A Map of Betrayal: A Novel

1959

The electric fan whirled while Gary slept in his study. Suddenly his daughter burst into tears in the living room. He sat up with a start, rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t gone to bed until three in the morning, having to finish a report for Thomas on China’s covert campaign to root out the remnants of the Dalai Lama’s followers. The Tibetan leader had fled to India a few months before.

“Mommy, I can’t get up! Help me!” hollered two-year-old Lilian.

Gary ran into the living room and found his wife lounging on the sofa, watching Leave It to Beaver. Her blond hair was in ruby rollers that made her head twice its normal size. Lately Nellie had been so moody that she often threw tantrums. Their baby was lying faceup on the floor in a flowered pinafore and a diaper, one of her legs motionless, apparently in pain, as her other leg kicked the air.

“Leave me alone,” Nellie grumbled and pushed Lilian with the side of her slippered foot.

Gary rushed up to his wife and asked sharply, “Why don’t you help her?”

“I’m just tired of the little bastard.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m tired of her and you!”

He slapped her, then grabbed hold of her forearm and pulled her off the sofa. She yelped. He went on beating her. “Don’t ever abuse my children again!” he hissed and kicked her thigh and rear end. Her denim sundress was disheveled; her pink panties showed. Then he caught himself using “children,” the plural, and that brought back his presence of mind. He reached down, picked up their daughter, and carried her into his study. The girl kept gulping down her tears. Gary looked at her shin, on which was a bruise the size of a nickel. She had just tripped over a kiddie chair.

From the living room came his wife’s wailing. “Goddamn you, Gary! I know you have lots of bastards elsewhere!”

It was out of the question that she could know about his first family, because he’d left their photo in his safety deposit box in the Hong Kong bank. Wait, had he let slip the truth in his sleep? Impossible — Nellie didn’t understand Chinese. But couldn’t he speak English about his twins? Damn, anything could happen in a dream. He pushed back those unanswerable questions, went into the kitchen, and opened the freezer for ice cubes. He wrapped them in a hand towel and pressed it on Lilian’s shin. As his anger subsided, he regretted having beaten Nellie. How could he have lost his head like that? How had he degenerated into a wife beater? A surge of shame sickened him, but he remained unapologetic.

That was the only time he beat his wife. In their twenty-five years of marriage they often quarreled, but he would just walk out if he couldn’t stand her fits of temper anymore. He would roam the neighborhood and the parks until he thought she’d cooled off. Yet neither his wife nor their daughter could forget that beating. Even long after he died, Nellie would remind Lilian of the humiliating episode, saying, “It was all thanks to you.” Lilian, then in her forties, would remain silent, knowing her mother might blow her top if she responded.

Ever since Lilian began teething, Nellie had been complaining about their apartment, calling it a “henhouse.” Their neighbor’s television was on most of the time, blasting music and commercials through the poorly insulated wall. The Jamesons, in the unit overhead, would squabble raucously even in the middle of the night, shouting out obscenities and threats. Even their kitchen knife would continue to chop chop chop above Nellie’s head every afternoon. She’d given up on the couple, who would never mend their ways however much she pleaded with them. She was sick of all the scuffles and the noise, including that from the front street, where cars would whoosh by even in the early hours of the morning. Just a week ago an old Hungarian woman had broken her hip while descending the stairs, which were worn and slippery. There was also the recent four-dollar increase in the rent, eighty-one dollars a month now. It would surely go up again the next year.

Nellie wanted “a real home,” a house on a quiet street where their child could ride a tricycle without their needing to watch over her. Gary agreed to move, but he said they had to wait until they had saved enough for the down payment on a house. Nellie suggested selling their car, but he wouldn’t do that. They had a good part of the loan for the Buick yet to pay, and they needed that car. He didn’t trust Nellie’s opinions about financial matters and often said to her, “You’re so extravagant. I never thought you were such an expensive girl when we were dating.” Indeed, in spite of her modest origins, she wouldn’t hesitate to splurge on clothes, cosmetics, groceries, and toys for their daughter. To be fair, Nellie didn’t have fancy taste. When dining out, she didn’t mind having hamburgers or fish and fries. Even burritos would do. Her spendthrift ways might have been due to her years of waitressing in bars and restaurants, where she’d seen rich people throw cash around. To some extent, she was pleased that Gary took charge of their money, because he was frugal by American standards and also prudent about household expenditures. Sometimes she joked that she wished her father were a Chinese man. (Grandpa Matt would uncork a bottle of Jack Daniel’s or Johnnie Walker on any excuse, and money burned a hole in his pocket.)

