Decoded (24 page)

One evening in the canteen, I unexpectedly bumped into Rong Jinzhen. He sat in the seat facing me, his back bent, his head low, completely unmoving, just like a . . . what was it . . . a heap of clothes, a rag doll? He looked rather pitiful; the expression on his face showed the unrelenting and unmerciful passage of time. Silently I stole a look at his face and thought of what my father had said, thought of this man, once young, who had shown so much promise; a special operative of Unit 701 who had distinguished himself with meritorious service, had made exception contributions to the Unit. But now he looked so old, so mentally infirm. The passing of time had been without compassion, it had beaten him down, had turned him into a shell of a man – all that remained were his bones. Just like water wearing down a stone, or a particular phrase becoming crystallized and refined with the passage of time. As dusk fell, he looked so incredibly ancient: a truly ghastly sight, like a centenarian who might take his leave of this world at any time.

At first, with his head bent, he didn’t realize I was watching him, but after eating, as he stood up to leave, our eyes met. At that moment, a spark of something suddenly appeared in his eyes, as if life had just been returned to them. Turning towards me, he moved closer, with a kind of robotic movement; a shadow of pain clung about his face, like a beggar stumbling towards his chosen mark. Standing in front of me, he stared at me with two goldfish-like eyes, stretching out both his hands, as if begging for something. With great difficulty his trembling mouth sputtered out the following words: ‘Notebook, notebook, notebook . . . ’

I was scared out of my wits, at a complete loss. Fortunately the duty nurse had noticed what was happening and quickly rushed over to extricate me. Immediately she started consoling him – then, putting her arm around him, she guided him step by step out of the room and into the darkness of the corridor. He continued to look back and forth between her and me.

Afterwards, my father told me that it didn’t matter who it was, but if your eyes met his, he would move towards you and ask after his long-lost notebook as though somewhere behind your eyes he had caught a glimpse of it.

‘He is still searching for it then?’ I asked.

‘Yes, still searching,’ my father replied.

‘Didn’t you say that they had found it?’

‘Yes, it was found,’ my father said. ‘but how could he know that?’

I couldn’t help but gasp in astonishment.

I thought that as a mentally crippled man, a man completely undone, it is perhaps no wonder that he had already lost his memory.

But there was something strange about this: the memory of his lost notebook seemed to be etched in his mind, carved in stone; he seemed to be almost brooding over it. He didn’t know that it had been found, he wasn’t aware of how time had cruelly passed him by. Nothing remained – nothing except for this one last recollection, this notebook. As the seasons passed, he staunchly held on, continuing to search for his notebook – for more than twenty years now. And the search continues. Even today.

What about tomorrow?

Might something unexpected happen?

Sadly, I think: maybe . . . maybe . . .

The third reason I wrote this final section has to do with the demands of my readers. There are those who are keen to believe in dark forces and evil plots. They believe in secret, clandestine meetings behind the scenes. They believe in all the conspiracies. These people, of course, hope that I will pick up my pen and write something in this fashion. The problem is that there are also many people, the majority, who are extremely practical – they like to get to the bottom of things, they want to understand everything thoroughly; they cannot help but keep turning things over and over in their minds. So they ask, what happened after BLACK? Indeed, this type of person seems to hold a grudge if they remain unsatisfied. They need to know. It was for this group that I decided to write this final section.

So, in the summer of the following year, I once again found myself paying a visit to Unit 701.

Just as time ate away at the colour of the gate to Unit 701’s compound, it also eroded some of the mystery surrounding the entire place, and eroded some of its imposing and yet serene nature. I used to find that being granted permission to pass through those gates was a painfully tedious and complicated affair. But this time the sentinel on duty simply inspected my credentials (my national ID card and reporter’s pass), instructed me to register my name in rather a nondescript logbook, and that was it. It was so easy that I couldn’t help but think that something was amiss, as if the guard was neglecting his duty or something. But once I made it deeper into the compound, these misgivings soon disappeared. Before me, in the large courtyard, peddlers hawked their goods, temporary workers idled about; everyone looked rather carefree and unconcerned, as though they were in some uninhabited sector. It was a veritable picture of bucolic simplicity.

I am not especially fond of the traditional image of Unit 701, but nor do I like seeing what it has become: it made me feel as though I were stepping on something insubstantial, like air. However, after asking about, I discovered that there was yet another inner courtyard within Unit 701’s complexes and I had simply stepped into the newly constructed residential area. This courtyard within a courtyard was like a cave inside a larger cave. Not only was it not easy to find, but if you did, you would not even notice that you had entered it. The sentinels on guard in this sector were like spectres. They would appear in front of you suddenly and without warning, striking a rather threatening and chilling pose, like an imposing ice sculpture towering up before you. They would forbid you to draw any closer. They seemed, in fact, almost afraid that you would come closer, as though the very warmth from your body would melt them; as if they really were made of ice and snow.

