‘Enjoying the silence of Africa after a long day’s work.’
‘Is this where I’m going to see the leopard?’
‘No. Most of the wildlife here is snakes and lizards. Plus the hunter ants that everybody is so scared of. But no leopards.’
‘What happens now?’
‘Nothing. The work is over and done with. You’ll discover that not everything is as primitive as it seems. There’s even a shower in your tent. And a comfortable bed. Later this evening we’ll have a communal meal. Anyone who wants to sit around the campfire afterwards is welcome to do so; those who want to sleep can do that, too.’
‘You and I must talk things through,’ said Hong Qiu. ‘It’s essential.’
Ya Ru smiled. ‘After dinner. We can sit outside my tent.’
He didn’t need to point out which one it was. Hong Qiu had already gathered that it was the one next to hers.
Hong Qiu sat by the door of her tent and watched the sun setting rapidly over the bush. A fire was already burning in the open area in the middle of the semicircle of tents. She could see Ya Ru there. He was wearing a white dinner jacket. It reminded her of a picture she had seen long ago in a Chinese magazine in connection with a major article describing the colonial history of Africa and Asia. Two white men wearing dinner jackets had been sitting deep in the African bush, eating at a table with a white tablecloth, using expensive crockery and drinking chilled white wine. The African waiters were standing motionless, but at the ready, behind their chairs.
Hong Qiu was the last of all those present to take her place at the set table by the fire.
She thought about the letter she had written the previous evening. And about Ma Li — and suddenly she was not even sure that she could still rely upon her.
Nothing, she thought, is certain any longer. Nothing at all.
30
After dinner, enveloped by the shadows of the night, they were entertained by a troupe of dancers. Hong Qiu, who had not even tasted the wine served with the meal as she wanted to keep a clear head, watched the dancers with a mixture of admiration and the remains of an old longing. Once upon a time, when she was very young, she had dreamed of a future as an artiste in a Chinese circus, or perhaps at the classical Peking Opera.
Hong Qiu observed Ya Ru sitting in his camp chair, a glass of wine balanced on his knee, his eyes half closed, and she thought about how little she knew of his childhood dreams. He had always existed in a little world of his own. She had been able to get close to him, but not so close that they had ever talked about dreams.
A Chinese interpreter introduced the dances. That wasn’t necessary, Hong Qiu thought. She could have worked out for herself that the traditional dances had roots in everyday life or in symbolic meetings with devils or demons or benign spirits. Popular rites come from the same source, no matter what country you come from or what colour your skin is. The climate has a role to play — those used to the cold generally danced fully dressed. But when in a trance, searching for lines to the spiritual world or the underworld, with what has been or what is to come, Chinese and Africans behave in more or less the same way.
Hong Qiu continued to look around. President Guebuza and his retinue had left. The only ones remaining in the camp where they would spend the night were the Chinese delegation, the waiters and waitresses, the cooks and a large number of security guards skulking in the shadows. Many of those sitting and watching the frantic dances seemed to be deep in thought about other matters. A great leap forward is being planned in the African night, Hong Qiu thought. But I refuse to accept that this is the path we ought to be following. There’s no way that this can happen: four million, perhaps more, of our poorest peasants migrating to the African wilderness — without our demanding substantial recompense from the country that receives them.
A woman suddenly started singing. The Chinese interpreter informed her listeners that it was a lullaby. Hong Qiu listened and was convinced that the melody could also calm a Chinese child. She recalled stories about cradles she had heard many years ago. In poor countries women always carried their children in bundles tied to their backs because they needed to have their hands free for working, especially in the fields — in Africa with hoes, in China while wading knee-deep in water for planting rice. Somebody had compared this to cradles rocked with the foot, which were common in other countries, and even in certain parts of China. The rhythm of the foot rocking the cradle was the same as the hip movements of the women walking. And the children slept, no matter what.
Hong Qiu closed her eyes and listened. The woman finished on a note that lingered before seeming to fall like a feather to the ground. The performance was over, and the guests applauded. Some members of the audience moved their chairs closer together and conducted conversations in low voices. Others stood up, went back to their tents, or hovered around the edge of the light from the fire as if waiting for something to happen but not sure what.
Ya Ru came and sat down on a chair by Hong Qiu that had been left vacant.
‘A remarkable evening,’ he said. ‘Absolute freedom and calm. I don’t think I’ve ever been as far away from the big city as this.’
‘What about your office?’ said Hong Qiu. ‘High up above ordinary people, all the cars and all the noise.’
‘That’s not the same. Here I am on the ground. The earth is holding on to me. I’d like to own a house in this country, a bungalow on a beach, so that I could go for a swim in the evening and then straight to bed.’
‘No doubt you could ask for that. A plot of land, a fence and somebody to build the house exactly as you want it?’
‘Perhaps. But not yet.’
Hong Qiu noticed that they were on their own now. The chairs around them were empty. Hong Qiu wondered if Ya Ru had made it clear that he wished to have a private talk with his sister.
‘Did you see the woman dancing like a sorceress on a high?’
Hong Qiu thought for a moment. The woman had exuded strength, but had nevertheless moved rhythmically. ‘Her dancing was very powerful.’
‘Somebody told me she’s seriously ill. She’ll soon be dead.’
‘From what?’
‘Some blood disease. Not Aids, maybe they said cancer. They also said that she dances in order to generate strength. Dancing is her fight for life. She is postponing death.’
‘But she’ll die even so.’
‘Like the stone, not the feather.’
Mao again, Hong Qiu thought. Perhaps he’s there in Ya Ru’s thoughts about the future more often than I realise. He knows that he is one of those who have become a part of a new elite, far removed from the people he’s supposed to take care of.
‘What’s all this going to cost?’ she asked.
‘This camp? The whole visit? What do you mean?’
‘Moving four million people from China to an African valley with a wide river. And then perhaps ten or twenty or even a hundred million of our poorest peasants to other countries on this continent.’
‘In the short term, an awful lot of money. In the long term, nothing at all.’
‘I take it,’ said Hong Qui, ‘that everything’s been prepared already. The selection processes, transport and the armada of ships needed, simple houses that the settlers can erect themselves, food, equipment, shops, schools, hospitals. Are the contracts between the two countries already drawn up and signed? What does Mozambique get out of this? What do we get out of it apart from the chance to offload a chunk of our poor onto another poor country? What happens if it turns out that this enormous migration goes wrong? What’s behind all this, apart from the desire to get rid of a problem that’s growing out of control in China — and what are you going to do with all the other millions of peasants who are threatening to rebel against the current government?’