Naked Earth (33 page)

A woman in civilian uniform was the only person in the room. It was Su Nan. They had let her in as a special favor to a condemned man, he thought confusedly. But they no longer did things like that. That was False Humanitarianism. He walked slowly toward her, smiling a little shamefacedly.

“Fifteen minutes,” one of the guards called out at the doorway.

“Are you all right?” Su Nan whispered. She put both hands on his arms, feeling him hesitantly, in case it would hurt if she should come to a wound.

“I’m very well,” Liu answered quickly. “How did you get here? I thought no visitors were allowed.”

She did not answer at once. “It’s not absolutely impossible. There are ways,” she said softly, glancing at the guards to remind him of their presence.

The men were discreetly looking the other way, hands locked behind their backs, standing on one foot in the usual sentry posture, the other foot stretched way out, toes pointing outward. The leniency and consideration shown them was nothing short of incredible. No bars or wire netting between them, no row of chairs as a barrier, as they sometimes had in the lax, good-natured old days. When Liu drew her to him the blurriness and padded thickness of dreams closed around him. And like in a dream he seemed split into two persons and was both in and out of it, both the dazed actor and the dull observer standing a little way off, seeing many things that meant nothing to him at the moment. Su Nan seemed harassed, almost preoccupied, though he hardly felt it, realizing that she was actually here.

“No, you’ve got to tell me how you could get here, or I’ll think I’m dreaming,” he whispered.

He could not understand why she looked quite stricken at the question. But after a moment she whispered back, “It’s Ko Shan, She’s been very helpful.”

That wasn’t so surprising in itself. Ko Shan had helped him before. But he would never have thought that she would go to the extent of getting him the privilege of
t’e-pieh chieh-chien
, “special interview,” so he could see Su Nan. It was really very generous of her. He felt overwhelmed. Even if it was because of her that he had got into this trouble in the first place, she probably knew nothing about it. And it wasn’t really her fault.

It appeared, then, that Ko Shan really knew people. She must have inside information about his case. “Have you heard anything?” he whispered to Su Nan.

“It’s going to be all right.” But her voice sounded unnatural and there was a bleakness in her face she could not hide.

“No, tell me,” he said after a pause. “I’d feel better if I knew.”

“But it’s true. It’s really true. I wouldn’t lie to you. I know there’s no need to.”

He did not say anything.

She was looking at him with a slight smile, squeezing his hand and wrist and trying to push her hand up his sleeve with a kind of desperate concentration.

“I want to know you’ll be all right, whatever happens,” he said. “Promise me that.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. I know you’re going to be all right.”

Seeing that it was no use talking, he just pressed his cheek against hers. So she had come to say goodbye. Somehow, he felt nothing. Perhaps the knowledge of death was part of death itself. She was not all there either. She still had that curious look, both intense and preoccupied. They were both struggling to come alive just for this minute and maybe they were trying too hard.

“This is all that matters, isn’t it? What’s between us,” she said. “Nothing else counts. No matter what happens.”

He thought at first that she meant death and separation. But she seemed suddenly frantic, her voice rising in a strange, hounded fury. She was staring at him but she didn’t seem to hear him say yes. “Nothing else matters—no matter what. Isn’t that so?” she demanded. “At least it’s that way with me.”

Then she was crying. He did not speak. It must be that she knew now about Ko Shan and him. What else could she mean? She had been seeing Ko Shan to get her help, and Ko Shan must have told her. He was truly, painfully remorseful but knowing that he was to die soon, it all seemed very remote. Even the feeling of pain and guilt had become a thing to linger over. He held on to it as he held on to her, not thinking much, fearful that it would pass away together with this moment.

He could feel time going in a small trickle down his back. So when the guard called out “Time up!” he expected it. He let go of Su Nan and went quickly toward the door, not wanting to be dragged out of the room, least of all in front of her.

He did not look back and tried not to look at her when she came running after him sobbing, hanging on to him.

“Liu Ch’üan, I’ll never forget you,” she said.

