The Man From Beijing (37 page)

Chan Bing’s voice came from an invisible speaker. ‘Take time.’

‘I have never seen any of these men before.’

‘Let the impressions mature.’

‘Even if I stay here until tomorrow, none of my impressions will change.’

Chan Bing didn’t answer. She pressed the microphone button in annoyance.

‘I have never seen any of these men before.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now look carefully at this one.’

The man standing fourth from the left on the other side of the oneway mirror took a step forward. He was wearing a quilted jacket and patched trousers. His thin face was unshaven.

Chan Bing’s voice sounded tense. ‘Have you seen this man before?’

‘Never.’

‘He’s one of the men who attacked you. Lao San, twenty-nine years, previously punished for many crimes. His father was executed for murder.’

‘I’ve never seen him before.’

‘He has confessed to the crime.’

‘So you don’t need me anymore, then?’

A policeman who had been hidden in the shadows behind her stepped forward and closed the curtain. He beckoned her to follow him. They returned to the office where Chan Bing was already waiting. There was no sign of Hong Qiu.

‘We want to thank you for your help,’ said Chan. ‘Now remains only some formality. A record is being written out.’

‘A record of what?’

‘The confrontation with the criminal.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘I’m not a judge. What would happen to him in your country?’

‘That depends on the circumstances.’

‘Naturally our law system works the same way. We judge the criminal, his will to confess and the special circumstances.’

‘Is there any risk that he will be sentenced to death?’

‘Hardly,’ said Chan drily. ‘It is Western prejudice that in our country we condemn simple thieves to death. If he had used weapon it would be different.’

‘But his accomplice is dead?’

‘He resisted arrest. The two policemen he attacked are in intense care.’

‘How do you know that he was guilty?’

‘He resisted arrest.’

‘He might have had other reasons for that.’

‘The man you recently saw, Lao San, has confessed that it was his accomplice.’

‘But there is no proof?’

‘There is confession.’

It was clear to Birgitta that she would never be able to overcome Chan’s patience. She decided to do what she was asked to do, then leave China as quickly as possible.

A woman in police uniform came in with a file. She was careful to avoid looking at Birgitta.

Chan Bing read out what was written in the minutes. Birgitta thought he seemed to be in a hurry now. His patience is at an end, she thought. Or something else. He has what he wants, maybe.

In a long-winded document Chan Bing confirmed that Mrs Birgitta Roslin, Swedish citizen, had been unable to identify Lao San who was the perpetrator of the serious assault to which she had been subjected.

Chan Bing finished reading and handed the document over to her. It was written in English.

‘Sign,’ said Chan Bing. ‘Then you can go home.’

Birgitta Roslin read both pages carefully before adding her signature. Chan Bing lit a cigarette. He seemed to have forgotten already that she was there.

Hong Qiu entered the room. ‘We can go now,’ she said. ‘It’s all over.’

Birgitta said nothing on the way back to the hotel.

‘I assume there wasn’t a suitable flight available for me today?’

‘I’m afraid you will have to wait until tomorrow.’

There was a note for her at the front desk saying that she had been rebooked with Finnair the following day. She was about to say goodbye when Hong Qiu offered to collect her later for dinner. Birgitta agreed immediately. Being alone in Beijing was the last thing she wanted just now.

She entered the lift and thought of Karin, on her way home, airborne and invisible high up in the sky.

She called home immediately, but had problems working out the time difference. When Staffan answered, she could hear that she had woken him up.

‘Where are you?’

‘Still in Beijing.’

‘Why?’

‘I was delayed.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Here it’s one in the afternoon.’

‘Aren’t you on the way to Copenhagen now?’

‘I’m sorry if I woke you. I’ll be arriving at the same time I was supposed to arrive tomorrow, but a day later.’

‘Is everything OK?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

The connection was cut off. She tried to call again, but couldn’t get through. She sent a text confirming the change in plans.

