A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [77]
The general rebuffed chastising glances from the two civilian members of the tribunal with a short nod and settled noisily into his padded chair. He spared hardly a glance for the gray-haired man disintegrating before the prosecutor’s tongue-lashing. He thumbed briefly through the docket on the polished wood desk before him. The man was a musician of some sort.
The general did not know him. He ignored the stream of accusation and thought of his own son. The surveillance reports were quite concrete: The boy had been meeting foreign journalists, hanging out at the International Club, perfuming his hair, reading Western magazines. He had even, apparently, bedded a diplomat. The general would not have minded that, but the omission of the diplomat’s name, nationality and sex—certainly a calculated omission—could mean only the worst.
The young fool had been a mistake from the beginning, a winter child by the general’s third wife when he was already fifty-seven. The boy had inherited his mother’s looks, but not a scrap of common sense. He wanted to study in the United States. In the dawning Chinese political winter he might as well declare his intention of walking on the moon. The general dozed off, deciding that the boy would have to go into the army. If he let the Public Security Bureau have him, the boy’s mother—another mistake, she cackled like a chicken—would make the general’s life impossible.
“…compose and play unauthorized, bourgeois, decadent and immoral music.
“Twenty-six. You are accused, during the visit of foreign guests, to wit, the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, of playing foreigners’ instruments without authorization and of demeaning the prestige and honor of the People’s Republic by publicly suggesting that they were of a quality superior to those made in the People’s Republic …”
The general roused himself for the climax. When the prosecutor asked for life imprisonment, the musician fainted. The general watched, expressionless. He had seen that before, and stronger men wet their pants. When guards had roused the musician and the president offered to commute the sentence to self-criticism and twenty years at a state farm in Qinghai Province, the idiot actually seemed grateful.
Qinghai, on the unforgiving Tibetan plateau. One of the loneliest, coldest, most savage places on earth. If he was still alive in six months, it would be a miracle. Soft-handed wretch.
When the president intoned “Qinghai” he looked over at the general with arched eyebrow, as though inviting an objection, a local joke. The prosecutor smothered a smile.
Silently, the general assented. He had never liked musicians.
After the last of that afternoon’s accused had been dismissed, the prosecutor summarized the results of the day before.
Normally, while the tribunal members smoked and sipped fresh tea, the prosecutor would report that all of the senior comrades given twenty-four hours to mull their fate had volunteered to accept lesser sentence rather than to contest the charges.
That afternoon was different. Head down, voice muted, almost embarrassed, the prosecutor began reading:
“The following comrades who appeared before the Tribunal yesterday have agreed to self-criticism and reform through labor: Wu Ping, Sun Liu …”
Surprised, the president riffled through the papers before him.
“Wait until I find the list, Comrade,” he demanded with raised hand. “Very well, proceed.”
When the prosecutor had finished—after repeating some of the names as many as three times to accommodate the president, whose hearing was not what it had once been—he remained standing.
Slowly, lips moving, the president read through the list of names he had checked.
“The list is complete except for Comrade Wang Bin,” the president said at last.
“Yes, Comrade President.”
“He demands a trial?” The president was incredulous.
“No, Comrade President.”
“What then?”
“I do not know, Comrade President.”
“What are you saving?”
“Comrade Wang Bin had not reported to the Tribunal within the time afforded him, Comrade President.”
The prosecutor was frantic. Such a