"There will be more," he said. "Many more."
A moment later he was gone, and I talked with other students. They were jolly, frozen-faced youngsters on old, floppy skates. To ingratiate myself with them I borrowed a pair of skates, and seeing me fall down and make an ass of myself, they became very friendly. What did I think of China? they asked. How did American students compare with Chinese students? Did I like the food? Could I use chopsticks? What was my favorite city in China? They were goofy and lovable, with crooked teeth and cold, white hands. When I asked them whether they had girlfriends they averted their faces and giggled. They did not seem like counterrevolutionaries.
I had repeatedly requested a High-Level Meeting—that is, a chance to talk with an important government official. In the past my request had done nothing more than make certain people suspicious. What was I doing in China? they demanded to know. They had asked me for my itinerary. Using an extremely clever if somewhat fanciful Chinese technique for ensnaring awkward visitors, they insisted that I was too important to travel alone and so stuck me with Mr. Fang. He had gone back to his desk in Peking: he did not know that I was still in China. Now I was traveling on my own.
I risked asking for a High-Level Meeting once more, hoping that they would not pounce on me and give me another nanny or babysitter. I received a message telling me to report to Comrade Bai at the well-known Ministry of Truth. I was told that I could ask anything I liked.
Before I left for the ministry I asked a Chinese friend what questions I should put to the official. He said, "No matter what you ask him you will find his answers in the People's Daily"
The taxi driver who took me to the Ministry of Truth was impressed by the address I had given him. He said, "Can you meet American officials as easily as this?"
I told him truthfully that I had never met a really high government official in Washington—that I had never gotten the urge to meet one. It was only in foreign countries that such things seemed important. But the fact was that I had spent all my time talking to people on trains, or farmers, or market traders, or kids playing in parks, or students. They were the people who really mattered; but it was absurd to spend a year going up and down in China and not talk with an official and hear the Party line.
"What would you ask this official if you could?"
The driver said, "About the future."
"What about the future?"
"Will I be all right? Will the reforms continue? Will we have more democracy? What about prices? And"—he started to laugh—"how can I get a new license for my taxi?"
I was met by Comrade Bai, a little fellow in a blue Mao suit. He explained that he was not the official—certainly not the high official, he added anxiously, and he breathed noisily through his clenched teeth. Then he laughed. It was the Chinese laugh of warning.
Comrade Bai led me to a ministerial reception room, and then he went to tell the high official that I had arrived.
Comrade Hu entered with a flourish, gesturing for me to return to my plump armchair. He was about fifty or so, and had Deng Xiaoping's broad, tomcat face and unblinking eyes. It was obvious that he was a Party man in the new mold: he wore a gray Western-style suit and speckled tie in the manner of the rising Mr. Zhao Ziyang. He seemed brisk and even a bit impatient, but he was candid, and his English was fluent.
After our opening pleasantries I asked him about the relations between China and the Soviet Union. He said there was trade between the two countries, but that there were political obstacles— Soviet aid to Vietnam, the Afghanistan business, and troops in Mongolia.
"The Soviets make a big mistake in thinking that their kind of socialism can be exported to other countries," he said. "It doesn't work."
"Can Chinese socialism be exported?" I asked.
"We do not force our ideas on other people," he said.
I then asked him a roundabout question, wondering whether the government was alarmed by the recent disturbances.
"Perhaps you are referring to the events in Peking and elsewhere caused by the students," he said, and he explained, "China is in the first stage of socialism—we are just beginning to develop. In some ways, we are underdeveloped and we are proceeding slowly and carefully. In the countryside the reforms have gone smoothly. But in cities much remains to be done."
"How long will this stage of socialism last?"
"Until we achieve our target," he said. He told me the statistics, the income figures and projections; but in an uncertain world such numbers seemed meaningless to me. It was not just inflation that he seemed to be ignoring but the rising expectations of the Chinese people.
I said, "Does it seem to you that the Chinese people are too impatient for changes to come about?"
"Some are very impatient," he said. "Especially the students. What do these students know about democracy? They are speaking in a very abstract way. They lack concrete ideas."
"Do you think the students don't understand democracy?"
"In each country there is a strict definition of democracy," he said. "You have yours in the United States. We must have ours in China."
"So you think student demonstrations are really dangerous?"
"Some elements could get out of hand," Comrade Hu said. "They could bring disorder. If there is no control there could be chaos—everyone doing as he likes. That could produce another Cultural Revolution."
I did not see the logic in this. Wasn't it the other way around? If the government kept the lid on and the so-called ultraleftists succeeded in suppressing the students, a Cultural Revolution was much more likely. He was using the Cultural Revolution as a frightener. But I got nowhere in trying to pursue this with him.
"You must read more," he said. "You must examine our Four Guiding Principles."
"I have read them," I said. That particular pamphlet, in five languages (including one of China's favorites, Esperanto) was in the waiting room of most railway stations. I had plenty of opportunities to read it. "I meant to ask you about that. Guiding principle number four mentions Marxism-Leninism and Mao's thought."
Comrade Hu's eyes were fixed upon me. The name Mao in China always concentrated people's attention. It was probably the single most powerful syllable in China.
I said, "I was wondering which of Mao's thoughts seemed especially pertinent today."
"One cannot summarize Mao's thought," he said smoothly. "It is too subtle and wide ranging. Mao wrote about everything." But when I pressed him, he said, "His essay 'On Practice' is one which contains the essence of his thought, and that is something we can be guided by these days."
That essay is an argument for action, I found, when I read it later. It is about learning by doing; and "practice" is like a synonym for living, in this down-to-earth approach to running a society. It is a tract against handbooks, against bookishness of any kind—Mao loved literature but hated books. Mao seemed to sum up the essay when he wrote, "All genuine knowledge originates in direct experience." It was a struggler's motto, and rather a good one, I thought: action was everything. It was also a good motto for a traveler.
"You must remember that China is unique," Comrade Hu said. "There is no model for China. We have to solve our problems in our own way."
I said, "Do you think it's a problem that China seeks the West's technology but not its ideology or influence?"
"No problem at all," he said breezily.
"But surely there have been negative influences that have come to China with the new technology."
"We have to educate people to make a distinction between what is good and what is bad influence."
The word educate in China always seemed to me somewhat ambiguous. Education was sometimes classroom work; but just as often it was prison, the workhouse, exile or even (as Deng had frankly emphasized) a bullet in the back of the neck.