Charlie’s Apprentice

Eighteen

The underlying tension that had always existed between Snow and Father Robertson came even closer to the surface in the days following Li’s visit, frequently erupting into open argument. Both priests were stretched in opposite directions by conflicting emotions, Father Robertson seemingly racked with even greater fear than ever, Snow even angrier than before at his frustrating isolation from any contact with London. They even ceased, without discussion, taking each other’s confession: for his part Snow was relieved, spared the hypocricy.

The dissent between them was exacerbated by Father Robertson’s constant insistence – usually in the evening, after he’d been drinking – that both the embassy and the Vatican Curia of the Jesuits had to be warned, until finally Snow’s patience snapped with his demanding why the older man didn’t just do something instead of talking about it.

So Father Robertson did. Three days after their uneasy encounter with the Chinese, he broke his daily schedule of always being around the complex in the morning by announcing he was going out – without saying where – and being absent for three hours. When he returned the head of mission made the further announcement that he’d sent to Italy through the diplomatic mail a full account of what had happened and had an hour-long discussion at the embassy with the political officer, Peter Samuels.

‘He agreed with me that there’s a potential difficulty,’ concluded Father Robertson.

‘I should talk with him as well,’ insisted Snow.

‘I suggested that. Samuels said for you to visit, so closely after me, would be a mistake.’ His words were slightly slurred.

‘Why?’ demanded Snow.

‘The embassy is watched. If I go, then you follow almost immediately after, it could suggest that we have something to be frightened about: that we are conducting services – preaching religion – from the mission.’

‘But we’re not! If the Chinese suspect that we are, they will have been watching us here, as well. And we know they won’t have found anything because there’s nothing to find!’

‘You’re being insubordinate.’

‘I’m being truthful and factual and objective. You’re building this into something far greater and far more important than it is!’

‘That is not for you to decide. Or me.’

‘It’s an opinion that will be reached from how the facts are presented. Yours have been. Mine haven’t. I want the opportunity to put my assessment forward.’

‘You’ll be given it, if it’s thought necessary.’

‘I think it’s necessary.’

‘You serve. You don’t demand.’

Snow’s breathing started to become difficult. ‘What have you told the Curia?’

‘Precisely what happened.’

‘With what recommendation?’

‘None. I also serve, not demand. Any decision has to be theirs, uninfluenced by any opinion of mine.’

‘What will you recommend, if you are asked?’

‘That you are withdrawn. This mission can’t be endangered.’

‘How is it any less endangered with only you here? You can conduct religious services just as easily as me.’

‘Before your appointment, when I worked here by myself, there was never any official interest.’

Because you’re their hollow totem, thought Snow, contemptuously. Just as quickly he confronted the reality. His primary function, as a Jesuit, was to serve: so he would have to leave, permitted no opposing argument, if he were ordered out of the country by the Vatican. So why did the prospect make him so unsettled? Surely his unofficial activities had not assumed greater importance than his avowed vocation? Of course not, he assured himself: a ridiculous doubt. Snow said: ‘When do you expect to hear back from Rome?’

‘I don’t impose time-limits,’ avoided the older man.

Snow sighed, but shallowly because his chest was still tight. With strained patience he said: ‘In normal circumstances how long does it take to get a reply from Rome?’

‘There is no formula,’ said the mission chief, almost as if determined to be difficult. ‘Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months.’

In fairness he should be allowed to give his calmly reasoned side of the issue, despite Father Robertson’s pedantic reminder of humility. If he were allowed to state his case, Snow wondered if it would not be the most opportune time to suggest that Father Robertson be the one to be withdrawn, a burned out man obsessed by imagined demons, doing little if any good remaining here on station, too prone always to sound alarms where none were justified. He said, with minimal sincerity: ‘I am sorry you don’t think this a happy ministry.’

Father Robertson moved at once towards conciliation. ‘It hasn’t been easy for either of us. Me, from what happened before: you, from it being your first posting. Because circumstances here – and I don’t mean this current situation – aren’t normal. God knows when they ever will be.’

Snow realized, surprised, that Father Robertson was no longer prevaricating but arguing forcefully and positively expressing an opinion. Moving towards conciliation himself, he said: ‘Possibly more difficult for you than me, because of what happened in the past.’

