Mr. China by Tim Clissold Read Free Book Online Page A

and took us to a meeting room with a display case at the back. We stared at the
contents. The packaging was primitive: it was poorly printed in slightly garish colours and with a line drawing of a long-nosed couple – who were clearly meant to be Westerners –
embracing against a sunset backdrop.
    ‘What the hell’s goin’ on there?’ said one of the pinstripes.
    It was a classic example of the Chinese confusion towards Westerners: on the one hand, they were a target in campaigns against spiritual pollution at the university, and on the other they were
used on condom packets to conjure up an image of something rather daring that might be secretly admired.
    ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ said Maneksh, picking up one of the packets. ‘You know, Mrs Tao, you need to redo all this packaging. It’s far too dowdy. You need to make it
more exciting for the consumer. Back in the UK there’s all sorts of stuff available. Different colours and shapes, even flavours – banana, strawberry, whatever takes your fancy. Maybe
here it’d be shrimp-and-peanut flavour, or spicy bean curd . . .’
    ‘Er, yes, thanks, Maneksh,’ I interjected hurriedly. ‘Shall we go and see the workshops?’
    The machinery that we found at the top of a rickety staircase leading to the first floor of the warehouse at the back of the factory was a botched-up Heath Robinson affair; it looked like some
bizarre homespun contraption cobbled together with bicycle parts and bits of old washing machines. There was a huge sagging rubber belt strapped between two wheels that was pulled slowly through a
tub of melted latex. On the belt, set at every conceivable angle, some of which were anatomically simply not possible, were hundreds of glass penises. As the belt drooped into the tub, the latex
coated each one with a thin layer. Weighed down by latex and by then at slightly less inspiring angles, they clanked onwards into a small chamber that had what looked like a couple of hairdryers
inside blasting away to make the rubber set. At the other side, two colossal women with beefy forearms hauled off the condoms from the legions of approaching penises and threw them in handfuls into
a plastic tray on the floor.
    There was a rather frosty atmosphere in the car going back to the hotel. The next day we were due to see a pig farm but that was too much. We parted rather stiffly. It was back to the drawing
board.
     
Four

    We Tramped and Tramped Until Our Iron Shoes Were Broken and Then, Without Looking, We Found What We Sought
    The Water Margin:
Unattributed Ming Dynasty Novel
    After six months of searching in China but still getting nowhere with the investors in Hong Kong, I felt that we were spinning our wheels. I was beginning to lose heart. Then I
had the chance introduction to Pat that was to change the course of my life for the next ten years.
    A month or so after our first meeting, I took Pat to meet Ai Jian in Beijing. We found him in his dim little office, poring over a confused mass of handwritten papers in the fading sunlight of a
wintry afternoon. He leapt to his feet as we came in and fussed over some tea for a while. Once he had settled down and Pat started on his introductions, I saw that Ai, unusually for him, was in a
state of great nervous tension. His almost anguished concentration on Pat’s every word was so intense that it looked as if something inside him might suddenly snap at any moment. He had
immediately sensed that this was no courtesy visit but a one-off opportunity that might be lost if he didn’t grab at it with both hands.
    I could understand Ai’s desperation; when the ex-Red Guard and forced-peasant-turned-bureaucrat met this Wall Street banker, he already knew that the whole world had tilted in favour of
America and its overwhelming financial power. Mao’s China had never had enough money but after Deng there wasn’t even a clear political creed to cling to, or a hero to worship; just the
Great Chase of catching up