SPIRITUALIST SESSION IN THE TOWN OF N —.
SYNOPSIS FOE STORY.
1
The little boat dropped anchor in the river port at N—, just to unload a few crates marked “Insecticide” in black letters. It was late on a cold September afternoon, and by the time the boat had plunged back into the mist, the crates, together with the two men who seemed to be guarding them, were on a Xin Fu track driving hell-for-leather towards the town centre. Later, when a lot of people claimed they could dimly remember that distant afternoon, they found it difficult to specify any details. As a matter of fact, apart from the man in charge of the little port and his two clerks, no one had witnessed the unloading of the crates from the boat or their swift loading on to the lorry. And not even the men in the port had been in a position to notice the strange fact that the Xin Fu truck, instead of pulling up outside some farm commune or municipal office or depot for hotel supplies, had disappeared into the yard at the back of the Department of Public Safety.
It seemed to be expected. No sooner had they seen the door of the truck fly open than Tchan, the director, and his assistants rushed over. From the way they all bowed, it was clear that the men guarding the crates were extremely important.
“We would have come to the port to meet you, but we were instructed …by wire…”
“I know,” interrupted one of the new arrivals coldly, “Is everyone here who ought to be here?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Let’s get them all together, then,” said the other, leading the way to the entrance. “I have a few words to say.”
Sitting round the table in the director’s office, the local officials gazed at the stern-faced envoys from the capital with a mixture of respect, uncertainty and terror.
“As you may imagine, we’ve been sent here by the Zhongnamhai, the General Bureau — in other words, directly by Chairman Mao,”
“As you may know,” said the other envoy, “the Zhongmanhai,despite its unpretentious name, occupies a special place: outside the Party, outside the state, outside the army, and outside yourselves. And in this context, ‘outside’ means ‘above’. The Zhongmanbai is above everyone because it’s the instrument of Chairman Mao, an extension of his hand and mind.”
He paused for a moment, half-closing his eyes, as if not wanting anyone to meet his gaze and distract his thoughts.
“More than once,” he went on gravely, “our enemies have tried to infiltrate the Bureau in order to encourage hostile tendencies. They’ve tried to draw our people into foreign plots, they’ve slandered us, asked for the Zhongnanbai to be abolished, but the Chairman has always defended us. He has defended us because we are blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.”
He suddenly banged his fist on the table, making the others jump.
“Now Chairman Mao, our great helmsman, wishes to have at his disposal direct and accurate information from all over our great country, unmodified by any intermediary. And that’s why, from today on, he’s going to sow, to distribute these…”
He gestured at the crates, which he’d had deposited at their feet.
“These microphones, which we’ve brought here today in those crates, are his ears…”
There was a pause.
“Do you see?” he went on. “So long as these ears hear properly, China will have nothing to fear. But if they get stopped up, China will be lost. That is the message we are bringing you today.”
The others were still stunned by what they’d just heard. Ever since they’d been told that mysterious envoys from the capital would be coming to see them, bringing crates containing secret equipment, they’d imagined this would be something very out-of-the-way, and they were dying to know what it was. Though the crates were marked “Insecticide”, they’d expected them to contain special weapons — explosives, new kinds of hand-guns, tear-gas or electric truncheons. The idea of microphones had never entered their heads.
“Qietingqi, qietingqi” they muttered to themselves, as if repeating the name of the things would make them seem more real. Now they understood why some electrical engineers had been told to come here today too. Up till a few minutes ago they’d been looking down their noses at these eggheads. Now they began to treat them more affably.
So the boxes were full of mikes. The ears of Chairman Mao. Hundreds of thousands of them. God alone knew how many, installed all over China …They felt the first faint stirrings of delight.
The other envoy then described the workings of these devices, and how they were to be installed. He spoke very quietly, as if through one of the microphones he’d been working with so long.
As he spoke, the two electrical engineers made notes. The visitor first told them the crates contained various kinds of microphones: fixed ones, portable ones, and very small ones for attaching secretly to a suspect’s clothes. Then he instructed them in the various ways of setting them all up, in connecting and disconnecting them (the envoy used the words “sowing” and “harvesting”), in remote control, in the treatment and editing of tapes.
While the engineers scribbled feverishly, Tchan and the others listened open-mouthed. No one noticed that, outside, night had fallen long ago. A dismal night, wet and windy.
2
The same night, Van Mey, a citizen of N—, hobbled along the Street of the Red East on the way to see some friends. The street lanterns were few and far between, and blowing about in the wind and rain. But if he was worried it wasn’t only because of the weather, or because, in the mist, the light from the lamps was dimmer and gloomier than usual The same thought kept going round and round in his head: it was incredible that on this night in late September, in the town of N—, in the People’s Socialist Republic of China, in the middle of the Cultural Revolution, he, citizen Van Mey, chemist in the laboratory at Factory No.4, member of the unions, praised for his zeal in studying the thoughts of Chairman Mao and his speeches at meetings held to denounce Liu Shaoshi, the liberalism of Deng Xiaoping, the idealism of Confucius, the four mysticisms, the seven demons of the country, and so on — that he of all people should have left home and gone out in order to take part in a spiritualist séance.
And on a night like this into the bargain! It might have been specially ordered!
A week or so ago a couple of his friends had given him a great surprise. For years they’d all been moaning and groaning about the boring life they led — a life without one heart-warming element, without restaurants, without traditional customs, without even the chance to flirt with a pretty woman; a life of chaff without wheat, insipid as canteen rice without salt or garnish; a life in which even fear was ugly, and anguish dry and calculated, nothing like the good old terror that used to be inspired by ghosts and spirits…Well, a couple of weeks ago these two pals of his had told him they’d organized a spiritualist séance.
Were they making fun of him? Could such a relic really still be found on Chinese soil? Even when they swore it was true, and said the medium they’d managed to find was only waiting to be told when they wanted to meet, Van Mey still couldn’t bring himself to believe them. Were they sure this man was to be trusted? That he wasn’t an agent provocateur, trying to lure them into disaster? Heavens, no, said Van Mey’s friends. Safe as houses.
And now here he was on his way to throw down the biggest possible challenge to that existence made up of meetings, slogans, quotations, empty phrases, hate and sterility. He was ready to swap the whole lot for a twinge of genuine old-fashioned terror.
He was drenched by the time he got to his friend’s house. He knocked at the door and went in. Both his pals were waiting for him. As was the medium. He was pasty-faced, with a flaccid skin, hair plastered down on his skull, and big bags under his eyes. Well, he doesn’t look like an agent provocateur\ thought Van Mey. He’s the old China all over.