Father Robertson physically shuddered. ‘Now in the past, thank God.’

Gentle-voiced, no longer having any anger, he said: ‘Have you ever thought of leaving China? Going home, perhaps?’

Father Robertson frowned across his desk, a look of total bewilderment on his face. ‘This is my home. Here.’

‘This is your posting,’ insisted Snow, but gently now.

‘Home,’ said Father Robertson, even more insistent, although his voice was oddly remote. ‘There is nowhere else. It’s important work, being here.’

Snow judged, at that moment, that the older man was completely lost, his mind full of confused images. Which Snow decided gave even more reason for suggesting the transfer, if he got the opportunity. And for no other reason than simple Christianity: Father Robertson had served and suffered dreadfully during a devoted lifetime in their special priesthood. Now he deserved peace and contentment and hopefully relief from the terrors that constantly gripped him. There were caring Retreats throughout the world – in Rome particularly – where the old man could live out the rest of his life in prayer and meditation. ‘Don’t you feel you have done enough?’ Snow asked, still gentle.

‘No one has ever done enough,’ smiled Father Robertson. ‘There’s always so much more to be done.’

And finally the day came.

In the early morning, before setting off, Snow and Father Robertson prayed separately, which they often did anyway, and afterwards Snow wondered if the head of mission had sought guidance as fervently as he had. He took the older man’s meaningless, mumbled confession but declined to make one himself, pleading lack of time that day. Father Robertson didn’t argue.

It was an extensively planned schedule, a reception for the visiting British businessmen in the forenoon, a lunch culminating with an introductory speech from the junior British trade minister accompanying the delegation, and in the afternoon a seminar for discussions with Chinese government representatives and officials. Snow didn’t know how long it would take him to manoeuvre the encounter with the despised but still necessary Foster.

In his anxiety to get at last to the embassy Snow suggested they take a taxi to Jian Guo Men Wai, but Father Robertson dismissed the unnecessary expense. The old man had pressed his usually concertinaed trousers, donned what Snow knew to be his best jacket and put on a tie. His hair, as always, looked like a wind-blasted wheat field. The nervousness was obvious, shaking through the man: increasingly, as the time approached for them to leave the mission, his sentences became gabbled, most ending unfinished and none of any consequence. Twice, as they talked, Snow smelled whisky.

Snow himself made a greater effort than usual, wearing his one good suit, surprised when he put it on at the tightness of the trouser band, unaware he had been gaining weight. He wasn’t, however, surprised at the snatch of asthma, well aware how tense he was. He used his inhaler and considered wearing the pollution mask but decided against it. As a precaution he slipped it into his pocket.

The head of mission walked slowly, but Snow still found himself breathing heavily; towards the end he wished he had argued more strongly for a taxi. Twice they were intercepted by money-changers. It was Snow who rejected both, ahead of the older man. There was a lot of activity around the embassy compound, a scattering of soldiers as well as militia. In a city where bicycles are the accepted mode of transport, so many official black limousines had attracted a curious group of onlookers at the perimeter fence. There was a polite parting of those closest to the gates, for them to enter.

The room in which the pre-lunch reception was being held was immediately to the left of the vestibule, overlooking a checkerboard garden. There was a small receiving line just inside the door. Names were announced in both English and Mandarin by a diplomat comparing the invitations with an official list. Snow courteously fell behind Father Robertson as they were greeted by the principal guests, further introduced by the ambassador to the junior minister and trade officials beyond.

Snow accepted orange juice from a statued waiter holding a tray of drinks: Father Robertson took Scotch. The elderly man nodded across the room and said: ‘There’s Samuels.’

Snow was already searching the room, looking for Walter Foster. He followed Father Robertson’s direction. Peter Samuels was a dark-haired, saturnine man whom Snow guessed to be almost as tall as himself. At that moment Samuels looked in their direction: there was no recognition or acknowledgement. As quickly as he had focused on them, the political officer turned away. Still unable to find the man he really wanted, Snow indicated Samuels and said: ‘I’m going to talk to him: put my side of the case.’

‘It’ll look too obvious, approaching him so quickly.’

‘It won’t look like anything of the sort!’ dismissed Snow, moving off through the crowd, glad to separate himself from the other priest.

