Jonathan sips his coffee. For a moment, he seems to hesitate and search to find the right words.
“We’ve kept this pretty quiet.” He looks into Iona’s eyes again. “You must also keep it quiet, absolutely confidential, while our publication plan is coming together.”
Still in shock from the news about how Jian’s mother’s died, Iona raises her upper body from the hard white triangular chair, a familiar tension rising from her shoulders to her neck.
“Kublai Jian is the son of a very high-ranking politician.”
“Yes, yes, you said that already. Is there more?” Iona waits impatiently. The room is too hot, there are no windows through which to release her tension.
“I mean very high-ranking. This is huge, Iona. His father is the current prime minister, Hu Shulai.”
“What? Hu Shulai!” Iona exclaims. Although she has had lengthy mental preparation for this news, it is still shocking to have confirmation that he is quite so important. In the Western media Hu is seen as a charismatic character, the most appealing in the Chinese Communist Party of recent years.
Jonathan nods his head, his eyes lighting with a well-groomed twinkle. “Kublai Jian’s original name was Hu Xingjian. He cut off contact with his father after his father’s second marriage, and changed his name to Kublai Jian. Apparently neither the son nor the father has mentioned each other’s existence since then. It was a mutual hatred and denial too, from the information I have.”
“Hu Xingjian …” Iona repeats that name, so alien, yet so familiar. The name sounds very insignificant to her, any man could have that name in the whole of China or even across the entire continent of East Asia. Kublai Jian is a totally different man from Hu Xingjian. Or perhaps Kublai Jian is the reincarnation of Hu Xingjian.
Iona drinks a mouthful of coffee. Her throat burns.
“It makes me wonder how that country is going to evolve,” Jonathan says, “given that one of their most famous dissident artists is the son of their most powerful politician. And it’s just unbelievable that their government doesn’t want to do anything about it. It seems they’ve washed their hands of the whole thing.”
“But how is that possible?” Iona speaks bitterly. “If he’s the prime minster’s son, he would be protected surely, even in the West.”
“Not if he was perceived to be a problem for the current government. It’s all about consolidating power. Not at all surprising in the light of recent Chinese history.” Jonathan shrugs. “Think about their previous leader, Deng Xiaoping. His son was pushed out of a third-storey window by the Gang of Four and ended up with a broken back and life in a wheelchair. And there are many other cases. Mao sent his only non-dysfunctional son to the Korean War to be killed by Americans. It’s a tradition. Think of the emperors and their offspring.”
Iona feels her eyes pricking, as if a mote of sharp dust has got under the lid. The piercing lights are not helping either: bright white neon, as if she’s been laid naked on an operating table and there’s no place to hide. She covers her eyes to soothe the sharp pain.
“And how do you think Stalin’s wife died? Killed herself after an argument with her husband.” This is not news to Iona, but she’d not connected the dots before. Jonathan continued, “Jian’s father renounced his wife and young son in the seventies by starting a new family. I guess that’s why the son ended up such a bleak character.”
When they have both finished their coffee and she stands to leave, Jonathan makes a suggestion.
“I’ve got something else for you. I’d love to know your thoughts. If you like, we can meet for a drink this Friday. I’m just completely caught up weekdays. You can imagine how it is.”
Iona can’t, but nods her head. “That would be great.”
As she’s leaving, Jonathan brings out a CD, a blank cover with the title handwritten in marker pen: Yuan vs. Dollars.
“Almost forgot to give this to you.”
Iona smiles, putting the CD in her handbag.