Riding the Iron Rooster

"You are the second American in Xiamen to ask me that!" she said. "There are three hundred people in my unit at the ministry. Only twenty are members of the Party."

"Why so few?"

"Because it is hard to be a member. You don't volunteer. You have to be asked to join the Party. You must first act very well and leave a good impression. Do your work diligently—work overtime, study, be obedient."

"Like Lei Feng, the model soldier," I said. Lei Feng had scrubbed floors all night because of his love for Mao. In China he was a joke or else a paragon, according to who you were talking to. Most Chinese I had spoken to had found Lei Feng a bit of a pain, if not an outright fake.

Miss Wan gave me a Chinese reply. "Not like Lei Feng. You have to be noticed."

Lei Feng had only been noticed after his death, when his diaries were found, containing such exclamations as "I have scrubbed another floor and washed more dishes! My love for Mao is shining in my heart!"

Miss Wan said, "You have to be selected for the Party. The Party needs the best people—not just anyone who wants to join. If the Party works well, the country will work. The Party needs high-quality people."

"I'm sure you're a high-quality person."

"I don't know."

"Do you have healthy Marxist-Leninist thoughts?"

"I am trying," she said, and laughed. "I also like dancing!"

After she left, Mr. Wei said, "She gave me her card. Did you see?"

"Are you glad?"

"Oh, yes. I hope I see her again. It is so hard to meet girls in China."

He said he probably would not get married for another five years. Twenty-six was a good age for marriage.

With the greatest tact I could muster I asked him whether he had ever slept with a woman. I put it obliquely. He proudly said no.

"It seems to be a problem in China. No sex for young people." It had been one of the issues in the student demonstrations.

"It's a problem. Even if you meet a girl there is no place to take her. But I don't mind."

"You mean you don't believe in sex before marriage?"

He looked slightly disgusted. "It is unlawful and against our traditions."

With that, 2000 years of sensuality went straight out the window. Mr. Wei seemed blind to the fact that Chinese culture was rooted in sexual allusions. The mythical Yellow Emperor had made himself immortal by sleeping with a thousand women; and even a common object like a piece of jade had sexual associations—it was said to be the petrified semen of the celestial dragon. The dragon was phallic, the lotus was a sort of icon for the vulva, and so forth.

"Would you be arrested if you were caught with a woman?"

"You might be. You would be criticized. You could be reported."

"But surely you could be very careful if you had a lover."

"Someone would know," Mr. Wei said. "And even if you didn't get caught, people would look down on you."

That seemed to settle it, but Mr. Wei equivocated when I asked him about Miss Wan.

"I will keep her card," he said, breathing hard.

That was the last I saw of Mr. Wei. But I had no trouble fending for myself in Xiamen. For one thing, Spring Festival was about to begin, and this the happiest of Chinese holidays put everyone in a good mood, as they bought greeting cards and calligraphy and red paper banners with New Year's greetings inked on them.

Just before I left Xiamen I met an American, Jim Koch, a Kodak employee who had been hired to supervise the installation of a coating machine. This sounded a fairly modest contraption, but it had cost the Chinese $70 million, and the entire project was costing $300 million. The object was for the Chinese to make their own film for cameras and not be dependent upon the Japanese for photographic supplies.

Jim Koch had recently been married to Jill and had been looking forward to this post. But after three months in Xiamen he admitted to being rather doubtful. He was not pessimistic, but he was certainly cautious. What had surprised him most was Chinese ineptness.

"They're used to working with their hands," he said. "That's the problem. They can rig up something with a piece of wire and a stick. But they have never relied on sophisticated machinery or high tech. I have to show them every detail about a hundred times."

"But the young Chinese must be teachable."

"They're the worst. The laziest, the slowest, the most arrogant. The older workers are the best—the over fifties. The ones from thirty to forty seem to have a chip on their shoulder, as if they were cut out for better things."

"They were in the Cultural Revolution, so perhaps they're feeling cheated."

"Maybe. But I thought this was going to be pretty straightforward. Maybe eight months. The Chinese said twelve. But it will take longer."

"What is the biggest problem?" I asked.