The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

11

Xao Xiyang took a deep drag of the cigarette, stubbed the butt out in the full ashtray, and lit another one. It was a deep character flaw, he knew, that anxiety made him chain-smoke. He should meditate instead, or do t’ai chi, but he lacked the patience. Another character flaw.

Besides, his smoking made the interior of the limousine smell bad. His late wife had complained about it constantly-it had been one of the many running jokes they shared-and he felt a quick stab of sorrow that she was not there to nag him about it.

He looked out the window at the wide boulevard. His was one of the few automobiles among the thousands of bicycles, their bells jingling like an immense flock of chirping birds. The car came to a stop at a four-way intersection in front of a traffic island on which a white-uniformed policeman waved his arms and did a showy pirouette to face a new stream of traffic. Behind the officer loomed a gigantic billboard picturing a young couple beaming at their baby. Their single baby. It was a boy, Xao Xiyang observed. In the birth-control propaganda, the one child was always a boy. Not so in life, thought Xao, whose wife had given him two beloved daughters, no sons.

The officer spotted the official limousine and hurriedly stopped the other traffic and waved it through. Normally, Xao would have told his driver to wait, but today he was in a hurry. On most other days he loved to linger on Chengdu’s wide, tree-lined streets, to get out of the car and walk the sidewalks, look over the shoulders at the many artists who painted the flowers, the trees, and the pretty old buildings. Or perhaps stop in at one of the many small restaurants and sample some noodles in bean paste, or tofu in the fiery pepper sauce that was the city’s specialty. Sometimes he would stand and chat with the crowd that inevitably formed around him, listen to their concerns, their complaints, or maybe just share the latest joke.

But there was no time for joking today, he had no appetite for noodles or tofu, and the only painter that concerned him was the one he had code-named China Doll. She had-unwittingly-left a mess behind her in Hong Kong, a mess that threatened to ruin his entire plan, the one he had worked on for so many years. Ah, well, he reminded himself, she was still something of an amateur, and amateurs will make mistakes. But still their mistakes must be made right.

She had done well, however. She had made her way through and brought her package with her to Guangzhou, where his secret ally controlled the security police. Despite his eagerness to see her, and finally to meet the scientist she had brought with her, he had let them sit hidden in Guangzhou until it was safe to bring them into Sichuan.

He had thought that would be a matter of a few weeks, but then the trouble started in Hong Kong. Who would ever have thought there would be so much commotion over one young man? So many people looking for him, making so much noise. If that noise reached certain ears in Beijing… well, he wouldn’t let it, that was all. He would take the necessary steps, had taken the necessary steps, and that, after all, was the best way to set one’s anxieties to rest.

He looked out the tinted windows at the neat row of mulberry trees that lined the road. Soon the pavement would end, and the road would turn to that deep red earth so distinctive of Sichuan. Already he was seeing the signs of the countryside: peasants laboring beneath shoulder poles, cyclists maneuvering bicycles heavily laden with bamboo mats or cages of chickens-even one with a pig tied across the rear hub, children riding on the necks of their buffaloes, urging them off the road toward the rice paddies.

The sights raised his spirits, reminding him of the ultimate aim of all his planning and plotting. Beijing would doubtless call it treason, would give him the bullet or the rope if they caught him, but Xao knew that his treachery was the most patriotic act of a patriotic lifetime. May the god we don’t believe exists bless Li Lan, he thought. She has brought us the scientist-the expert-and with his help these children riding so happily to their chores will never know the suffering their parents did. They will never be hungry.

If you want to eat, go see Xao Xiyang, he thought, mocking himself. Well, the great Xao Xiyang had better clean up this mess in Hong Kong, clean it up before those red ideologue bastards in Beijing use it to gain the upper hand again. Use his disgrace to embarrass Deng and tie his hands.

He used the cigarette butt to light a fresh one. He told his driver to speed up and then sat back to think.

It took an hour to get to the production team headquarters. His car had been spotted and the word of his arrival had preceded him. Old Zhu was standing in the circular gravel driveway to greet him. Old Zhu, the production team leader, was only thirty-three, but he looked old. Xao suspected that even his schoolmates had called him Old Zhu. Old Zhu was impossibly earnest. He cared about only one thing: growing rice. And in China, Xao mused, that would tend to make one old before one’s time.

Xao got out of the car and greeted Zhu warmly, trying to head off the rapid-fire bows that were Zhu’s habit.

“Have you had rice today?” he asked Zhu. It was the traditional Chinese greeting, asking if the person had eaten. It was not always a rhetorical question.

“I am full, thank you. And you?” asked Zhu, managing to get three bows into his answer.

“I can never get enough of the rice grown by the Dwaizhou Production Brigade.”