Samuels saw him coming. This time there was a facial reaction, and Snow got the impression that had the diplomat not been involved in a discussion with three other Westerners he would have tried to avoid the encounter. Instead Samuels remained where he was, managing a thin smile when Snow reached the group. He made the introductions with cold politeness: all three strangers were from the British Department of Trade and Industry. There was the customary cocktail party small-talk of how interesting it must be permanently to live in such an unusual society, how long it had taken Snow to perfect the language, how much they hoped to get to the Great Wall and see the Terracotta Army, and how exciting they considered the trade potential to be. Snow kept up his side of the conversations, thinking as he did so how rehearsed and practised all the talk sounded. Samuels, the professional diplomat, made his contribution, but seemed at the same time constantly to be surveying the room.

Samuels expertly broke up the gathering, suggesting to the trade officials that the minister might want them close to him as he mingled throughout the room, which he was now doing.

When they were alone, Samuels said at once: ‘Father Robertson appears worried at some official interest.’ The man had a slow, word-tasting manner of speaking. Like Snow, he was drinking orange juice.

‘Overly worried,’ insisted Snow, at once. ‘I really do not think there is any cause for concern.’

‘Father Robertson told me the escort for your recent trip actually inspected the church?’

‘He came to the English class that I take,’ qualified Snow, determined upon absolute accuracy. ‘While he was there he asked to see the church, which of course I showed him. Just as he’d shown me various temples, when we were travelling. It was not an inspection, in any sense of the word.’

‘Why did you make the journey?’

‘A holiday. I obviously want to see and get to know as much of the country as possible.’ Snow wondered what Samuels’ reaction would have been to knowing the truth: probably the same sort of hand-wringing that Father Robertson engaged in. Snow could see the mission chief in distracted conversation with one of the British officials with whom he had spoken earlier: the old man was looking directly across at where he was, with Samuels. As Snow watched he saw Father Robertson take another Scotch from the tray of a passing waiter and wondered how many there had been since the day had begun. Quite a few by now, he guessed.

‘Don’t you think it odd for the man to make such a visit?’

Snow hesitated. ‘I virtually invited him.’

‘Do you think he is attached to the Security Bureau?’

‘It would not surprise me if he were.’

Samuels paused, smiling and imperceptibly shaking his head to a man and a woman who were approaching. The couple veered away. Samuels covered the refusal by gesturing around the reception area. ‘There’s a great deal of importance attached to visits like these. It might have sounded trite, but those remarks about the enormous trade potential are true.’

‘I understand that,’ said Snow, expectantly.

‘We do not want any local difficulties interfering with the better links that have been established between our two countries. It’s taken a very great deal of time and effort to get to this stage.’

Snow disliked the other man’s unctuous manner and thought he talked like the other officials, earlier, as if everything had been rehearsed and prepared, well in advance. ‘What possible difficulty could be created by Li’s coming to the church?’

‘We’re talking generally.’

‘I don’t think we are,’ rejected Snow. ‘I have done nothing – nothing whatsoever - to cause you any official concern. But we are not allowed to preach or engage in any sort of religious observance involving the Chinese. So we do not. As Li discovered when he came to the class. When he went into the church, it would have been obvious to him it was unused. We don’t preach: do anything to offend the authorities. So there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about: nothing that can be worried about.’ He wasn’t sure the diplomat was accepting anything of what he was saying.

‘Father Robertson seems to think otherwise,’ reminded Samuels, in virtual confirmation of Snow’s doubt.

Snow sighed, carelessly. ‘You know what happened to him, during the Cultural Revolution. It effectively broke him. I think it’s a mistake for the Curia to let him remain here: I know it’s at his own request but I think it is putting too much strain upon a man who has already suffered enough.’

‘I felt it necessary officially to advise London,’ announced Samuels.

‘I would have welcomed the opportunity to give my version of the episode.’

‘I really must be circulating,’ said Samuels, gazing enquiringly around the room again.

‘It would be unfortunate if a biased account misled London,’ said Snow, unwilling to be put off like some minor irritant.

Samuels came fully back to Snow, frowning at the remark. ‘I made my report completely factual: I did not give a biased account.’

‘If it was based entirely upon what Father Robertson told you it must have been biased.’