When she finished, she looked around and had the feeling that somebody had been in her room while she had been detained by the police. Her suitcase was open. Her clothes were not as she had packed them. The night before, she had tried closing the lid to make sure that nothing was catching. She tried closing the lid again now, but it was impossible.

Then she realised – identifying an attacker was nothing more than a means of getting her out of her hotel room. Everything had gone very quickly once Chan Bing had finished reading the minutes to her. He must have been informed that whoever was searching her room had finished.

It’s not about my case, she thought. The police are searching my room for other reasons. Just as Hong Qiu suddenly appears at my table out of thin air.

There’s only one possible explanation. Somebody wants to know what I’m doing with a photograph of an unknown man outside the skyscraper next to a hospital. Perhaps that man isn’t such a mystery after all?

The fear she had felt earlier now hit her with full force. She started searching for cameras and microphones, looking behind pictures, examining lampshades, but she found nothing.

At the agreed time she met Hong Qiu in the lobby. Hong Qiu suggested they go to a famous restaurant, but Birgitta didn’t want to leave the hotel.

‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Mr Chan Bing is a very trying man. All I want to do is to have a quick bite to eat, then go to sleep. I’m going home tomorrow.’

The final sentence was intended as a question. Hong Qiu nodded.

‘Yes, you’re going home tomorrow.’

They sat down by one of the tall windows. A pianist was playing on a small stage in the middle of the huge room, which contained both aquariums and fountains.

‘I recognise that tune,’ said Birgitta Roslin. ‘It’s an English song from the Second World War.
We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.
Perhaps it’s about us?’

‘I’ve always wanted to visit the Nordic countries. Who knows?’

Birgitta drank red wine. It made her tipsy on an empty stomach.

‘It’s all over now,’ she said. ‘I can go home. I’ve got my bag back and I’ve seen the Great Wall of China. I’ve convinced myself that the Chinese peasants’ revolt has made enormous strides forward. What has happened in this country is nothing less than a human miracle. When I was young I longed to be one of those marching with Mao’s Little Red Book in my hand, surrounded by thousands of other young people. You and I are about the same age. What did you dream of?’

‘I was one of the marchers.’

‘Convinced?’

‘We all were. Have you ever seen a circus or a theatre full of children? They screech with sheer joy. Not necessarily because of what they are seeing, but because they are together with a thousand other children in a tent or in a theatre. No teachers, no parents. They rule the world. If there are enough of you, you can be convinced of anything at all.’

‘That’s not an answer to my question.’

‘I’m about to answer it now. I was like those children in the tent. But I was also convinced that without Mao Zedong, China would never be able to raise itself out of its poverty. Being a Communist meant fighting against destitution and poverty.’

‘What happened next?’

‘What Mao had constantly warned against. That restlessness and dissatisfaction would always be there. But the dissatisfaction was caused by various different expectations. Only a fool thinks you can step into the same river twice. Today, I can see clearly how much of the future Mao predicted.’

‘Are you still a Communist?’

‘Yes. So far nothing has convinced me that there is any other way to combat the poverty, still so widespread in our country, than working together with my comrades.’

Birgitta gestured with one arm and accidentally knocked her wine glass, spilling a few drops on the tablecloth.

‘This hotel. When I wake up and look around, I could be anywhere in the world.’

‘There’s a long way to go yet.’

The food was served. The pianist had stopped playing. Birgitta was wrestling with her thoughts. Eventually she put down her knife and fork and looked at Hong Qiu, who stopped eating immediately.

‘Tell me the truth now. I’m about to go home. You don’t need to play games with me any longer. Who are you? Why have I been kept under surveillance all the time? Who is Chan Bing? Who was that man I was supposed to pick out? I don’t believe all that nonsense about it being connected with my bag and a foreigner being the victim of an unfortunate attack.’

She had expected Hong Qiu to react in some way, to drop some of the defences she had been hiding behind all the time, but she was unmoved.

