The way his parents were dressed, they would have counted as capitalists or managerial employees of a foreign firm. He had obliterated whatever he possibly could, done everything he could to cut off his past, wipe out his memories. Even recalling those times was a heavy burden.
Before he burned the manuscripts and diaries, he had witnessed a crowd of Red Guards beat an old woman to death in broad daylight. He was riding his bicycle near the soccer grounds of bustling Xidan around midday during the lunch break, so there were lots of people out on the main street. Ten or so teenagers, fifteen- or sixteen-year-old middle-school students-a few girls among them-wearing old army uniforms and red armbands with black writing on them, were using leather army belts to beat up an old woman who was sprawled on the ground. The old woman had a wooden placard with the words reactionary landowner's wife tied with wire around her neck. She could no longer move but was still wailing. People passing by all kept a certain distance and watched in silence. Not one person stepped forward to stop them. A civilian policeman wearing a blue hat and swinging his white gloves walked past and seemed to look with unseeing eyes. A girl in the group, who had her short hair tied into two little bunches and looked quite elegant in glasses with a light-colored frame, also started wielding her belt. The brass buckle struck a mass of disheveled gray hair with a thud, and the old Woman's hands went up to clutch her head as she collapsed onto the ground. Blood oozed between her fingers, but she could no longer make a sound.
"Long live the Red Terror!" The Red Guard patrol riding in formation on their new Eternal brand bicycles shouted this slogan all the way along Chang'an Avenue.
They had also interrogated him. It was about ten o'clock at night, and he had just cycled past the front of the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse with its armed sentries. Up ahead, under the bright streetlight, were a few motorbikes with sidecars. The road was blocked by a line of youths in military uniforms, wearing red silk armbands with the black inscription: BEIJING RED GUARD UNITED ACTION COMMITTEE.
"Get off!"
He braked suddenly and almost fell off his bicycle.
"What background?"
"Professional."
"What work?"
He named his workplace.
"Have you got your work permit?"
Luckily, he had it on him, and he took it out to show them.
Another person on a bicycle was stopped, a youth with a flat-top haircut, at the time a self-deprecating sign for "offspring of dogs."
"You should be at home so late at night!"
They let him pass. He had just got on his bicycle when he heard the youth with the flat-top haircut behind mumble a few words and then being beaten until he was howling. He didn't dare to look back.
For several days on end, from late at night until early morning, he was in front of the stove and his eyes were red from the heat. During the day, he had to force himself to be wide awake to deal with the dangers that could crop up at any time. When the last pile of notebooks was burned, he stirred the ashes into a paste to make sure no traces remained, then poured a plate of leftover vegetables and half a bowl of noodles on top. Totally exhausted and unable to keep his eyelids open, he lay on the bed fully clothed but could not fall asleep. He recalled that at home there was still an old photograph that could stir up trouble. It was a group photograph of the War of Resistance National Salvation Theater Troupe of the YMCA, which his mother had joined when she was young. They were all wearing military uniforms that must have been presented to members of the troupe when they went to express their appreciation to officers and soldiers in the War of Resistance: the military caps had badges with the Nationalist insignia. If this photograph were seized it would definitely create problems, even if his mother had died some time ago.
He didn't know whether his father had dealt with the photograph, but it was unsafe to write to alert him.
Among the manuscripts destroyed was a novel he had given a prominent elderly writer to read, hoping for a recommendation or, at least, approval of it. He did not expect that the old man would be stony-faced and without a word of encouragement to the younger generation. Finally, with a grave expression, the old writer sternly warned him: "Think carefully before committing anything to writing! Don't submit manuscripts casually. You don't understand the dangers of the written word."
He did not immediately understand. At dusk one day, in early summer, June, when the Cultural Revolution had just started, he went to the old man's home to ask for news about what was happening. As soon as he came in, the old man quickly closed the door and, staring at him, asked in a hushed voice, "Did anyone see you come in?"
"There's no one in the courtyard," he said.
The old man was not like the old cadres; nevertheless, when he instructed young people, he was forever saying our Party this and our Nation that. He was, after all, a famous person with revolutionary credentials. He spoke with a vigorous voice, and what he said was always measured and lucid. But now his voice had suddenly turned reedy, and trembled deep down in his throat as he said, "I'm a black-gang element, don't come here again. You're young, don't get involved. You've never been through the experience of struggles within the Party-"
The old man wouldn't let him finish his greetings, and, nervously opening the door a crack, peeped out and said, "Keep it for later, wait until all this passes, keep it for later, you don't know about the Yan'an Rectification Movement."
"What was the Yan'an Rectification Movement like?" he went on to stupidly ask.
"I'll tell you later, leave quickly, leave quickly!"
All this took place in less than a minute. One minute earlier he thought the struggles within the Party were somewhere far away, it had not crossed his mind that they were right in front of him.
Ten years later, he heard that the old man had been released from prison. By then, he too had returned from the countryside and was back in Beijing, so he went to see him. The old man was reduced to skin and bones, and one of his legs had been broken; he was propped up in a reclining chair and had a black Persian cat on his lap. A walking stick stood by the armrest.
"A cat's life is actually better than a human's."
The old man's lips parted in what seemed to be a smile, revealing the few front teeth he had left. As he stroked the old cat, his beady eyes in their sunken sockets glinted strangely, just like a cat's. The old man did not talk to him about his experiences in prison. It was not until he visited him in hospital, shortly before his death, that he said his greatest regret in life was that he had joined the Party.
Back then, when he left the old man's house, he thought about those manuscripts of his. They had nothing to do with the Party, but they could get him into trouble. Still, he hadn't decided to burn them, so he carried them on his back in a big bag to the home of Big Lu, a friend he'd made while in hospital with dysentery. Big Lu, born and bred in Beijing, had a big build and taught geography in a middle school. Trying to impress a pretty young woman, Big Lu got him to draft a series of love letters. Then, by the time Big Lu's newly wedded wife found out he'd been an accessory in the letter writing, she was already irreversibly married to Big Lu, so there was a special friendship between the three of them. Big Lu lived with his parents, and they had an apartment with a courtyard all to themselves, so it wasn't hard to hide a bag of things.