‘Be quiet!’ I snapped. ‘This is a political assignment!’
I was still angry that he had forbidden me to photograph the worker who was tending the furnace when I walked in. When I asked the man to pose for me, the chairman muttered, ‘You can’t use him, he’s not a Party member, and he asked for sick leave last month.’ He presented me with three model workers to photograph instead. By the time I had finished with them, their faces were blistered from the sparks of molten steel. When you work for the Party, you have to learn to falsify reality.
I enter the conference room and am joined shortly by Chairman Liu, the office supervisor, and Deputy Qian, the section head. As we sit down, Director Zhang walks in holding copies of Workers of China and Chinese Trade Unions: Questions and Answers. When I see where he sits, I know it is serious. The last time he sat there he accused me of being ‘dangerously irresponsible’. I had photographed Yangzi Bridge in Nanjing and failed to notice a patch of flaking paint in the foreground. Before I returned to Nanjing I told the bridge leaders to ensure that all areas visible in the photograph were given a fresh coat of paint.
Director Zhang is a slippery Henanese. He has the face of a hippopotamus and shirt collars that are always too tight. The only time I saw him unbutton his collar was the night he came to warn me of my imminent arrest. He looked at my glass and said, ‘What’s that you’re drinking? I’ll take a swig if you don’t mind.’ I said it was Erguotou wine, and he gulped it down with trembling hands. Anyone would have thought it was him the police were after, not me.
Now he says, ‘Young Ma, we have called you here today for a very important reason. Deputy Qian always keeps a keen eye on our work, as you know. The propaganda we produce for foreign countries has a great impact on the image of Chinese socialism abroad. .’ I notice Deputy Qian’s eyes darting impatiently, so I say, ‘What is the problem, Director Zhang?’
Deputy Qian coughs loudly. He always gives the impression of being in imminent need of resuscitation. He clears his throat and says, ‘You have been in the propaganda department for a long time now, and we still haven’t had a serious talk. You are a painter — we understand that — so we have turned a blind eye to your sloppy dressing and tried to concentrate on your performance at work. But please, when you attend events involving foreigners, you must shave your beard, wash your hair and wear a clean suit. You are representing your country after all. Today we have called you in to discuss your work. It is probably my fault for not noticing before. .’
‘Deputy Qian is a very busy man,’ Chairman Liu interrupts. ‘He meets with foreigners every day. At ten o’clock this morning, he has an appointment with a French trade union delegation.’
‘Let’s ask Director Zhang to talk us through this matter, shall we?’ Deputy Qian says, coughing again.
‘There are some problems, and Deputy Qian brought them to my attention some time ago, problems concerning Young Ma’s way of thinking. In the past, I always thought we could differentiate between the lax way he conducts himself in his leisure time, and his behaviour at work. But now it seems it is not as simple as that, really not as simple as that. .’
‘Just tell me which aspect of my work you are not happy with.’ I stare at Director Zhang’s whitening face.
‘You have some artistic talent, otherwise the authorities would not have transferred you to the capital. But you must separate your personal creative work from your political duties to Party propaganda. You have held exhibitions of your paintings and photographs. We always gave you our consent, we even allowed you to attend the Buddhist ceremonies at Jushilin Temple. As the higher authorities have said: that is your own business. But you must not let any of this affect your work.’ Director Zhang’s eyes redden as he speaks.
‘Director Zhang, let Young Ma work out the problem for himself,’ says Deputy Qian.
A secretary opens the door and peeps in. ‘I think it’s Old Wu, Deputy Qian. Shall I tell him to wait for you in the personnel office?’
Mock-ups of the magazines and book covers I’ve designed are spread over the wide table. I have to lean over to see them.
‘This is a photograph of the water pipes at Beijing Number Two Car Factory,’ I explain. ‘The decision to photograph them was taken at an editorial meeting. The central authorities have told us the emphasis of propaganda work should be placed on heavy industry.’
‘Young Ma, you work in propaganda now. It is surprising therefore that you did not attend the meeting last month in which we distributed the latest directives from the central authorities.’ Chairman Liu’s chins roll into his neck. He wears brown-rimmed glasses. The sky outside the window is two squares of light dancing across his face.
‘I was in Changzhou interviewing a science and technology model worker.’
‘Young Ma, the photograph itself is not too serious. At most it is a case of having a sluggish mentality and failing to keep up with new trends. There are old comrades in charge here who can help you rectify this. I must inform you though, that for the second half of this year the emphasis of our propaganda is on light industry, not heavy industry. If you do not study the documents or read the newspapers, how can you hope to be a good journalist?’ Then Deputy Qian turns to the director and asks, ‘Is it too late to change the photograph?’
‘I have been talking to the printers. We can only change the colour of the title,’ he says, rising to his feet.
‘Young Ma, take another look at the colour you have chosen here,’ Deputy Qian says still sitting down. ‘What is this colour trying to say?’
‘It is yellow. I chose it to brighten things up.’
‘Can’t you see the problem?’ His beady eyes dart up and down like a mouse. He gets up now, and Chairman Liu goes to stand behind him.
Four pairs of eyes stare at the cover. A telephone rings in the office next door — or further away perhaps.
‘I can’t see the problem.’
‘If you can’t see the problem, then that is an even greater problem!’ Deputy Qian slaps his hands on the table. ‘Such a large patch of yellow! You are trying to suggest that we are a federation of pornographic trade unions!’
The conference room falls quiet. The table in front of me looks very heavy. ‘What is a pornographic trade union?’ I ask quietly.
‘It’s bourgeois, young Comrade Ma. You have committed a fundamental error, fundamental!’ The deputy’s lips are quivering.
‘Then tell me, Deputy Qian — if I had printed the title in white letters on a black background, would you be accusing me of turning black into white?’
The chairman points to the sample cover for Chinese Trade Unions: Questions and Answers. ‘And what is this you have painted here?’
‘A question mark, or the outline of an ear.’ My throat tightens.
They exchange knowing glances. I don’t know which face to look at.
‘Why have you put a question mark on the front cover?’ I notice the director has not spoken for some time.
‘It seems to fit the title of the book. These lines are sound waves entering the ear. What is wrong with that?’
‘If there was nothing wrong what would we have called you in for?’
‘If you ask me a proper question I will try to answer you.’ I feel like swearing.