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A Fictionalized Biography…
… of Flatt, Chairman of the Communist Party of the Middle Kingdom.
Born the son of a revolutionary, Flatt is destined for a career at the summit of politics, but he has to climb to get there first.
Flatt’s rise coincides with nation shaping events in modern Middle Kingdom history. His childhood is cut short by the devastating famine of the Great Leap Forward. Flatt gains his first administrative role during the murderous turbulence of the Cultural Revolution. Following the death of the great Cat, Flatt begins his ascent to the throne through the brazen corruption of provincial politics. A period of reform is curtailed by the massacre of protesters in the great square of the Capital, cementing the hardline power of the Party and creating opportunity for the ambitious.
Flatt must vie with a childhood adversary if he hopes to attain the crown. His path is made clear by his rival’s spectacular fall from the heights of power. Thus begins the reign of a tyrant.
This historical fiction will will acquaint the reader with the horrors of the modern era of the Middle Kingdom. The inner lives of Communist Party leadership are coloured in a fictitious representation of their personalities and manners. Their motivations are surmised by the results of real world events.
Flatt is a conduit to the machinery of the Communist Party. The relationship of the Party to the people and to the international community is explored through Flatt’s ascent.
The reader interested in communist ideology and the recent history of the Middle Kingdom will be satisfied. The reader that wants to understand the Middle Kingdom from inside the halls of power will be entertained. The reader with a dark and absurd sense of humour will be thrilled.
The author lived more than twenty years of adulthood under Communist Party rule. Nevertheless, the author writes from his imagination. He will not defend the truth of any part of this work. He’s quite willing to say it is all lies.
This is the Middle Kingdom like you’ve never seen it before.
…. Flatt is well fed, as are all of the children in the Capital school for Party children. The same cannot be said for their rural counterparts. Few of those know the taste of meat, many go to bed hungry, and some die of starvation, all troubles that are only theoretical for Party children.
Farm work is mostly theoretical as well. Most of them are not very good at it. Flatt is particularly useless. The higher the position of a child’s father in the Party, the worse that child seems to be at tending the land. Flatt’s plot is a disgrace. He has tried to grow lettuce and carrots, two of the easiest crops to manage, but he has failed miserably. The carrots were planted too close together, and the resulting harvest will be stunted and deformed. His failing was apparent when he dug one up yesterday. The lettuce plants he had stepped on several times when they were young, and his yield in this crop is meagre, far below the pitiful class average.
Gun’s plot is of a far better quality. Flatt eyes the produce with envy, and some hate. There Gun is, bent over his crops, aerating the soil, pulling the weeds, and even pouring out some fertilizer on them from a flask his mother lent him. They aren’t supposed to do that, but Gun will take the risk. The reward is worth it, the potential cancer.
The farming instructor gives out cigarettes for well managed plots. Flatt has never gotten a cigarette from the instructor, but Gun often shares his spoils with Flatt. Gun tends relationships as well as he tends crops.
Several plots over Bo is laid out in the dirt. If a teacher asks him why, he pleads exhaustion. When the teacher points out that Bo has only planted a single onion, heat stroke is Bo’s next excuse. Eventually the teacher goes away, and whatever scolding Bo receives in the meantime he enjoys. Bo likes his onion. He thinks it’s just fine. The point is to grow it well. The teacher argues the land is under used and could contribute far more. Bo counters that he is learning from this trial, and observation requires all his attention. It’s really quite demanding.
Beside Bo’s lethargy is Weaver’s industriousness. His tools are marked, cleaned, sharpened, and arranged about his land with thoughtful consideration. His furrows are measured, his leaves trimmed, and he has removed all rock from his land. Weaver waters on a schedule and records a dozen daily data points assiduously in one of his notebooks. Flatt doesn’t like it.
Weaver sees him coming. His eggplant trees offer scant protection but he stands behind them anyway. Flatt smacks his eggplant. “You do more because you think you’re better than other people. You want to show us how much better you are.”
Weaver stutters. “I do everything for the people. They’re starving. I hope my efforts can alleviate some of their suffering.” Flatt has approached quite close. Weaver does not back away. Flatt stomps on Weaver’s foot. Weaver doesn’t see it coming because the eggplants are dangling in the way. Weaver falls to the dirt and hollers in pain. “You see why the teacher beats you, Weaver? You’re not a team player. We’re all held to your standard. The morale of the group suffers due to your selfish ardour. We collectively produce less because of you. Shame.” Flatt kicks at Weavers feet.