Zhu flushed with pleasure and led Xao into a two-story stone building that served as a meeting hall, recreation center, and hospitality suite. They went into a large room that had several large round tables and bamboo chairs. On one of the tables were a pot of tea, two cups, two glasses of orange drink, four cigarettes, and a small stack of wrapped hard candies. Zhu pulled out a chair for Xao and waited until he was seated before taking a chair himself. Then he poured tea into the two cups and waited to hear the purpose of the chairman’s visit.

Xao sipped his tea and politely nodded his approval, provoking another blush.

“Your figures for this quarter,” he said, “are excellent.”

“Thank you. Yes. I also think that the brigade has done well.”

“Of particular satisfaction are the figures from the privatized land.”

Zhu nodded seriously. “Yes, yes. Especially in pigs, a bit less so in rice, but overall we are very pleased.”

“As well you should be.”

Xao took a swallow of the hideously sweet orange drink and forced himself to smile. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Zhu.

“I think,” Xao said, “that we shall be making further advances soon.”

Zhu stared at the floor, but Xao could see the excitement in his eyes.

“Even so?” Zhu asked.

“So… if I were able to give you a certain rare resource, you feel you would be able to make good use of it.”

Zhu didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

Xao was surprised to feel his heart pounding. Such was the state of paranoia in their people’s republic that he even hesitated to trust Zhu, Old Zhu, the ultimate farmer, the man he had watched repair tractors as if he were operating on his own children, the man he had seen thigh-deep in the paddies teaching the old ones better ways to harvest, the man he had seen weep over the arrival of a shipment of fertilizer.

“And you understand,” Xao continued, “that this resource must be kept a secret, even from the authorities of the government?”

Zhu nodded. He looked Xao squarely in the eyes and nodded.

Done, Xao thought. He inhaled the smoke deeply, held it in his lungs, and let it out along with his sigh of relief. He sat quietly with Zhu, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, as they both thought about the step they were going to take and dreamed their individual dreams.

After a few minutes Zhu asked, “Do you wish to see her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish an escort?”

“I know the way.”

Zhu stood up. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”

“I am afraid I do not have the time.”

“I shall have the cooks prepare something for you. You can eat on the way back to the city.”

“You are very kind.”

“And for your driver, of course.”

Zhu left, and Xao finished his cigarette before walking outside. The late afternoon was pleasantly warm, and he enjoyed walking along the dike between the broad rice paddies. Dwaizhou was an ordered miracle of neat fields, fishponds, and mulberry trees stretching along the broad Sichuan plain seemingly forever, or at least up to the mountain range that rose faint purple on the western horizon. Maybe when it was all over, when he had completed his work, he could retire here and spend his days raising carp and playing checkers. A dream, he thought. My work will not be finished in a thousand thousand years.

He walked two li before coming to the small concrete building on the edge of the wood that Zhu had let stand to harbor rabbits for hunting. The building had a corrugated tin roof, a metal door, and a single barred window. The guard stood at attention in front of the door, and Xao realized that Zhu must have sent a runner, some fleet child, ahead of him, to warn the guard.

He motioned for the guard to unlock the door, then gave the nervous young man a cigarette and told him to take a walk, out of earshot but within sight. When the guard was far enough away, Xao ordered the prisoner to step outside.

She never changes, he thought. How long had it been? Ten years? Eleven? She still wore the Maoist clothes, the baggy green fatigues and the cap. But no red armband-those were gone with the Red Guard. Her hair was tied in two pigtails held with red ribbon-her sole affectation. She was still lovely.

She bowed deeply.

He did not return the bow.

He said it before he could lose his nerve. “I am going to release you soon.”

He saw her eyes widen in surprise. Or was it dismay?

“You cannot release me.”

“It is within my power.”

“I mean that I am a prisoner of my own crimes. No one can release me from them.”

Perhaps that is true, he thought. Indeed, I have tried and tried, and I have been unable to forgive you. And it is eleven years, not ten. How could I have forgotten?

“Your release does not come from my mercy, it comes from my need.”

“Then I am grateful to serve your need.”

“How long have you been a prisoner?”

“Eight years.”

“A long time.”

“You have been gracious enough to visit often.”

Gracious, he thought. No, not gracious. I have visited you to struggle with my own soul. To see if I could overcome my own hatred. I have kept you as a mirror in which to view myself.

“My needs may require you to exercise some of your former skills. Can you?”

“If it serves you.”

“It is dangerous.”

“I owe you a life.”

Yes, he thought, you do. He studied her closely, studied her as he had so often. He wanted to reach out to her, to share the pain, but instead he stiffened and said, “Be ready, then. I shall call.”

She bowed. He turned on his heel and signaled the guard to lock her back up, lock up this woman who had killed his wife.