him.’ He stopped and drew a long despairing breath. ‘All those who have been dropped by him one after another, as if from a merry-go-round, are actually his substitutes who’ve been punished for the crimes committed by him.’
In my alarm I ran to the window and threw back the curtain. The sunlight of the August evening streamed in. Seeing him sitting hunched and bewildered at his desk, a flail, pathetic figure wearing that bizarre spiked headband, wrung my heart. He blinked quickly in the light and rose unsteadily to his feet. He removed the band, dropped it on the desk, then walked slowly to the window and looked out at the haze gathering round the high mountain peaks.
It was only then that I saw the dried grass stalks on the other side of his desk. I knew there would be forty-nine strands—I had burst in on him whilst he was consulting the ancient oracle of the I Ch in g, the Book of Changes.
I went to the desk and glanced down at the hexagra m s he had formed. Marshall Lin was standing with his back to me looking out of the window. “Th e dragon exceeds the proper limit and there will be occasion for repentance.”
He had intoned the classical description of the divination that had declared itself among the stalks. Now he stood waiting by the window for my response. We had often played this game, testing each other’s knowledge and memory of the ancient writings. But I stared at his back dumbly, reluctant this t ime to speak in interpretation. ‘Go on, Comrade Yang,’ h e said softly, still without turning round.
I cleared my throat and looked down again at the hexagram. ‘When things have been carried to extremity. . . calamity ensues.’
He nodded his head slowly, still gazing out at the mountains. I rushed to his side and gripped him by the shoulders. ‘But the calamity need not be ours! It could be his! The army is behind you. Their loyalty would be to you!’
He said nothing for a long time. Then he shook his head. ‘I can’t fight against him. I have fought for him and by his side in too many battles. China’s destiny was in him. If it has gone from him now in his sickness, if he is being used by evil forces, I still cannot turn against him.’
‘But to survive, we must!’ I pleaded.
He shook his head. ‘No. Even though this failure to act means we must die.’ His shoulders shook suddenly. ‘This time we will not engage the enemy.’
He wouldn’t turn his face from the mountains then. Though I couldn’t see, I knew that in the fading evening light tears were streaming down his cheeks.
WASHINGTON, Wednesday—An astounding report is circulating here which reveals that it was President Nixon who sent Mao Tse-tung the first warning of a conspiracy led by Marshall Lin Piao to assassinate him and set up a new regime of hard-line military men.
London Evening Standard, 26 January 1972
6
Outside the red gates of the Soho Market at the end of Gerrard Street the Chinese street photographer was working hard on the lunchtime flood of tourists. Shirtless, and streaming with perspiration, he snapped his shutter and handed out address tickets with an unflagging, metronomic regularity. The amplified output of three or four competing pop record stalls beat the ears of the jostling crowd with a heavy, discordant jangle of noise, and the pungent reek of star anise and other acrid Chinese spices from steaming food stalls assailed the senses in their noses and mouths with equal ferocity.
When Scholefield ’s taxi drew up at the gates the photographer glanced back along Gerrard Street He saw the pursuing mini-cab turn the corner and flash its headlights twice. He switched immediately to the second camera slung around his neck. This was fitted with a telephoto lens and while appearing to focus on tourists on the pavement he took several fast frames of Scholefield paying off his driver against the background of the blue and white striped awning over the market entrance.
He watched and waited while
In my alarm I ran to the window and threw back the curtain. The sunlight of the August evening streamed in. Seeing him sitting hunched and bewildered at his desk, a flail, pathetic figure wearing that bizarre spiked headband, wrung my heart. He blinked quickly in the light and rose unsteadily to his feet. He removed the band, dropped it on the desk, then walked slowly to the window and looked out at the haze gathering round the high mountain peaks.
It was only then that I saw the dried grass stalks on the other side of his desk. I knew there would be forty-nine strands—I had burst in on him whilst he was consulting the ancient oracle of the I Ch in g, the Book of Changes.
I went to the desk and glanced down at the hexagra m s he had formed. Marshall Lin was standing with his back to me looking out of the window. “Th e dragon exceeds the proper limit and there will be occasion for repentance.”
He had intoned the classical description of the divination that had declared itself among the stalks. Now he stood waiting by the window for my response. We had often played this game, testing each other’s knowledge and memory of the ancient writings. But I stared at his back dumbly, reluctant this t ime to speak in interpretation. ‘Go on, Comrade Yang,’ h e said softly, still without turning round.
I cleared my throat and looked down again at the hexagram. ‘When things have been carried to extremity. . . calamity ensues.’
He nodded his head slowly, still gazing out at the mountains. I rushed to his side and gripped him by the shoulders. ‘But the calamity need not be ours! It could be his! The army is behind you. Their loyalty would be to you!’
He said nothing for a long time. Then he shook his head. ‘I can’t fight against him. I have fought for him and by his side in too many battles. China’s destiny was in him. If it has gone from him now in his sickness, if he is being used by evil forces, I still cannot turn against him.’
‘But to survive, we must!’ I pleaded.
He shook his head. ‘No. Even though this failure to act means we must die.’ His shoulders shook suddenly. ‘This time we will not engage the enemy.’
He wouldn’t turn his face from the mountains then. Though I couldn’t see, I knew that in the fading evening light tears were streaming down his cheeks.
WASHINGTON, Wednesday—An astounding report is circulating here which reveals that it was President Nixon who sent Mao Tse-tung the first warning of a conspiracy led by Marshall Lin Piao to assassinate him and set up a new regime of hard-line military men.
London Evening Standard, 26 January 1972
6
Outside the red gates of the Soho Market at the end of Gerrard Street the Chinese street photographer was working hard on the lunchtime flood of tourists. Shirtless, and streaming with perspiration, he snapped his shutter and handed out address tickets with an unflagging, metronomic regularity. The amplified output of three or four competing pop record stalls beat the ears of the jostling crowd with a heavy, discordant jangle of noise, and the pungent reek of star anise and other acrid Chinese spices from steaming food stalls assailed the senses in their noses and mouths with equal ferocity.
When Scholefield ’s taxi drew up at the gates the photographer glanced back along Gerrard Street He saw the pursuing mini-cab turn the corner and flash its headlights twice. He switched immediately to the second camera slung around his neck. This was fitted with a telephoto lens and while appearing to focus on tourists on the pavement he took several fast frames of Scholefield paying off his driver against the background of the blue and white striped awning over the market entrance.
He watched and waited while
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