‘Ma Jian, these paintings are very different from your last batch. Why has your style become so cold and negative?’
‘I still haven’t found my style yet. Not one of my brush strokes seem to belong to me. .’
‘What have the Star Group been up to lately?’ someone asks Zhao Lan.
‘Searching for foreigners to buy their paintings. They’re putting on a show at the U.S. Embassy. None of my work has been chosen.’
‘I heard you sold a painting to the Dutch Ambassador the other day for two hundred dollars.’
‘Nonsense. I swear on Chairman Mao I have never sold one of my pictures! I bet that fucking Da Xian has been spreading rumours again.’
‘That rascal is trading stamps on the black market now. He’s latched on to some foreigners. Must have six pairs of jeans already.’
‘Let’s stick to the paintings. Our next meeting. .’
The room is as hot and airless as a crowded bus. ‘Open the window, someone!’ I shout.
‘No, don’t. If the old woman on night patrol hears us she will call the police.’ Zhang Wen is sitting on a wooden stool now, his legs splayed across the threshold. He leans his head on the doorframe with a look of calm resignation. ‘Ma Jian,’ he says, ‘you have not found yourself yet. Half of you is still stuck outside. If you went in completely you wouldn’t think about brush strokes. You wouldn’t need a brush — you would be slapping the paint on with your hands.’
On September nights, an autumn breeze blows through the streets of Beijing. Everyone at the bus stop is looking straight ahead, apart from the old woman sitting on a suitcase who is gazing at the bundle of pictures under my arm. Red and white light from the revolving lamp of the hairdresser’s salon behind flashes over the backs of the waiting crowd. In China, where politics is the only religion, people can only find their so-called way in life along narrow, prescribed paths. For me, art is an escape from this, it relieves the boredom and makes life seem slightly more bearable. What a joke! Hauling my paintings around town hoping for some recognition. My inspiration has deserted me this week, every brush stroke feels wooden. My painter friends think I am a diehard conservative, my writer friends think I am a man of loose morals. In Jushilin Temple I am a quiet disciple, in the propaganda department I am a decadent youth. Women call me a cynical artist, the police call me a hooligan. Well, they can think what they like. I only have twenty thousand days left to live. Why bother myself with them? As soon as they talk to me, I get caught and dragged to a place where my thoughts become meaningless and confused, and in order to answer their tedious questions, I have to enter their heads, sit in their brains and politely sip their tea. What a waste of time.
Launch of the Campaign Against Spiritual Pollution
When I step off the bus and approach the office along the line of rustling trees, I always glance up at the arm of sky caught between the branches and the high roof. In October the sky is so blue and clear it makes one think of the sea. The conference room is packed. The smokers are huddled by the window. When Old Song laughs you can see his yellow teeth. Liu Xiaofang is reading the self-criticism published in today’s Workers’ Daily. ‘Zhang Haidi says she has lost her legs, but not her will to live. Says the further she travels down life’s road the smoother it feels. Well, it would, wouldn’t it, from the comfort of her wheelchair! Last month she said the writer Pan Xiao may have legs, but he’s walked himself into a dead end. Now she apologises, says she spoke out of turn. . What a boring story.’
Old Bao and Aunty Wang are sitting by the door knitting television covers. They glance at me through the corners of their eyes. This morning, Director Zhang told me that today’s meeting will focus on my self-criticism. ‘It will affect your entire political future,’ he said blankly.
Director Zhang walks in and takes charge. ‘This is a plenary meeting for both Party and non-Party comrades. We shall start by reading Comrade Deng Xiaoping’s speech concerning the ideological struggle against Spiritual Pollution that was delivered at the Twelfth National People’s Congress. Would you mind reading for us, Chairman Liu?’
The room goes quiet. Chairman Liu stands up and starts reciting the speech. ‘Spiritual Pollution is not just a problem of morality. If pornographic culture is infiltrating our nation, if erotic books and lewd pictures are poisoning the minds of our youth and ruining the socialist atmosphere of our country, then Spiritual Pollution is not just a problem of morality, it is the very destroyer of morality, and a violation of our penal laws. .’
I scan the faces surrounding me. Wang Hai’ou, the Italian translator, is reading a magazine. After the banquet for the Italian trade union delegation last week, I followed him to the minibus and he gave me a carton of Triple Five cigarettes. ‘Let’s consider this our tip for the night. I’ve put it down on expenses.’ I asked for a few cans of beer too but he said, ‘Sorry, Old Ma, those crates are for the driver. Next time, all right?’
‘Some foreign news agencies have suggested that our struggle against Spiritual Pollution is a political campaign. This is not true. But when something is clearly harmful — poisonous even — and foreigners insist that we welcome it into our country with open arms, well, I am very sorry, but. .’
Yao Chunjun’s face is pressed against the wall. His eyes are shut. He has volunteered to work night shifts to give his son a better chance of getting into nursery school. Nannan starts her new school in Yanshan today. Guoping and He Nong are married now and have been allocated a two-bedroom apartment. When I went to see Nannan last week, Guoping said my visits disrupted the stability of her new family and told me to go away.
‘. . and purify the Party organs. The Party must be rectified from the central organs to the grass roots. .’
Lin Zhenyu is standing opposite me. He wears a wig. His wife works for the housing department. Her purple dress has yellow chrysanthemums printed along the hem. Her neck and upper arms are saggy. One day she brought her son into the office. ‘My boy is very artistic,’ she said. ‘He saw a panda on television this morning and drew a picture of it straight away.’ When the little boy in the red neckscarf glanced up from his homework, he looked just like his father.
‘We must extend the scope of our criticism and self-criticism. We must make a clear distinction between right and wrong, and redress our mistakes. The central authorities have emphasised. .’
Guo Xiaomei is on my left. Two years ago she was chairman of the students’ union at Nanjing Foreign Language Institute. Her boyfriend did not make it into the Party, so he was sent back to his home town after graduation. Wang Jiayang, the man next to her, has the best classical Chinese in the editorial department. When his father died, he asked me to make a print of him from an old family photograph. In the darkroom I enlarged the dead man’s pea-sized face until it was the size of an orange.
‘Spiritual Pollution encourages passivity, laxity, disunity, corrupts the mind and erodes the will. It leads to distrust of socialism, communism and the leadership of the Communist Party. We must rectify the Party, and transform it into a steadfast kernel of socialist modernism. . Now let’s turn to Ma Jian. Everyone knows that Young Ma is usually very conscientious about his work. But serious worries remain concerning his so-called spare time activities, and the way in which they seem to be affecting his work. Of special concern is his lax, free-wheeling lifestyle which shows all the signs of the Spiritual Pollution the central authorities have been telling us about. Today the Party is giving him a chance to explain himself.’ When the chairman stops talking, every eye in the room is fixed on me.