He went out the door escorted by two guards. The other man was pushing Su Nan back into the room, saying, “All right, all right.”

Liu felt her words going through him before he understood them, heavy, icy cold and small, each by itself, coursing through him. Didn’t she tell him once she never wanted to hear him say he’d never forget her? Because that sounded like they were never going to see each other again, she had explained. And yet she was saying the same thing now.

He shouldn’t take it so badly since he already knew. But he had not realized that until now he had still been hoping he was wrong.

Back in the dark room upstairs, when the door had closed after him there was a distinct murmuring rustle that marked the relaxation of tension. Evidently the inmates had expected that somebody would be taken out instead of put in.

“
Na-li lai-te?
” whispered the man sitting next to him.

For a moment Liu did not say anything. Then he answered, “I’m Liu.”

“Ah—Liu.” After some reflection the man asked again, “
Na-li lai-te?
”

“From the Resist-Aid Association,” Liu said.

“Ah, it’s you!” The man seemed embarrassed. “I thought you were a newcomer.” Obviously he had not expected Liu to return. “How did it go? All right, eh?” he whispered, hastening to make amends.

“No. Just a matter of time.”

But nothing happened to him the next day. Nor the day after. His roommates came and went. Just when he thought the authorities had forgotten him, he was taken out and interrogated on the same lines as before. He took that as an encouraging sign. But then the days went by until he began to think once more they had forgotten him.

KO SHAN
was not sure if she had been wakened by the sound of knocking. She lay still on her back listening. Sleep sat comfortably on her forehead in a big dark block, a heavy lid that did not close properly, leaving a chink of light, a rustling consciousness all round, from ear to ear.

Yes, it was someone knocking.

“Come in!” she called out. But of course you could not hear from outside. Such a bore—somebody afraid to open the door by himself and just walk in. The politely waiting silence irritated her. She stared up at the round patch of sunlight on the ceiling reflected from the hand-mirror lying on her table. A drinking glass on the mirror made a shadow up there, a whorled dark spot in the ghostly yellow moon on the white ceiling. The sunlight in the room made her feel idly unhappy. There was no longer any need to draw the curtains at night. Her private life had been exemplary ever since the Three Antis. And it had been going on for months. She was used to those periodical movements for
Cheng Feng
, Sprucing up Styles of Behavior. Like illnesses, they came as suddenly as an avalanche and left as slowly as pulling an interminable thread out of a fabric. She felt quite resigned, being used to them. But there came a time in life when a woman’s looks were not going to survive many such movements.

Another series of patient little raps on the door. “Come in!” she shouted, knowing it was useless. She supposed she had to get up. Investigations were still going on at her office in connection with Lin I-ch’ün. For all she knew she might be wanted for questioning. Yawning, she pulled on her padded uniform, holding the unbuttoned front with one hand and giving the door a violent pull with the other.

“Ah, it’s you, Comrade Su!” she said, smiling hazily. With her surprise came a feeling of annoyance that was quite impersonal and purely a matter of habit. She did not like to be spied upon even if she happened to have nobody with her. “The little sneak,” she thought, and then, automatically with traditional hospitality said, “Why, come in and sit down!”

She offered Su Nan a chair, first snatching away some clothes. And she rinsed a glass, put in a pinch of tea leaves and made tea for her with water out of a thermos. While going through the customary motions of a hostess she did not hear Su Nan make any protests, which was rather unusual behavior. The girl was looking odd too. Ko Shan regarded her with sudden interest, having remembered by now that she had heard quite a lot about her during the last few weeks. The
Liberation Daily News
had never stopped its news-gathering, fact-finding activities even with Lin gone, like some amazingly efficient worm with its head cut off. Not national or international news, of which the New China Press had the sole monopoly. But the kind of news and gossip about sister organizations which were of vital concern to Lin and his staff.