Gary also had a good head for investment. Enlightened by a hurricane that had blacked out parts of the DC area for two days the summer before, he’d bought some electricity stocks, which had been rising in value ever since. Nellie was impressed that it was so easy for him to make money.

In truth, he took a casual approach to the investment, which eventually didn’t yield much. His mind was preoccupied with other matters. Following the news in his homeland, he came to know that the previous year China had scored a bumper harvest. Then the collectives called “the commune” began to be formed in the countryside. He had misgivings about that, knowing the kolkhozy, the commune system in the Soviet Union, had turned out to be a nightmare. The collectivization in China went to such an extreme that even household kitchens were banned. The country folks began to have meals at communal dining centers, where free food was plentiful enough that everyone could eat their fill. People seemed too optimistic and giddy with fantastic visions, which promised to realize a Communist society soon, a utopian world where everyone would work diligently while taking whatever they needed free of charge. (“You can eat beef stewed with potatoes as much as you want,” according to Khrushchev’s depiction of Communism.) The Chinese government propagated this slogan nationwide: “Surpass the UK in ten years, catch up with the USA in fifteen.”

Gary had been to England and was very impressed by its order, efficiency, and affluence, though it was still recovering from the war. China’s official slogan appeared too simpleminded to him, based on the assumption that the United Kingdom and the United States would stop developing. Worse, the Chinese seemed unaware that the West’s development had relied on the elaborate building of infrastructure and resulted from centuries’ worth of accumulation of wealth and knowledge. Also, of course, from exploiting underdeveloped nations. Bo Yibo, the vice premier in charge of industry, even reported to Chairman Mao that China would surpass England in outputs of electricity and steel in 1959. Mao was so exhilarated that he declared, “We shall definitely get ahead of the Brits in three years, but for now we must keep this secret.” That sounded silly to Gary, because to maintain a bigger household you must pay bigger bills — the same went for countries.

Though beset by uncertainties and doubts, Gary was riveted by the tremendous changes in his homeland — evidently the nascent socialist country was developing at a record pace. Growing up, he had seen how destitute the people were — many county seats would be teeming with beggars in the springtime, and some folks were so desperate that they sold their children and headed south to beg. By any criterion China was poor. More than half the population was illiterate, and everywhere the land was exhausted after sustaining the population for millennia. Granted, the socialist system might have unleashed the potential of the country, but most Chinese seemed unaware how shabby their land was compared to many other nations. At the same time, Gary could sense a kind of desperation in Mao, who’d just spoken about the necessity of reaching economic preeminence in the world, saying, “If you have no rice in your hand, even chickens won’t respond to your call.” The chairman’s analogy, devoid of his habitual pompous rhetoric, seemed to show his knowledge of their country’s plight; on the other hand, it also implied that Mao might aspire to become the leader of the Socialist Bloc, like the late Stalin. The chairman’s ego must be too inflated.

Unlike his American colleagues, who were amused by some Chinese posters designed to promote the Great Leap Forward in developing the country’s economy, Gary felt downhearted about them. He resented David Shuman’s flippant remarks about “the propaganda crap.” The young man, a graduate of the University of Chicago, had joined the translation agency two years before; he was over six feet tall with sloped shoulders and in the habit of carrying to work a red water bottle that resembled a miniature fire extinguisher. He hated Communism with a passion because his paternal grandfather had perished in a Soviet labor camp on Sakhalin Island. David and Gary often argued about the rift between China and the Soviet Union. Most times Gary could get the upper hand, believing that the two countries were not on congenial terms in spite of their apparent friendliness. But nowadays, when they looked at the Chinese propaganda graphics together, he could hardly say anything against David’s gibes and smirks, because the pictures were indeed preposterous, some even farcical. In one, a plump young woman sat atop rice plants to prove that the crops were thick enough to support her weight. Obviously the plants had been put together for the photo shoot. Every province had begun bragging about their increased grain production; some counties even upped the number to twenty or thirty times more than the previous year. (This in turn made the state demand doubled or tripled grain contributions from them, and consequently, more country people starved to death.)

