The Chinese Assassin (5 page)

2

A
thickset Chinese
with
cl
ose-cropped
hair and a round, moon- like
face
blinked quickly
in the
sudden
light from the ha
l
l. Despite
the heat
he wore a
cheap fawn raincoat that was frayed at
the
cuff
and greasy
round
the
inside
of the
co
l
lar. He
carried a large box
of
Cellophane-wrapped
‘Good News’ chocolates
ostentatiously in front
of him. He
bared
his
, teeth in a sudden,
automatic smile
and raised his eyebrows.
‘Mr.
Scholefield
?’

Scholefield
nodded. ‘Mr. Yang?’

The
Chinese
laughed nervously
and stepped
inside without waiting to be invited. He moved
quickly past
Scholefield
and walked unsteadily
into the lighted study,
limping as though
from some injury or
deformity.
Scholefield closed the door
and
followed him UI. He found
Yang standing uncertainly in
the
middle
of the room
looking
down at Nina Murphy.
Taken
by
surprise,
she
was
sprawled back on the chesterfield, her
legs
splayed
across the carpet,
the
jeans still
rolled back half
w
ay up her long
thighs.
Yang let out a
strangled
laugh of
embarrassment
and ducked
his
head
uncertainly
in her direction in
greeting.
He nodded diffidently towards the box of chocolates in his hand
and
held them towards her. ‘It
was
customary once in
China
to arrive bearing a
gift.’

Nina smiled
and reddened
in uncharacteristic confusion. She
hurriedly
rolled down her jeans
and
began to stand up. But the
Chinese turned quickly
away
and
placed
the chocolates
on the shelf of a
bookcase
behind him.

He
looked back hesitantly
at Scholefield
then
began
speaking
from where he stood,
wringing his hands
nervously in front of him. ‘I am from the People
’
s Republic of
China and
there
are
a
number
of things I have to say. You
may
be
shocked
or
distressed
at what I am going to tell you. If you are, please stop me
and
tell me to go.’ His
English was
slow
and stilted
but
meticulously
correct. He stared down at
the floor
for a moment, avoiding
their
eyes.

Nina
sat
down again on the
chesterfield and
cleared a space among
the Chinese newspapers. ‘Wouldn’t
you
like
to sit, Mr. Yang?’ She shot a
quick glance
at
Scholefield
but his face
was expressionless,
watching the
Chinese.

‘Hsieh
hsieh ni.’ He perched uncomfortably on
the
very edge of the couch,
giggling
apologetically at his sudden lapse into Chinese,
and corrected himself:
‘Thank you.’ He raised his
round,
pock-marked face to look at them both briefly before dropping his eyes to
the floor once
more. ‘Before I tell you my story, Mr.
Scholefield
, I would
like
you to
confirm
that you are not a
Communist.
I do not think you are because you are well-known for your—’ He
paused, searching
for a word ‘your objective
writing
on China. But I could not
tell
you what I have to
say if
you were of an extreme left-wing
disposition.’

Scholefield noticed
that
sweat
had
broken out on his visitor’s
fa
ce. He moved over to his
de
sk
.
‘Would you
like a glass
of
vodka,
Mr. Yang?’ The
Chinese shook
his head quickly without looking up.

Scholefield
Sat
down in the
swivel chair, switched on the desk light
and pulled pen and
paper
towards
him. ‘You can
rest assured,
Mr. Yang,
that
my political views are not of the extreme left—or of the extreme right for
that
matter. Please go on.’

‘I am working in Oxford—at an
acupuncture
clinic. You know
there are
several student exchange programmes between
our two
governments. Most of
the
people I know at Oxford are Communists, extreme leftists or
are connected with
the Marxist-
Leninist
Party of Great
Britain—which as
you know is anti- Moscow
and
pro-Mao Tse-tung.
That is
why I am unable to
speak openly with
them.’

Scholefield
nodded.
‘
I
think I begin to understand Mr. Yang. But you’
l
l have to
make yourself clearer.’

Yang nodded quickly. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I am a member of the Chinese Communist Party and I have always supported Chairman Mao. But now I am in some difficu
lt
y. I was born in Huang-an County in
Hupei
province in
1934
although I was brought up in Szechuan.
I
was made an orphan by the war and cared for by the Communists. I was often starving—that is my most vivid memory. But in my
c
ountry I am now a hero. I served in Vietnam, training the Vietnamese fighters to shoot down imperialist American air pirates. I was decorated for that service and made a hero of the People’s Liberation Army. So you see the Party has nourished and nurtured
me. My
allegiance
is
to
the
party and Mao Tse-tung. I am
a patriot.’
Yang’s
voice died away altogether for a
moment.
‘But now, as I
say, I face a very
serious difficulty.’

Nina
and
Scholefield
exchanged
puzzled
glances over Yang’s bowed
head.
Scholefield
noticed that the man’s
hands,
which
he
constantly wrung
together, were
incongruously
delicate
in
comparison
with
his squat
heavy
body—and
heavily ingrained with
dirt.
Scar tissue
from what might have
been
a
burn ran
from
behind
his
ear and disappeared under
the soiled collar of his
shirt.

In the
silence Yang
cleared his throat several times
then
continued in a more determined
voice.
‘Over the past year I have discovered something I had not wanted to admit to
myself
before.’ He looked up suddenly,
directly
at Nina. ‘Am I
shocking
you?’

Nina stared
back, disconcerted. ‘I’m not sure. No,
I’
m not shocked yet, I don’t know what you’re going to say.’

Yang
dropped
his head in his hands
and
fell silent. When he spoke again his voice
came
muffled through his fingers. ‘
I
have discovered here in
England
that I am—a homosexual.’

Scholefield took a deep breath.
Nina
continued staring at the bent head of the
Chinese with
a perplexed expression on her face.

‘I think you can
understand
my
dilemma.’ Yang
let his hands
fall
away
and
looked up at
Nina.

She leaned
towards him, her voice gentle
with
sympathy.
‘Are you saying that this
would count
against
you back home
in
China?’

Yang laughed
h
umourlessly. ‘It would not only count against me, Mrs.
Scholefield
,
there is a chance
I would be put to death.’ She stared at him,
aghast. ‘The
point is, I am a
war
hero who
risked his life
in Vietnam. Look at recent
history.
Liu Shao-chi
and
L
in Piao were heroes one day,
then
the next
day
they were in
disgrace—or
worse, dead
.
So I have this
dilemma.
I believe in
Socialism,
in Chairman Mao
and I believe in the
People’s Republic of China but I have this
personal
trait likely to
result in
my
disgrace—or
even my
death. I am
very apprehensive of the
future!’

Scholefield stood up
with
a sigh anti threw his pen down on
the desk.

‘Mr. Yang, I’m sorry, but if you’re saying
what I think you’re
saying,
you’ve come to
the wrong
place. There are well
laid down channels
of approach for people
like
you. You
should
go to the
British
government
and
ask for
political asylum.
It’s not part of my job to help defectors.’

‘No! No!’ Yang
sprang to his feet.
‘
I
am not
asking
you to
arrange
my defection.’

“What
then?’

Yang clenched his fists and his voice rose to a shout. ‘I am a
Socialist,
I believe the world is
moving inevitably
towards a
Communist
Society! I must live in a Socialist country!’

Scholefield
looked at the
Chinese steadily.
‘Any one in particular?’

Yang
didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes,
Cuba!’

‘Why
Cuba?’

‘I believe I could live in Cuba because that
country
is both
sufficiently radical
to meet my
political views and sufficiently
broad-minded on other matters to
suit
my homosexual
tendencies,
answered Yang.’