A Case of Two Cities

things.
    What kind of classes speak what kind of languages.”
     
    The poet was none other than Bao, with an editorial note underneath: “In a simple yet vivid language, the emerging worker-poet Bao speaks the truth: the class struggle is everywhere. While the class enemies will not change their true color or their true nature, we, the working-class people, will always be loyal to our revolutionary nature. The first two lines are hidden metaphors, juxtaposing the image with the following statement.”
     
    A huge hit, the poem was reprinted in the People’s Daily and other newspapers. Radio stations interviewed him. Magazines covered him. He was admitted into the Chinese Writers’ Association. Instead of working in the steel factory, he became a professional writer with more published poems. One couplet even appeared in textbooks. A shout from our Chinese steel workers, / And the earth has to tremble three times. Then Bao married a young college student who worshipped his poems. During the Cultural Revolution, because of his working-class origins, Bao became a member of the association revolution committee. One of his new poems was even made into a popular song. With the end of the Cultural Revolution in 1976, however, troubles came his way. Those who had suffered under the revolution committee criticized him. What’s more, he was no longer capable of publishing his work. People called his poems political doggerel, and his working-class status hardly helped anymore.
     
    Still, he had to consider himself lucky with his position intact as an administrator in the Writers’ Association, and the occasional appearance of his name in the newspapers. The Party authorities tried to keep a working-class poet on the literary scene in a symbolic way. Now in semi-retirement, Bao was given the chance to visit the United States. Bao could have said no to this trip, but he was going to retire soon, and then he would lose all his privileges, including the opportunity of a government-paid trip. It would be a terrible loss of face for a writer of his status to step down without having visited the States. The opportunity was like a chicken rib: not meaty, but too chewable to throw away.
     
    It was then that the phone rang. He wasn’t really in the mood to talk to anybody, but to his surprise, it was Hong Guangxuan, someone he had known in the mid-sixties, in the Beijing Workers’ Culture Palace, in his poetry workshop. Sitting in the audience, Hong listened to his talks and turned in the homework to the “master.” So they became acquainted. After Hong immigrated to the United States in the early eighties, they had lost contact.
     
    Bao moved down to the lobby in strides, carrying that poetry collection. Hong had a Chinese restaurant here, Bao had heard.
     
    “I’m so glad to see you, Master,” Hong said, rising respectfully as in the old days.
     
    “You have not forgotten me, Hong.” Master was a word Bao had long missed. Now thousands of miles away, someone still remembered him as such. He was touched.
     
    “How can I! Those days in the Worker’s Culture Palace,” Hong said. “I heard about the delegation two days ago and I thought about you. In the local newspapers, I read the name of the delegation head—never heard of him before—Chen Cao, but only this morning did I learn from someone else that you were here.”
     
    “Oh, I’m the Party secretary of the delegation,” Bao said. “The Party position won’t be mentioned in the newspapers here.”
     
    “Yes, that’s right,” Hong said. “It’s about ten years since we last met. Things have really changed, as from azure oceans to mulberry fields. How about a long talk over a night meal? There are excellent Chinese restaurants in L.A. As genuine as you can find in Beijing.”
     
    Bao was not hungry. But the prospect of a genuine Beijing night meal was tempting—the more so with someone who shared the memories of the Beijing Workers’ Culture Palace. As he was going out, he thought about giving Chen a call, but he decided not to. It would be a loss of face to seek Chen’s approval in the company of Hong.
     
    Hong moved to a black BMW convertible parked in the driveway, from which he took out a cell phone, pressed a few buttons, and spoke in English.
     
    “You don’t have to drive me around, Hong. No point in going to fancy places. Let’s just go to a quiet place where we can sit and talk.”
     
    “Well, come to my place then. Not a fancy