Many of the posters showed wild imaginings: pigs as large as elephants; enormous bundles of rice plants launched into space in the form of satellites; a new breed of corn that grew so gigantic a railroad flatcar could carry only a single ear; the same with wheat, but two ears per flatcar. (The caption claimed: “Shipping Our Harvest to Beijing for Chairman Mao.”) Even the photos of actual things and events were incredible. To promote steel production, smelting furnaces were erected all over the countryside like small granaries constructed of mud, more than thirty thousand of them lighting the skies day and night. Commune members, besides being deprived of their poultry and animals, were ordered to surrender their utensils to the stopgap furnaces — every piece of iron and steel must go. Even metal gates and fences were dismantled and taken away. Their leaders told them, “Whatever we have belongs to the public, even our bones.” In some areas it was a crime to hide any iron tool or vessel—“the same as harboring an enemy soldier in your home,” an editorial claimed. The makeshift smelting furnaces emerged in cities as well, where citizens were also mobilized to join the steel production. One stood in the very compound where Mao resided. With a broad smile the chairman watched his young colleagues pouring out molten steel. Gary couldn’t help asking himself: Can steel be produced that easily? Something must be terribly amiss.

Oddly enough, despite the distance of an ocean and a continent, he now could feel China’s pulse, which beat irregularly, racing feverishly, as though he could at last grasp intimately his vast homeland in its entirety. For his superiors back home he compiled information showing that even the Americans believed China might implode if it continued with all the reckless experiments.

Gary shared his concerns with Bingwen when they met in Hong Kong in late August. His comrade sighed deeply and said, “People seem to have lost their senses. In my hometown everyone enjoyed free meals last fall and began to laze around because they didn’t need to work hard to support themselves and their families anymore. The crops were bountiful but left to rot in the fields. The villagers ate the whole year’s food in just three months, so they had to starve afterward. If the harvest is bad this year, they’ll face a terrible time.”

“How about all the activities promoting steel output?” Gary asked, taking a drag on his Peony cigarette.

“That was a mess too. Most of the makeshift furnaces can produce nothing but low-quality pig iron. So there’s no substantial increase in steel production to speak of.”

“I hope Yufeng and my kids are all right. Can you ask our leaders if I can go back and see them and my parents?”

“Don’t think about it for now. The higher-ups made it clear again that you must stay in America as long as possible. By crossing the border back into China, you’d blow your identity. We cannot afford such a loss. But don’t worry about your family — we take good care of them.”

“This makes me feel like an exile, banished by my own comrades,” Gary said with some bitterness.

“Be patient, brother. I know how great a sacrifice you’ve been making for our country, but you’re in a unique position to perform such a service. Among us you’re the only one destined for greatness. Believe me, someday you will come home with honor and glory.”

Gary didn’t argue further, knowing his request would be denied. As a matter of fact, he had recently concluded that his twins back home could be a blessing, because by the time he was withdrawn from the States he might be too old to raise a family. It was better to have children now. This thought comforted him some and made him more determined to have Yufeng and their kids well provided for and protected. For that, he’d better keep a cordial relationship with Bingwen.

Bingwen relayed their superiors’ instructions: Gary must Americanize himself as thoroughly as possible and remain a mole in the U.S. intelligence system. He also told Gary that from now on he mustn’t come to Hong Kong directly for their meeting. He should take a vacation in Taiwan, and from there he could make an excursion to Hong Kong for a day or two. This was to preempt the CIA’s suspicion.

Gary took all the cash, six thousand dollars, out of his Hang Seng bank account. When he came back to the States, he told Nellie that he now had the down-payment money for a house — his cousin had just repaid an old debt. In the past she had often chafed at his taking a vacation alone in Asia and once said, “I know you’ll chase some pussy there.” But this time, Nellie deduced that he hadn’t seen any woman, otherwise he couldn’t have come back loaded with cash, plus two fine silk dresses for her. Nellie felt relieved. Before long they started house hunting.