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.

Sitting down, he said, ‘It should have been me going to meet you, because after all I am the one who requested to see you. But, as you can see, I don’t get around as easily as I used to, so I asked you to come here.’

I replied, ‘If I am right, you must be the man who went to recruit Rong Jinzhen at N University: Mr Zheng.’

He gave a roar of laughter. Pointing his cane at his lame foot, he said, ‘That’s what gave me away, isn’t it? You reporters are not all the same, eh? Ah, not bad, not bad. I am indeed that man, so now may I ask who you might be?’

I thought to myself: surely you’ve seen my credentials? Do you still need to ask? But out of respect for him, I quickly introduced myself.

After listening to my introduction, he waved a number of photocopied pages in front of me, saying, ‘How is it that you came to know of this?’

What he was waving about was a copy of my notebook!

I couldn’t help but ask, ‘I know I did not give my consent, so how is it that you copied my notebook without permission?’

‘Please don’t take offence; we really had no other option. There were five people who each felt a need to examine your notebook and if we were to pass it along to each in turn, I’m afraid it would’ve taken much more time before we could have returned it to you. Now, everything is fine, all the interested parties have read it and there are no issues – you could say that your notebook touches on nothing which counts as classified information and so we have returned it to you. If that had not been the case, well, it would have remained with me.’ He laughed a moment and then continued, ‘I do have one question that has plagued me since last night. How is it that you came to know of this? Please, comrade reporter, could you enlighten me?’

In the simplest manner possible, I related to him my first-hand experience at the Lingshan nursing home.

He listened, smiled knowingly, and said, ‘Oh, so that’s it. You are the child of someone in our organization.’

‘That’s not possible,’ I replied, ‘My father was a mechanical engineer.’

‘How can that be? Tell me, who is your father? Perhaps I know him.’

I told him who my father was and then asked if he knew him.

‘No, I don’t,’ he replied.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘How could you know him? My father can’t have been a member of your organization.’

‘Ah, but each and every one of the patients in the Lingshan nursing home is one of ours,’ he said.

I was truly overwhelmed by this news. My father was close to death and now suddenly I didn’t even know who he was. It goes without saying that had Director Zheng not mentioned this by chance, I would never have known about my father’s true identity – just as Master Rong was kept in the dark about Rong Jinzhen. Now I could understand why my father had never shown my mother and I the love we needed – why my mother had wanted a divorce. It seemed as though she had treated him unjustly. But the problem wasn’t there. Rather, the problem lay in the fact that Father had accepted this unfair treatment rather than trying to defend himself. What can I say about that? Was it conviction, or inflexibility? Worthy of respect or a source of sorrow? I suddenly felt a terribly suffocating feeling welling up in my heart. It would not be until six months later, in conversation with Master Rong about these events, that I would finally come to feel that my father’s stoicism ought to be respected and not mourned.

Master Rong told me that to conceal the truth from those closest to you for a long time, even for a lifetime, is unfair. But if they didn’t maintain such secrecy, it is possible that our country might not even exist today, or at least it would be under threat of disaster. It’s unfair, but the fact is that it has to be that way.

That was how Master Rong allowed me to appreciate my father anew, to permit the love and respect I felt for him to grow.

Returning to our story: the fact that the Director was satisfied that my notebook didn’t reveal any secrets left me feeling pleased, especially since had it not, it wouldn’t have been mine any longer. But his second remark made me feel as though I had been pushed into the Cold Palace – *

He said: ‘I believe that more than half the details that you have learnt have been acquired through hearsay. This is quite regrettable.’

‘Do you mean to say the details aren’t accurate?’ I asked anxiously.

‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘what’s real is real, it’s just that . . . hmm, how should I put it, I feel that you don’t really understand Rong Jinzhen. Yes, that’s it: your understanding is rather deficient.’

Having reached this point, he paused to light a cigarette. Taking a long drag, he seemed to be mulling things over; then he raised his head and intoned seriously: ‘Looking at your notebook, it is rather scattered and fragmentary, with more than half of it based purely on word of mouth. But it has evoked within me many memories of Rong Jinzhen. I understood him the most, or at least – out of all of us – I understood him the best. Would you be interested in hearing me speak of him?’