God Is Red - Liao Yiwu [67]
The policeman shook his head, but the street committee director asked, “Why do people believe in God? What good does it do us?” The room laughed and, though flushed with embarrassment, so did she. I thought we might be safe, when the officer’s phone rang. He went out. We looked at one another nervously. He soon came back, and as Liu began to answer the street committee director’s question, his phone rang again. This time he returned with an older policeman, who walked in and greeted Yuan as one would greet a friend. He was the deputy director of the local branch of the Public Security Bureau. He demanded to see our identity cards. I knew Ms. Wen didn’t have one, and mine was for Sichuan. “Who would walk around with his papers during daytime?” I asked, trying to sound irritated. “It’s not like we are still in the era of the Cultural Revolution.”
Liu produced her ID and said, “I work for an American company. Can I vouch for them?” The deputy director thought for a few minutes, handed Liu her ID card, and asked us to write down our names, phone numbers, and addresses. Ms. Wen and I put down fake names. Liu used her real name—it was a common one she shared with tens of thousands of people in Beijing.
With Liu’s audience having grown by one, she simply picked up where she had left off. Our “public servants” looked attentive, nodding their heads occasionally as if they were really listening to her, so she kept preaching, but the tension was palpable. The deputy director’s phone rang four times. Each time, Liu’s face would become tense, her eyes involuntarily searching out mine. Ms. Wen’s face remained stern and enigmatic. Yuan became impatient. Twice he asked the deputy director, “Do you have any other questions for us?” His implied message was: “Please get your butts out of here. Don’t bother us anymore.” But on they sat.
Stalemate.
As we made our farewells, they did too. One of Yuan’s children tucked a piece of paper in my hand. We walked for a while after we left the building, glancing around like thieves, but there was no one following us, so we stopped a taxi and jumped inside. The note read, “Wait at the Catholic church near the subway station.” Liu gave instructions to the driver, and we got there in good time but were startled to find, on entering the courtyard, a new Audi parked near the entrance. I’d been suspicious of new Audis since spotting a similar one outside a dissident friend’s house I was visiting several days before. On that occasion, as soon as I walked in the door, several police charged out of the Audi, grabbed the door, and shoved me out. As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. We watched the Audi parked outside the church for about half an hour, when a young man in a nice suit came out and drove away.
The three of us sought shelter from the cold wind under the arched entrance to the church. I said Liu reminded me of an underground Communist character in a popular TV drama. “You faced your enemies with wit and calmness,” I said, using one of its familiar clichés. Liu deadpanned. “I was scared to death,” she said in a little girl voice, and we all laughed and walked around the church to keep warm. After about an hour, Yuan’s second son, Yuan Fusheng, appeared, carrying a plastic shopping bag. Inside was the video camera, tape recorder, and my notebook, all wrapped in layers of old newspapers. Yuan Fusheng, looking thin and frail, had a lot of experience working with the underground church.
Yuan Fusheng gave me a telephone number so we could reschedule our interview. It was already dusk as we said our good-byes. As I walked away, I noticed the sky was full of red clouds, the color bathing everything below—the streets and cars, buildings and people.
Chapter 14
The Underground Minister
Thwarted by police in my plans to interview Reverend Yuan Xiangchen, a prominent figure in the underground Christian community in Beijng, I got hold of his second son, Yuan Fusheng, on March 3, 2004. Yuan Fusheng assisted his father in ministering to Christians who refused to attend the official