My seminar on Asian American history was over at the beginning of June, the grad students left alone to write their final papers, but my undergrad class continued. These days the campus was tense because the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square incident was approaching. The Party cadres had been attending meetings to make plans for keeping order and peace at the college. Like elsewhere in China, every department of the school had two lines of leadership, one of the Party and the other of the administration. The real power was the Party secretary, sometimes called “chancellor” in foreigners’ presence because the word “secretary” had a negative ring, whereas the department’s chairperson was more like a manager who had to report to the Party boss. With few exceptions, the administrative heads were also Party members, so the Party controlled everything. A number of my Chinese colleagues told me that they had just received phone calls from the police, who warned them about June 4: on that day they mustn’t speak publicly, mustn’t hold any gathering larger than six people, mustn’t wear black armbands or white clothes, and mustn’t take to the streets. One old professor was so annoyed by a midnight phone call that he joked, “Hell, I shall go out in the raw on that day.”

On June 2, the president of a communications college in Beijing, Professor Wei Fang, came to give a talk. He was an authority on cyberspace control. A technocrat, he held a number of patents on Internet policing devices. Out of curiosity I went to his talk; the topic was “Managing China’s Cyberspace.” The auditorium was filled almost to capacity, with about six hundred attendees. A vice president of our college introduced Professor Fang, saying the man was a pioneer in China’s Internet technology, revered as a founding father of the Great Firewall. Then Fang, a potbellied man with wire-rimmed glasses, lurched to his feet and waddled to the podium. He opened a yellow folder and started his speech with a long preamble, his head bobbing up and down.

A smile played on his pudgy face while his beady eyes almost disappeared. He was small-boned but heavy-fleshed. His hair, dyed raven black, was so lustrously gelled that it might have been too slippery for a fly to land on. “Dear students and comrades,” he said in a jubilant voice, “I am here today to reminiscence about the arduous process of protecting our national sovereignty in cyberspace. In addition to talking about the great feats and ingenuity my colleagues performed, I would like to share with you our experiences — our glory, frustration, and gratification — in serving our motherland. We all know that the Internet has never been a neutral space like the high seas. Numerous foreign powers hostile to China have been utilizing the new technology to penetrate our communications systems so as to disseminate rumors, incite civil unrest, sabotage our Party’s leadership, and undermine the foundation of our socialist country. The Internet is a new weapon used by international reactionaries, so we must seize it and fight back with it.

“As early as 1992, the Party Central Committee, wise and prescient, assembled a group of more than twenty experts to deliberate about the dangers that might arise from the Internet and to search for ways to regulate its use and monitor the traffic online. Truth be told, I am still amazed by how astute our national leaders were. As time goes by, the advantages of our Internet supervision system grow more and more conspicuous. Some of you might be aware of what has been happening in Russia, where the government hasn’t implemented any online intervention at all, and as a result, any skilled blogger or Facebook user can start a public gathering easily—”

“Get offstage!” a male voice cried from the audience.

“Shut your stinking trap!” another called out.

A sneaker passed the speaker’s head. Another one hit his chest and stunned him.

“Shame on you!” a few voices bellowed together.

“Running dog, get out of here!” a girl yelled.

Some students in the front began throwing eggs at Professor Fang. One hit his flat forehead; instantly his face was streaked with the yolk. He was so shocked that wordlessly he took off his glasses and polished them on the corner of his jacket, their gilt stems flailing. Without the glasses on and with his eyes bugging out a little, he looked ten years older, as if he were in his seventies.

“Give us online freedom!” a voice boomed. Some of the audience repeated the demand in unison.

“Tear down the Internet Berlin Wall!” another man cried. More people roared together.

Two security guards turned up, leapt onto the stage, and whisked the speaker away. The moment Fang appeared in the aisle heading to the back exit, slippers, loafers, sneakers all were hurled at him. A few hit his head and roundish shoulders. Some students raised smartphones to snap photos of him in flight. Shuffling away with the guards, Professor Fang became furious, hollering with one eye closed, “You all will face legal consequences! You’ll be kicked out of college! Damn you, I’ll get back at you!” His voice was booming through the lavalier mike still on his lapel while he waved his hands, giving the audience the finger and for some reason also the victory sign.

“Students, don’t lose your heads!” shouted the vice president of our college. “Don’t put our school to shame!”

“Shameless scumbag!” someone responded.

“Strike down the lackeys!” screamed another.

The minute the speaker vanished beyond the door, the audience began to break up, filing out through different exits. Amazingly, I saw Minmin holding an empty bucket and heading to the platform. I intercepted her and whispered, “Did you plan to bust up the talk beforehand?”

