Now he really could listen in. The implications were dizzying. The whole chaos and tumult of humanity would now be wafted up to him. This morning’s work opened up vistas of light and darkness, ecstasy and horror. He thought of the mysterious power exercized by the demons of old. What could they do that he himself couldn’t do now?
8
Van Mey met his friends at the end of the week. They swapped the latest news as usual; as usual it was awful, and could only get worse. A fierce power struggle was said to be going on among the factions in Peking. The winter would only bring new waves of terror. Apparently Mao wasn’t well
“An Albanian delegation came to the factory yesterday,” said Van Mey, “and I had to take them round.”
“What were they like? What did they say?”
“Hard to say, really. I took them to the shop floor, as we usually do with foreigners, but they just looked and smiled. You couldn’t tell what they were thinking.”
“How can they like what they see? And they don’t know half the horrors we have to live with…”
“All they see is just window-dressing,’ said Van Mey.
“But it’s not very difficult to see past it.”
“Perhaps they do see past it, but they pretend not to,” said Van Mey. “In Albania, apparently, people go to concerts to listen to Beethoven — the women wear lipstick and jewellery. The delegation must have noticed how barren and monotonous our lives are here.”
“But they pretend not to notice. Partly for political reasons, partly because they think this sort of life is quite good enough for the Chinese.”
“Do you think so? Well, I think their own lives will gradually become just as arid as ours. Then they’ll understand how awful it is, but by then it’ll be too late.”
“All the time I was taking them round I wanted to say to them: ‘Are you blind? How can you possibly not see what’s going on here?'”
“That would have been sheer madness!”
“Maybe, but if I’d had the chance Pd have whispered a message to them in the few words of French I know. Pd have told them, ‘Don’t believe anything you see — everything is going to the dogs!’ But it was quite impossible! I only had about half a minute alone with one of them, and as soon as I opened my mouth the other guide showed up. But I think that Albanian guessed something.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost certain.”
They went on trudging along the muddy road, amid the rats left by the wheels of heavy lorries. It was cold.
“Well probably be able to meet next week for you know what… The medium is going to get in touch. So on Thursday or Friday …”
“ill be there,” said Van Mey. “Without fail!”
9
Every morning now when he got to his office, Tchan, instead of looking at the papers, or any urgent reports, or his timetable for the day, sat straight down and listened to the tapes that had been recovered during the previous night.
After which, he usually looked very down in the mouth, and was in a bad temper for most of the morning. His assistants had noticed all this, and had tried to think of a way of getting him to listen to the tapes at the end of the day instead of at the beginning. But all their efforts were vain. And to think this was only the start! What would it be like when the weather got really cold and people got even more discontented? The qietingqis” tapes would overflow with complaints.
They were full enough now, in the middle of autumn. It was hard to see how they could hold more, or more sinister, grumbles. Everyone and everything was castigated, no one and nothing was spared. Insults were directed as much against members of the Party as against yesterday’s men. Supporters of Zhou Enlai bad-mouthed supporters of Lin Biao and Jiang Qing to the top of their bent, while the latter did the same to Deng Xiaoping, and all of them joined together to criticize Mao. Tchan couldn’t believe his ears. He wound the tape back. But there it was — he hadn’t been imagining things. What a diabolical racket!
On many a morning Tchan found himself burying his head in his hands, or clenching his jaw so hard he could scarcely feel it. What was all this clamour? According to the proverb, water must go murky before it can start to clear. Was this the explanation? He shrank from this hypothesis. But Chairman Mao couldn’t have made a mistake. It must be the Chinese themselves: they had been getting more wicked lately.
Tchan felt his own attitude hardening daily. He had sent one report to the Zhongnanhai via the two envoys, who had jest left N—, and he was now preparing another. When instructions came from the capital, he would strike. And he would strike without mercy, so that the citizens of N— would remember it for generations.
Later on, at the end of the day’s work, he pet his report in an envelope, sealed it, and sent it, together with two tapes, to the villa in Peking where foreign delegations were put up. The covering note read as follows: “As none of our staff speaks Albanian, we are sending you, for decoding, some tapes concerning the Albanian delegation which has just left N—.” Tchan was exhausted. He locked up his office and went out to the waiting car, “Home,” he told the driver.
The car had to stop in the Street of the People’s Communes. A crowd was blocking the road.
“Now what’s the matter?” growled Tchan.
The driver got out to see. He was soon back,
“A pedestrian’s been crashed by a bulldozer,” he said, starting up the car again. “A man called Van Mey.”
“Van Mey?”
It seemed to Tchan he’d heard that name before. But by the time the car had left the crowd behind, he’d forgotten it.
10
And so the winter went by, one of the worst director Tchan had ever known, full of work and worry. Far away in Peking the power struggle apparently still went on, though no one could say which of the two sides was getting the upper hand. Now one and now the other was borne upwards. Only the Zhongnanhai remained unmoved and unassailable, above the mêlée. Tchan felt his own star was hitched to it from now on.
He’d had to deal with plenty of problems during the winter. Once or twice he’d come quite close to disaster, but in the end chance had been on his side. The microphones were an additional complication. They had become the main cause of tension between him and the other local officials, giving rise to rivalries, intrigues and reversals of alliances. Sometimes Tchan felt he would never struggle free of this imbroglio.
Meanwhile the installation of microphones went on, with the inevitable ups and downs, pleasant and unpleasant surprises. But Tchan was more used to it now; he’d gradually become immunized, as to a poison, by his daily dose, The same thing seemed to be true of the population in generaclass="underline" the rumours about the mikes had died down, as the enYoys from the Zhongnanhai had said they would.
But time, though it sometimes hung heavy, was passing by, and Tchan was amazed when, at the first meeting held to exchange information about the qietingqis, one of his subordinates started his speech with the words:
“It was just a year ago that in accordance with direct instructions from Chairman Mao, our town began installing listening devices …”
The meeting was attended by two representatives of the Zhongnanhai, different ones this time, who took down copious notes about everything. The speakers dealt with every aspect of micro-surveillance, exchanging experience, drawing conclusions, and calling attention to successes and shortcomings.