Ko Shan had managed somehow to keep up her contacts in spite of the fact that she and her colleagues had become temporary untouchables with the scandal about their chief. She had friends over in
Wen Hui Pao
and was interested to learn that, some time after she had arranged for Su Nan’s interview with Shen K’ai-fu, the girl had disappeared. She had been absent from the office without leave and did not return to her hostel. There had been cases of
kan-pu
deserting their posts but right now this was virtually impossible. No travelling permits were being issued with the Three Antis and Five Antis on. It could be that she was in hiding somewhere in the city on account of some crime as yet undetected. The only other possibility was that a secret arrest had been made.

After a fortnight of wild conjectures and re-examination of her records, though she had already passed the Three-Anti test, she suddenly turned up again with some unlikely tale of having been ill and staying with a friend. The Organization was seriously looking into her case. Then to everybody’s surprise the investigations were mysteriously dropped and nothing more was said of the matter.

Ko Shan thought she had a pretty good idea of what had happened. She was anxious now to have her guesses confirmed. “How are you?” she said smiling, buttoning up her padded jacket and pulling the belt tight.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Su Nan said, then explained in a rush, “I got your address from somebody who knows you—not from your office, so I hope it’s all right.”

“Why, I thought you had my address! I was always asking Liu Ch’üan why you never came to see me.” Then her voice dropped and her face fell with sudden concern. “Any news about Liu? He’s not out yet, is he?”

Su Nan shook her head with a half smile that looked strangely mocking. She held the glass of tea with both hands to warm herself, looking at the pale steam that rose in front of her face like incense before an idol. She looked as if she would have been stone-cold, without breath, but for the tea which was breathing steamily for both of them.

“Did you go and see Shen K’ai-fu?” Ko Shan whispered.

“Yes,” Su Nan said, clearing her throat. With Ko Shan waiting expectantly she finally added, “He said it’s a serious case. Something to do with Ts’ui P’ing.”

Ko Shan clicked her tongue with an air of helpless distaste and impatience. “That’s just his luck,” she said frowning, “to be working under Ts’ui, of all people. It’s hard to work for anybody without getting involved in his business.”

“Shen told me he’d get him out if I promised never to see him again,” Su Nan said.

Ko Shan looked at her blankly. She stopped speaking; evidently some comment was called for. Ko Shan offered her a cigarette instead and when she declined it, took one herself.

“I insisted on seeing Liu for the last time, so he arranged for me to go and see him,” Su Nan said.

“At the Murkhead Road jail? But absolutely no visitors are allowed there. For the Three-Anti prisoners, that is,” Ko Shan said gently, as if helpfully pointing out a discrepancy in her story.

“Well, I went there. And I saw him. That was on the third day of the Chinese New Year,” Su Nan said, suddenly rattled and angry because she had to argue over even such a small point.

Ko Shan did not say anything.

“He was supposed to be released the next day. But he wasn’t,” she added quickly, defensively. “I was going to make sure that I saw it with my own eyes. I thought I might sit in a parked car and watch him walk out of the prison gate without being seen.”

She broke off again guiltily, looking away from Ko Shan. “I was going to insist on that point, but I was really in no position to bargain.” She talked fast as if she had learned the piece by rote and would forget if she did not get it out fast enough. “I went to Shen’s office and he kept me there in that house for two days. Then his car took me to an apartment on Avenue Petain. All this time I didn’t get a chance to see anybody or speak to anybody. He said I could go about free once he felt he could trust me. But not just yet. He said he didn’t trust me a bit with Liu released and at large.”

Ko Shan sat on her bed, leaning on the foot board, puffing her cigarette. The wary reserve on her face had given way to growing astonishment and indignation which were meant to be taken as an expression of sympathy but could just as well be taken as protest against this gross libel against a
shou chang
.

“A week later he stopped coming to the apartment,” Su Nan said. “After another week my keepers told me the place was being turned into an office. So I just walked out and nobody stopped me.

“Of course as soon as I got out I found out that Liu never had been released. I tried to reach Shen but he wouldn’t see me. I couldn’t even get him on the phone. I tried and tried. I was frantic.”

That was why her superiors had dropped the investigations on her disappearance, Ko Shan thought. She had probably been haunting Shen’s office openly and ringing him up twenty times a day on public telephones.