“No, I wasn’t with them at all.” She shook her permed hair. “I’m just going to pick up the shoes so those who threw them can have them back. My friends are setting up a lost-and-found corner in the front lobby.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said.

She smiled and proceeded toward the front. Then her classmate Hongbin appeared, a smile fanning out across his face and his nostrils dilated. He was the only Party member among the students I knew, and he often challenged me in class discussion. “Serves him right!” he panted. “The shameless toady!”

“You don’t like our guest speaker either?” I asked, a bit nonplussed.

“I hate his guts! Every time my fiancée emails me something interesting from Japan, it’s blocked. That man is my enemy; he’s the enemy of all the netizens in China.”

“We’d better leave,” I reminded him.

Without delay I left the auditorium, afraid of being spotted by the campus police. On the same day the incident became national news across the Internet. Although no student was identified as an egg or shoe thrower, there were all kinds of rewards offered to them online: Nike shoes to be shipped from Amazon, gift cards for bookstores, dozens of Alaska snow crabs, Apple iPads, one-night stands, vacations at beach resorts, porcelain toilets, whole sets of Haruki Murakami’s novels, even girlfriends and boyfriends. It was hard to tell what percentage of the offers was genuine, given that no one could claim any of them.

My colleagues and I were worried about the students’ safety. The following day the security on campus was stepped up, but fortunately the college didn’t take measures to discipline the rabble-rousers — it would be too risky to ignite another outburst of anger right before the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square incident.

June 4 saw plenty of police patrolling the campus, though the tense atmosphere was eased by the French Open in Paris, at which the Chinese tennis player Li Na was to play the final match with the Italian defending champion. Most students gathered in the dorms watching the game. When Li Na finally won the Grand Slam, they came out in force, lit chains of firecrackers, and played instruments and thumped drums and basins in celebration. No one ran amok, though. Some shouted “Li Na, offense!” as if she were still fighting on the tennis court. Some teachers joined the celebration as well, and the police didn’t interfere. The young people regarded Li Na as a hero, partly because she had quit the national tennis team long ago and won the championship on her own. What’s more, her victory made history — no Asian player had ever won the French Open.

In her acceptance speech Li Na didn’t thank China or any leaders. Instead she said, “My thanks to my sponsor, to the staff here, to the ball kids, and to my team.” She also took the opportunity to wish a friend a happy birthday. That was extraordinary to the Chinese and certainly grated on the bureaucracy. On another public occasion she had insisted, “Don’t talk about bringing honor to our country. I’m competing for myself.” She once cried into a mike held by a reporter, “I love you, Jiang Shan!” That was her husband, who couldn’t accompany her to the tournament. She also openly claimed she played tennis for money. Regardless, when the band started the Chinese anthem at the medal ceremony, she turned tearful and mouthed the words. To the students, Li Na embodied a rebellious, independent spirit. Hers was a new face of China, open and confident and smiling, so for the moment she became an icon, an inspiration to the young people.

At last I heard from my nephew, Benning. Evidently he and Juli had just exchanged emails, and he knew I was American and a history professor. He wrote his message in solid, effortless English, which struck me as extraordinary. Yet when I suggested meeting him in person, he became evasive, saying he was too far away from Beijing at the moment. But where was he? I didn’t get a clear answer. The more he hedged, the more curious I got.

Then one day he confessed, “I am in the United States, on the East Coast.” That was a shock, and I wanted to know more. “Don’t interrogate me, please,” he wrote. “I am sure we will spend a lot of time together in the future.”

I wouldn’t let it go at that and kept asking him. He avoided answering fully but would reveal something from time to time. I tried to form a picture of him with the scraps of information I had. He’d been in the States for more than two years, running a small business outside Boston that dealt in software and computer parts. He’d been assigned there by a Chinese company and seemed to be enjoying himself. The reason he hadn’t told his family his whereabouts was that he felt he might be called back or sent elsewhere after his current assignment; also because he came back to China for business or vacation every two or three months. I said I’d love to see him remain in the States for many years, which he said was what he wanted too. I was excited that I would have a family member on my father’s side living near me after I went home. The world suddenly felt smaller and more mysterious. If only my father could have seen his grandson in America.