Samuels mouth tightened, giving his long face a pinched look. ‘I did not overstress the matter.’

Would whatever Samuels had written percolate through to the department to which he reported? Before Snow had time to consider his own question, he at last saw Walter Foster. The embassy liaison man was at the extreme end of the large room, with a mixed group of English and Chinese businessmen: from the way his head was moving back and forth Snow inferred the man was helping with a translation difficulty. ‘I would like to think you’d add to your report, giving my version of events.’

‘What is your version of events?’

‘That I was assigned an over-zealous escort for part of a journey through southern and eastern provinces of the country. During that journey I did nothing to cause any official offence. Towards the end of the trip, there was some discussion about my being a priest and I invited the man to visit the mission when he returned to Beijing. This he did. Again there was nothing to cause any official offence.’

‘I see,’ said Samuels, stiffly.

‘Will you add that?’ pressed the priest.

‘If London seek further clarification,’ promised the diplomat, unconvincingly.

‘Not otherwise?’

‘Wouldn’t there be a risk of indicating an importance you insist does not exist if I send an additional report?’ said Samuels. Once more the room was examined. ‘I really must start moving around.’

Snow thought Samuels’ response showed the typical convoluted thinking of the diplomat milieu. ‘Perhaps if there is any further exchange, we could talk again before you report back? It’s very easy for me to come up from the mission at any time.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Samuels, distantly noncommittal. ‘And be a good chap, don’t keep openly referring to it as a “mission” as you are doing: gives the impression that it really might be used for religious services, don’t you think?’

Snow eased his way through the crush of the now full room, beyond anger, gripped by helpless impotence at what he considered to be a pointless conversation. The one reassurance he kept repeating to himself was that it did not matter how irreversibly slanted Samuels’ memorandum had been: in no way could it affect his remaining in China. It would still have been better to have had his say, to counter the hysteria of Father Robertson.

Foster, whose official embassy description was that of a cultural attaché, was translating. Snow approached from the rear of the cluster of men, behind Foster, able to hear quite a lot before the man became aware of his closeness. He detected several words where the vital nuance in the Mandarin pronunciation came close to giving a completely wrong interpretation of what Foster was trying to convey. Foster’s concentration faltered when he finally saw Snow and he had to ask one of the British businessmen to repeat himself, to complete the bilingual exchange. It was a further ten minutes before an official Chinese translator rejoined the group, but even then Foster lingered, clearly reluctant to break away until Snow very obviously started forward to make the contact on his terms.

Foster intercepted him but said, vehemently: ‘Not now!’

‘Now!’ demanded Snow.

‘It’ll be easier after the lunch.’

‘Walk with me towards the canapés table,’ ordered Snow. ‘There is more you have to know.’

‘More!’ Instead of walking casually, the man actually stopped, staring directly at the priest. Snow kept going, making Foster hurry to catch up. ‘How much more?’

‘You haven’t talked with Samuels?’

‘No!’ said Foster, anguished.

Having reached the canapes table, both had to go through the pretence of selecting hors-d’oeuvres. Snow picked up another glass of orange juice.

Snow waited until they moved away before recounting Li’s visit, aware of Foster visibly flushing: the man’s face became redder and therefore seemingly more freckled than normal by the time Snow finished.

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Foster. ‘There can’t be any doubt, not now!’ As always at times of stress the man began darting looks around him, as if fearing he would be seized at any moment.

‘There’s no proof, of anything.’

‘There doesn’t have to be, not in China. You know that. And how the hell are you going to explain why you can’t produce the Shanghai photographs? You’ve got to get out. Like I’m going to. I’m empowered to make the decision myself. So I’m making it for you, as well. I’m ordering you to leave with me.’

Snow regarded the other man evenly. ‘You can’t. I only officially obey the Curia, at the Vatican.’ People were gathering near the main door, preparing to file through into the banqueting room. Snow saw that Father Robertson was beside Samuels, although they did not appear to be talking very much.

Foster was momentarily open-mouthed at the obvious truth of Snow’s statement. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

‘It’s the unarguable fact,’ said Snow, calmly. ‘And I don’t in any case see the need to panic: even if I had the freedom to leave I would not.’

‘You’re being absolutely foolish.’

