to look at my laundry. Chinese were seldom alone; usually they were part of a watching crowd, which made it all possible. They were riveted by the freakish and the pathetic.
In front of Lanzhou Station there were about thirty young people standing in a long line, just at the exit door. They carried red banners with gold characters inscribed on them, and long streamers and placards and flags. They were silent, standing patiently, like mourners. And I thought perhaps they were mourners, awaiting a catafalque from Train 104. It was eleven at night, and as this was Lanzhou, very chilly and damp.
"What are they doing, Mr. Fang?"
"They are welcoming the delegates," he said, without hesitation.
"Which delegates?"
"From the conference."
"Which conference?"
"There are so many conferences," he said.
I felt I was being fobbed off with a lame explanation. I pressed Mr. Fang a bit harder.
"Perhaps an agricultural conference," he said.
His perhaps made me suspicious. I then suspected that they were striking, protesting, making some sort of fuss. If so, that was interesting, because fusses and strikes were never reported in the China Daily. In fact, the demand of most demonstrations—when they occurred, which was rare—was that the demonstration be reported in the Chinese news media.
"What do those signs say, Mr. Fang?"
"I can't read them without my glasses."
"Please put on your glasses," I said. "I am very curious."
"Hah! Hah! Hah!" he howled, pushing his glasses on and leaning forward. "Hah! Hah! Hah!"
This grunting mirthless laugh meant: I have just made a jackass of myself.
Then he removed his glasses and became very solemn. Chinese laughter often had a sobering effect. It was more than explanatory; it was also cathartic.
'They are advertising a hotel."
"One hotel?"
"Many hotels."