God Is Red - Liao Yiwu [66]
Reverend Yuan Xiangchen’s apartment was small but comfortable. There was a cross on the wall and several calligraphic scrolls—proverbs from the Bible. A family picture above the sofa—of Yuan and his wife surrounded by more than thirty people—showed four generations of a large family, and I could identify a dozen or so faces in the relatively spacious living room. Liu introduced us and then sat down next to Yuan’s wife. They had never met but acted like they had known each other for years. I felt a little uncomfortable seated next to Yuan, who had the aura of seeming to be larger than his small frame should allow. He was hard of hearing, and each time I said something, he would cup his right hand to his ear as if to catch my words. To break the tension, Liu told some stories involving her Christian activist friends and their often comical encounters with officious police. Soon everyone was laughing and at ease.
I took out my recorder and notebook, Ms. Wen set up her camera on a nearby table, and, on her signal, I began my interview by mentioning Yuan’s appearance in Yuan Zhiming’s documentary, The Cross: Jesus in China. As Yuan began to talk about his early involvement in the church, there was a knock at the door.
The air really seemed to freeze when a roomful of people tensed at the exact same moment, then it shimmered a little, like a bow in full draw. In an instant, video camera, tape recorder, and Christian reading materials all vanished like so many props in a magician’s act. Yuan’s eldest son crossed the room quietly and put his ear to the door. Knock, knock, knock. The son coughed and asked in a casual tone, “Who is it?”
“We are police from the local branch.”
“Why, what’s happened?” the son called through the door.
“Some neighbors reported three strangers with a video camera came to your house for interviews,” said the voice outside.
“There is no media interview here,” the son replied.
“Open the door. We are here to conduct a routine check.”
Yuan’s eldest son looked around the room to make sure everyone was ready and then, as if the director had just shouted “action,” turned the door handle.
A uniformed police officer, who said he was in charge of the district, and a woman, who introduced herself as the new director of the street committee, were invited by Yuan to sit. The officer looked at me, Liu, and Ms. Wen. “Are you the ones who are conducting a media interview here?”
Yuan’s wife said, “Nobody is doing media interviews. These are fellow Christians. They are here for a casual visit.”
The officer addressed us again: “Are you all Yuan’s Christian friends?”
“I’m a Christian,” said Liu. “I heard that Uncle Yuan’s been sick. So I stopped by for a quick visit. These two are my friends.”
I nodded and said, “Yes, I’m curious about the church and want to chat with Mr. Yuan.”
The officer turned to Ms. Wen: “What about you?”
Ms. Wen blushed—her Taiwan accent would be a giveaway—and quickly pointed at her throat with a finger.
“What does that mean?”
Ms. Wen opened her mouth, gesticulating with her hands, her eyes flickering behind her thick glasses.
Liu said, “She has a terrible throat infection and can’t talk.”
“Okay, if she can’t talk . . .” the officer said to Liu, which meant he at least accepted her as speaking for all of us, “tell me what topics you are planning to discuss here.”
Liu was good and turned the interrogation into a Christianity 101 lecture, from “In the beginning . . .” to the resurrection of Christ. She was a born preacher, dazzling the officer and the street committee director, both of whom looked lost. The policeman tried to stop Liu, but she never gave him a chance, so he soon gave up and let her talk. Time passed quickly, and when Liu was ready for a break, she smiled and asked the officer, “Do you have