A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [60]
“You may sit,” said the elder of the two Party hacks. That made him the president of what was technically a commission of inquiry, but only by euphemism. It was as close to a trial as Wang Bin would see, if he was smart. Everybody in the room knew it. Everybody also knew that Wang Bin had already been found guilty of whatever it was they were about to charge him with. All that remained was the sentence.
“I prefer to stand, Comrade,” said Wang Bin.
“You will sit,” snapped the prosecutor.
“Oh, let him stand if he wants to. What difference does it make?” The general sighed from a mouth half-hidden by a hand that supported his face.
“Proceed,” said the president.
“This is an inquiry by the Disciplinary Commission of the Communist Party of the People’s Republic of China against Wang Bin, Party member since 1937, expelled in 1966 and rehabilitated blameless in 1976.”
The prosecutor read like an automaton in a high, singsong voice.
“Based on information received, and from direct observation, the Party accuses Wang Bin of conduct inimical to the best interests of the Party and the state.”
Wang Bin tensed. How much did they know? Everything hinged on the innate stupidity of the bureaucracy. They would list the charges chronologically, with the most recent first, Wang Bin knew, to shake the confidence of the accused by showing how vigilant and up-to-date the watchers could be.
“One. You are accused of meeting secretly, privately and without authorization with a foreigner for purposes inconsistent with the best interests of the Party, namely Harold Broom, an American citizen; five counts.
“Two. The same accusation applies to another American, one Thomas Stratton, with whom you met secretly in your office in Peking in violation of the Party code of correct conduct.
“Three. You are accused of misuse of Party property, namely one Red Flag limousine, damaged severely while assigned to you.
“Four. You are accused of the misuse of Party funds in paying for a decadent art exhibition attended by foreigners in state property, namely a museum, under your custody.
“Five. You are accused of conspiring against the best interests of the state and the Party in personally securing an entry visa for an American citizen, namely David Wang, without authorization, and of abandoning your post to travel and to meet secretly with David Wang.
“Six. You are accused of receiving unauthorized gifts from a foreigner, namely propaganda materials from the Embassy of France …”
Wang Bin stared at a streak of grease on a chunky window behind the commission table. He tried to remain detached. He tried to keep from laughing. The “propaganda materials” had been a set of art books for the museum library.
And how typical. The Party, in a frenzy of self-consuming self-righteousness, could not see fire, but invented smoke. What he was accused of was making his ministry fairly open, semiefficient and less backward than most in the Chinese government. His true guilt was unmentioned, unknown, invisible to zealot cadres who found termites in healthy trees, but never noticed that the forest was burning. Wang Bin fought back a sneer. If you really knew my crimes, comrades, my friend the general would end this charade with a single shot—and I wouldn’t blame him.
It was amazing. The prosecutor seemed immune to breathing. He read without pause, increasing shrillness his only concession to an indictment of forty-seven different crimes over seven years.
“Forty-seven. You are accused of meeting privately with a foreigner, namely Gerta Hofsted, in the dining room of the Peking Hotel and charging your ministry for the meal when in fact it was paid for by the foreigner.”
My, my, how thorough. A lunch seven years before with a West German anthropologist. She had never noticed when he pocketed the receipt, but obviously a waiter had.
The prosecutor shut up as suddenly as he had begun. Wang Bin remembered a joke a Russian had told him back in the days when Russia