I spent ten days at Unit 701. As you can imagine, I saw Vasili, whose real name is Zhao Qirong. I also saw Rong Jinzhen’s no longer young wife, whose full name is Di Li. She was still a security officer. Her tall frame had been worn down somewhat by the passing of the years but she was still much taller than most people. She had no children, no parents; all she had was Rong Jinzhen, whom she considered to be both at the same time. She told me that her greatest trouble at present was her inability to resign from active duty, given the nature of her position. However, once her resignation was accepted, she planned to make her way to the Lingshan nursing home immediately, where she would spend every day seated beside Rong Jinzhen. Until that time came, she could only spend her annual leaves with him, about a month or two in total per year. I don’t know if it was because she had worked for such a long time as a security officer, or because she had spent so much time alone, but she gave me the impression of someone even more detached and reticent than Rong Jinzhen. To be frank, even though both Vasili and Di Li should be considered good people, they didn’t really help me all that much; nor did anyone else, save one. It seemed as though most of the people in Unit 701 weren’t really willing to drag up the tragic tale of Rong Jinzhen, and even if they did, their reminiscences would be fraught with errors and contradictions, as though the tragedy itself had made them forget that which they should have remembered. It was as though because they didn’t want to talk about it, they couldn’t. That is a very effective means to leave a story buried in the past.
On one of the first evenings of my stay I paid a visit to Rong Jinzhen’s wife. But because she wasn’t really forthcoming, I returned to the guest house soon afterwards. Once back in my room, I began to go through the few notes I had taken when a complete stranger, who must have been about thirty years of age, burst into my room. Introducing himself as an administrator from the security office by the name of Lin, he began to badger me with questions. I must say he was really rather unpleasant towards me, even searching through my room and luggage without permission. Of course, I knew that the result of his search would only make him believe and trust me — that I was here to praise and eulogize one of their own, the hero Rong Jinzhen — so I let him proceed with his investigation without making a fuss. The problem was that even after he searched everything, he didn’t trust me. He began to interrogate me again, making things very difficult, and finally telling me that he was going to confiscate all of my credentials — my reporter’s pass, my work permit, my ID card and writer’s association ID — as well as my tape recordings and notebooks. He had to investigate me further was all he said. I asked when I could expect to have my documents returned, but all he told me was that would depend upon the outcome of his investigation.
I spent a sleepless night.
During the morning of the following day, the same man, this Administrator Lin, came to find me. This time, however, his rough demeanour from the night before had disappeared. He went to great pains to apologize for his earlier presumptuousness and then politely returned my credentials and notebook. It was clear that the results of his investigation had been satisfactory, as I had expected. What caused me great surprise was that he also passed along a piece of very good news: someone higher up wished to speak with me.
With him as escort, I swaggered through three security checkpoints, ultimately entering the most secure area of the complex.
The first of the checkpoints was an armed police post with two guards on duty. Both carried pistols and truncheons. The second checkpoint was manned by the PLA. It too had two guards on duty, both armed with crow-black semi-automatic rifles. Their guard post was ringed with barbed wire and there was a small circular military pillbox made of stone adjacent to the gate. Inside were a phone and what looked to be machine guns. The third checkpoint was manned by a single guard in plainclothes who walked back and forth. He carried no weapon, only a walkie-talkie.
To tell you the truth, even today I am not entirely sure what department or sector Unit 701 belonged to: was it the military, the police or the local government? From my observations, almost everyone who worked there dressed casually, with only a few in military uniform. In the car park you could see both local licence plates and military ones, although the latter were much fewer in number. From the enquiries I made to different people I always received the same response: this was a question I shouldn’t ask, and what’s more, they didn’t know the answer. In any case, it didn’t matter whether it was a military unit or a civilian unit, all that was important was that it was a unit vital to the country’s well-being — after all, the military and civilian sectors are both of the country. Of course, that was true. What more was there to say? All nations need this type of agency, just as every household has its own first-aid kit. It is essential. When all was said and done, there was nothing really strange about it at all. It would be strange, in fact, for a country not to have this type of agency. But I digress.
After passing through the three checkpoints, we came upon a perfectly straight, narrow road, hemmed in on both sides by immense trees covered in lush foliage. The incessant chirping of the birds up in the trees echoed down, giving you the feeling that you had wandered off the beaten track and into some forest reserve. Proceeding forward, it seemed as though we wouldn’t encounter anyone, but then very suddenly my eyes fell upon a stunning six-floor building that towered up out of the trees. Its exterior façade was adorned with russet coloured ceramic tiles, giving it a stately and reassuring air. In front there was a large open space, the size of half a football pitch. On either side were rectangular grassy lawns. In the middle there was a square bed of flowers brimming with colour, a stone statue placed amid the fresh flowers — a sculpture that in outline and colour was reminiscent of Rodin’s The Thinker. At first I thought that this statue was indeed a reproduction of Rodin’s work, but upon a closer inspection, you could see that the seated figured was wearing a pair of spectacles and the character for ‘soul’ was prominently inscribed below it. From a distance, it was The Thinker. Later, after thoroughly scrutinizing it, I couldn’t help but feel that the statue looked vaguely familiar. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Asking Administrator Lin, I finally discovered who the statue was in honour of: Rong Jinzhen.
I stood in front of it for a long time. With the sun shining down upon it, with Rong Jinzhen’s chin firmly supported by his left hand, it seemed as though the statue’s eyes were fixed upon me; they shone radiantly. The statue shared some similarities with the Rong Jinzhen who now resided at the Lingshan nursing home. It was like looking at a man in the fullness of life and then seeing him in old age.
Taking leave of the statue, Administrator Lin — contrary to my expectations — led me round the back to a small two-storey westernstyle structure of greenish-black brick. I soon discovered that this building contained a remarkably Spartan parlour which was used to receive visitors. I was instructed to wait in the parlour, and before long I heard a distinct metallic clicking sound coming from the corridor outside. Not long afterwards an elderly man leaning on a walking stick made his way into the room. His eyes fell upon me and he said, ‘Ah, hello comrade reporter. Please, let’s shake hands.’
I stood up quickly to exchange a handshake and then invited him to sit on the sofa.