Bo is lazy, but likes drama. It gives him a good laugh. He picks himself up to join the play. “Picking on Weaver, Flatt? That looks like fun. What are we blaming him for? I like a reason to support punishment, if possible. A solid conviction motivates me, and increases my joy.”
“He tries too hard.” Flatt stops kicking him once Weaver stops resisting. Flat shovels dirt onto Weaver with the side of his foot. Eggplants get in the way, so Flatt bends over the spine of the plant with his foot and steps on it. Weaver tries to play dead again. The dirt shovelling is better than the kicks.
Bo slouches. “That won’t do. Let him do as he pleases. We could beat him for being small and poor. That’s a good reason.” Bo perks up. Weaver curls semi prone and rubs his foot on the back of his calf. Playing dead is hard when your hurt badly. This day has been more difficult than most.
Flatt won’t have it. “Everyone is equal. You can’t purposefully do so much better than your fellow man. It’s your pride driving you. I’ll beat it out of him.” Flatt turns to make good on his threat, but Bo is more nimble. Bo hops over and smacks Weaver on the head a half dozen times. Weaver covers up with his hands as best as he can. Bo giggles maniacally as he beats away. He doesn’t really need a reason. “Still. It shouldn’t be for trying hard.” Bo stops his fun to think. This is a tricky one.
Gun, satisfied with the state of his garden, has ambled over to address the conflict on Weaver’s plot. Something is not right. Gun knows what it is without asking. He starts right in at Flatt. “Your plot is a disgrace, Flatt. It’s worse than Bo’s single onion. You’ve tried, and failed miserably. You beat Weaver because he’s competent. His competence exposes your ineptitude.” Gun is a tank, and rumbles over the furrows to tend to Weaver now that his feelings are involved. Weaver is not sure he wants this help, but he has no choice. Gun hauls the boy to his feet. Weaver has no time to process the potential results of Gun’s good intentions. Anyway, Weaver has survived worse. He pats off the dirt and rubs his head.
Gun turns to Bo. “You’re clearly rotten too. What would our nation be without Weavers?” Bo wouldn’t dare treat Gun to the same as he’s given Weaver. Gun is a stocky kid, rugged and calloused. Bo doesn’t fear flabby Flatt. He can always skip away and evade the oafish ogre. But Gun is a better athlete. Gun might get a hold of Bo and do some damage. Not that Bo holds his tongue for anyone. “I’ll do as I like. If you stop me now, it’ll only be worse for Weaver later.” Bo’s smile is twinkling and malicious.
Gun can’t help but laugh. He’s too easy going to take any of this too seriously. He’s indifferent to Weaver. He chooses to defend the meek when his mood and circumstances align. He often feels the instinct to protect the disadvantaged. Slightly farther down the ladder of Party elite himself, Gun is better attuned to the sufferings of the lower classes. He also has a clearer understanding of the ladder than these two, as they can only look down. These two boys don’t know what it is to look up.
“None of us do the work because of the value we find in it, except maybe oddballs like Weaver here.” Weaver is not here. He’s quite a ways away. Self preservation is a powerful impulse. Weaver’s garden work will have to wait for another day. Today the risk is too high. Gun spots Weaver several plots off, eyeing the boys warily, and smiles with pride that his rescue mission is a success. He returns to his thoughts. “We do it because we’re told to, and for no other reason. How well we do it is up to us. If we want recognition and praise, then we do it well. If we don’t need those things, then we do it like Bo. When the work turns out like Flatt’s, we shrug and give him the cymbals in the orchestra.”
Bo laughs. “What can he possibly do?” Flatt smiles. “Rule.”
Fortune
Leadership at the provincial level is hopelessly soiled. They are a guileful, greedy, crooked lot. These men have not a vault, but a pocket. They lack the vision of the Capital, and their scheming is only detrimental to the Party cause, motivated as they are by the small minded accumulation of petty wealth and regional power.
Within the province itself, however, these officials are minor kings, beholden only to the Capital. The Capital sends an emissary to whom the provincial leadership pays tribute. Not only a tribute of respect, of course. A tribute of collected taxation from the industry and commerce of the province. The Capital allows the province to retain the scraps of their peasant labour, while the lion’s share will go to the Capital, towards the realization of Party glory.