‘It’s rational, sensible thinking.’ Snow was surprised – and glad – at how easily he was breathing. He felt no tension at all now.

Foster was briefly silent. ‘I read what you told London: about not working any longer with me.’

‘I gave the undertaking that you could,’ reminded Snow.

‘None of this is my fault,’ insisted Foster. ‘You brought investigation upon yourself.’

‘There is no investigation!’ said Snow, brusquely. ‘At the moment you are my only link with London. I’m asking you fully to advise London of Li’s visit. But don’t make it any more sinister than it is: which is hardly sinister at all. The one thing I do need, however, are copies of the photographs.’ Abandoning an earlier unease, he went on: ‘It must be scientifically possible to treat them to take out what I got in the background in, Shanghai. The ones that can’t be altered I will say spoiled in the developing.’

‘He won’t believe that,’ said Foster. ‘No one would.’

‘Ask London to come up with a better excuse then,’ said Snow. ‘The photographs will provide an obvious first meeting, with whoever it is I am to liaise with in the future.’

‘London won’t continue with anything, not after this!’ predicted Foster, adamantly. ‘It would be madness!’

‘Wouldn’t it be greater madness for them not to continue? Surely if I don’t at least provide some photographs it’ll be confirmation of whatever suspicion you think Li has about me.’

‘What a mess!’ moaned Foster. ‘A complete and utter bloody mess!’

‘It’ll only become a mess if it’s mishandled.’ Did he really think that? Yes, Snow decided, positively. Li’s unexpected visit was unnerving, but that was all, at its worst. And only then to someone who allowed his nerve to go at the first uncertainty. Foster was wrong, as he was wrong about most things, in saying the Chinese did not need proof before taking action against Westerners. That might have been true during the Cultural Revolution: Father Robertson was a prime example of what things had been like then. And they still behaved as they thought fit against their own people, in the name of stability against counter-revolution, as they had in Tiananmen Square. But he was sure the ruling hierarchy were now, if belatedly, too conscious of outside world opinion to move arbitrarily against a foreigner.

‘You’re a fool!’ said Foster, quiet-voiced in final resignation. The initial redness had gone but a nerve was pulling beneath his left eye, making his face twitch.

‘You’ll tell London all I’ve said?’ There was no reason to let things degenerate into acrimony.

‘Of course I will.’

‘Exactly as I’ve said it?’

‘Of course,’ repeated Foster. The looks about him now were practically those of embarrassment, as if he were anxious to break off contact with someone with whom he was socially ill-at-ease.

‘I don’t want any new arrangement maintained at a distance. Emphasize that to London. I want meetings.’

The encounter was broken by the summons to lunch. The seating was at round tables, variously set either for groups of eight or ten. He and Father Robertson were at separate places, with a mixture of Chinese and English, obviously for the communication bridge both could provide, beyond the top-table interpreters for the official speeches. The purpose for his being at the embassy already fulfilled, Snow relaxed, although still unsure how accurately Foster – and to a lesser extent the annoyingly supercilious Samuels – would pass on what he had said.

The official speeches were predictably boring, made more so by the slowness of the simultaneous translation between the two languages. Frequently Snow had to correct misunderstandings on his immediate table and he wondered just how much was really being comprehended by the audience. Both Samuels and Father Robertson were seated directly to face him, from their respective tables. Throughout the meal and the speeches, both men studiously ignored him. Foster was on the far side of the room, with his back towards him.

Snow broke away from his table group at the end of the meal, not wanting to become inveigled as an unofficial interpreter in the afternoon seminar. Five tables away, Father Robertson was standing in what looked to be confused aimlessness, people swirling around him. Snow hurried to the man and said: ‘I think we should go now.’

The smell of alcohol was very strong from the old man. He allowed himself to be led towards the exit, not the door leading deeper into the embassy for the business conference.

As they crossed the courtyard, towards the Guang Hua Road, Snow dropped the guiding hand and said: ‘I spoke to Samuels.’

Father Robertson rallied, stiffening himself as he walked. ‘He told me you don’t think it is serious.’

‘It isn’t,’ insisted Snow, practically automatically now.

‘He said he hopes you’re right.’

‘So do I,’ said Snow, wishing at once that he hadn’t: it made it seem as if he were unsure and he wasn’t, not at all.