‘What else could it be about, apart from the attack?’

‘Somebody has searched my room.’

‘Is anything missing?’ Hong Qiu asked.

‘No. But I know somebody has been there.’

‘If you like I can talk to the hotel’s head of security.’

‘I want you to answer my questions. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing, apart from my wanting our guests to feel secure in our country.’

‘Am I really supposed to believe that?’

‘Yes,’ said Hong Qiu. ‘I want you to believe what I say.’

Something in her voice led Birgitta Roslin to lose the desire to ask any further questions. She knew she wouldn’t get any answers. She would never know if it was Hong Qiu or Chan Bing who had been keeping watch on her all the time. There was an entrance and an exit, and Birgitta was running backwards and forwards down a corridor between them, with a blindfold over her eyes.

Hong Qiu accompanied her back to her room. Birgitta took hold of Hong Qiu’s wrist.

‘No more interference? No more muggers? No more people with faces I recognise suddenly turning up?’

‘I’ll collect you at twelve o’clock.’

Birgitta Roslin slept fitfully that night. She got up at the crack of dawn and had a quick breakfast in the dining room. She didn’t recognise any of the waitresses or guests. Before leaving her room she had hung the do not disturb notice and sprinkled some bath salts on the mat just inside the door. When she came back she could see that nobody had beenin the room.

As agreed, she was collected by Hong Qiu. When they came to the airport, Hong Qiu led her through a special security gate so that she didn’t need to queue.

They said their goodbyes at passport control. Hong Qiu handed over a small parcel.

‘A present from China.’

‘From you or the country?’

‘From both of us.’

Birgitta wondered if she might have been unfair to Hong Qiu after all. Perhaps she had only been doing her best to help the foreign visitor to forget the mugging.

‘Have a good flight,’ said Hong Qiu. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again one of these days.’

Birgitta went through passport control. When she turned round, Hong Qiu had vanished.

Only when she had settled down in her seat and the plane had taken off did she open the parcel. It was a porcelain miniature of a young girl waving Mao’s Little Red Book over her head.

Birgitta put it in her bag and closed her eyes. Her relief at being on the way home at last made her feel very tired.

When she arrived in Copenhagen, Staffan was there to meet her. That evening she sat by his side on the sofa and told him stories about the trip. But she said nothing about the mugging.

Karin Wiman called. Birgitta promised to visit her in Copenhagen as soon as possible.

The day after she got back, she went to see her doctor. Her blood pressure had gone down. If it stayed stable, she would be able to return to work in a few more days.

It was snowing lightly when she emerged into the street again. She could hardly wait to go back to work.

The next day she was in her office by seven in the morning and began sorting through the papers that had piled up on her desk, even though she was not officially back at work yet.

Snow was falling more heavily now, a layer growing thicker on her window ledge.

She placed the statuette from Hong Qiu, which had red cheeks and a big victorious smile, next to the telephone. She took the surveillance photograph out of her inside pocket and put it at the bottom of a drawer in her desk.

When she closed the drawer, she had the feeling that it was all over at last.

PART 4

The Colonisers (2006)

In your fight for the total liberation of oppressed peoples, rely first and foremost on their own efforts, and afterwards – and only afterwards – on international aid. The people who have succeeded in their own revolution should assist those who are still fighting for their freedom. That is our international duty.

Mao Zedong, conversation with African friends, 8 August 1963

Bark Peeled Off by Elephants

26

Some thirty-five miles west of Beijing, not far from the ruins of the Yellow Emperor’s palace, were several grey buildings surrounded by high walls. They were sometimes used by the leaders of the Chinese Communist Party. The buildings looked less than imposing from the outside and comprised several large conference rooms, a kitchen and a restaurant, and were surrounded by grounds where the delegates could stretch their legs or conduct intimate private conversations. Only those in the innermost circles of the Communist Party knew that these buildings, which were always referred to as the Yellow Emperor, were used to house the most important discussions about the future of China.