Fat Years - Chan Koonchung [20]
Most officials, when they open their mouths, seem to come out only with conventional bureaucratic patter, but what He Dongsheng was saying sounded quite normal.
He began to grow on me.
After expressing his opinions, he gloomily sipped his wine.
“This is very good wine, very good wine,” Jian Lin said again after a while. “It’s better now than it was before. The flavor has completely opened out. We’ve been mixing white and red, and it still tastes great.”
We all fell silent again. I thought He Dongsheng would leave after the film ended, but he just sat there with us. He didn’t speak anymore and he didn’t touch the huge assortment of snacks that Jian served with the wine. He just kept on slowly sipping his wine. Jian brought out some big cigars, but we didn’t want any, so he was too embarrassed to smoke alone.
After the bottles and our glasses were all empty, Jian served up some famous Wuyi Dahongpao tea. He Dongsheng didn’t touch it. He didn’t seem to need even any water. It was just about midnight when He Dongsheng stood up and went to the toilet.
“He suffers from insomnia,” Jian Lin whispered. “He doesn’t need any sleep, and I was afraid he’d stay here forever. I can’t stay up all night; these days I go to bed early and get up early.”
“I go to bed early, too—I hate staying up all night.” I recalled that He Dongsheng had dozed off during the film.
“How about I give you a ride home?” said He Dongsheng when he got back.
“There’s no need,” I replied, “I live nearby. I’ll walk home.” Then, without thinking, I asked, “Is your driver still here?” Of course, as a high official, his driver would always be there.
I never imagined he would respond the way he did. “At night, I drive myself, I like to drive. Sometimes I drive around until morning; if I’m tired, I take a nap in the car.” He seemed to think that he had said too much, muttered, “I’m going,” and then left.
I sort of regretted not letting He Dongsheng drive me home. I really didn’t live that close. In the daytime, I would have walked it, but so late at night, I had to take a cab. It was Jian Lin who really lived close, on the top floor of a building in the same neighborhood.
“We hadn’t seen each other for a long time,” Jian Lin explained, “when I saw him recently at a memorial service for my aunt, and so I thought I’d invite him over.”
“You’re cousins on your father’s side,” I said, “but your last name is Jian and his is He. Why is that?”
“My father had two younger brothers who both joined the Revolution and changed their last names. Dongsheng’s last name was originally Jian.”
Apparently, it was quite common for second cousins in old revolutionary families to have different surnames.
“What about your other uncle?” I asked.
“I don’t have much contact with that side of the family,” Jian Lin answered.
I was uncomfortable delving any further into Jian’s family, so I said, “I never imagined that you and He Dongsheng were related. How high up is he now?”
“How high?” exclaimed Jian Lin. “Right now he is a member of the Politburo—a veteran of three Party Congresses. That’s no mean achievement.”
“Does that make him a national leader?” I asked.
“Strictly speaking, they should be called ‘Party and national leaders,’ ” Jian Lin said. “On the Party side, everyone from the secretaries in the Party Secretariat on up should be regarded as Party and national leaders. That would, of course, include members of the Politburo.”
Most national leaders I had seen had well-groomed black pompadours and ruddy complexions, and they were always in high spirits. I’d never imagined I would run into a pale, balding, insomniac national leader.
A titillating spring night
Standing on the pavement