Thus quota determined from the Capital is imposed on the province, and the leadership of that province is responsible for fulfilling these demands. The provincial governor may do as he likes, so long as the emissary from the Capital is satisfied that the Party mouth is kept full by a conveyor belt of coin for the palace to consume. That emissary is the Party Secretary for the province.
The Party Secretary stands many rungs above the provincial leaders on the Party ladder of power. He will not sully himself in the muck of provincial business dealings. If the quotas are not met, than the provincial leadership will be replaced on his recommendation. At the local level, he is a fearsome dictator indeed, as he will suffer shame and demotion for the failings of the province under his purview. But so long as the quota is met, he will recuse himself from direct governance, and allow provincial leadership all the leeway they are wont to use, not only in the fulfillment of Party directed quota, but in their personal accumulation of wealth through corruption, bribery, or even legitimate business.
Thus there is an inherent conflict between central leadership and the provinces. A hidden resentment colours the relationship. The provincial authority collects coin in taxation only to give most of it away. They do all the work, but only receive a portion of the reward. They are furthermore subjected to a noose of oversight from their Party Secretary.
The Capital will intentionally set quotas high for the provinces, lest they become too powerful, too rich, too independent. With enough coin the provincials feel they can go their own way and rebel against Politburo directives. All the more so if one of their men sits the table of seven.
Needless to say, the Capital retains full control over the military. They are not afraid to use their army to bring an unruly province under control. The province may fund a public security apparatus of its own, but with the funds available to them they can never compete with the Capital.
To effectively retain control over as much coin as they possibly can, the province will nurture an inner tribalism amongst themselves. The Capital must never know the true extent of their wealth. If they are successful, that secret wealth can perhaps be leveraged to secure a seat on the Politburo for one of their tribe. Sometimes the relationship with their Party Secretary is one of mutual cooperation, seeking an end at the high table. Sometimes, if the Capital has sent them a man with little feeling and attachment to the local province, the relationship is antagonistic. This is the petty game of politics at the provincial level.
At the heart of this problem is the fact that the provincial leaders have not the ability to steal so much as to satisfy themselves completely. They can see the power and wealth of the Capital, and they are jealous. They begrudge the oversight of the Party Secretary, who may interfere in their affairs if he so chooses. They do not enjoy the taste of his shoe or his ass.
Four years in as a transplant from the Capital to oversee the locals as Governor of Fortune, Flatt is slick from the muck of corruption. He’s not Party Secretary. He hasn’t yet risen so far. But they are in cahoots. Never could he ever have imagined the sheer magnitude, the pervasive breadth of deceit and felony of provincial politics. He is so grubby with the grease of ill gotten gain that the stain has reached the very soul of the man, as must happen to any that dare to climb the Party tree.
Flatt’s father sits the table of seven. Deng the Reformer has designated Fortune to lead the first significant economic interactions with the foreign world. In Fortune the city of Mansion Gate is established. From here trade with the foreigners will normalize. A free hand is given to Fortune. Through their trials and errors the intricacies of foreign trade practices will be studied for their loopholes and weaknesses.
To my son,
So you’ve decided to pursue a political career. I couldn’t be more proud. I commend you on the path you’ve chosen. It’s the path I have chosen for myself. You see that our family is warm and secure under the Party wing. That we are fed generously from the Party teat. That others go without, while we never lack. You see the laurels and applause I’m given as a ranking member of the leadership and you want a fame of your own. You can have it, son.
But first you must learn. You must learn what it means to be a member of the Party. How a Party member must conduct himself. The rules you must follow and the manner in which you can climb the Party tree. I want to share with you what I’ve learned about a career in politics. What you do with my advice is up to you, but I’m duty bound as a father to warn you of the commitment, the oath you are about to take.
The first rule is do not seek the truth, son. Do not inquire about the truth. You are a political man. Let the intellectuals pursue truth, that’s their business. The truth is not your business. An action, word, or thought is correct if it benefits you. Anything beneficial to you is correct. If the benefit is uncertain, then you can stop thinking all together, and accept that a word, thought, or action is correct if your superior advocates it. What your big brother advocates is simply correct. Do not question the truth of what your brother advocates.
Learn to tell lies and be good at it. Treat lying as a habit. Lying is the most vital skill you must acquire for a career in politics. Lie to the extent that you can convince yourself it is the truth. Being an official is similar to being a whore, with the difference being that an official sells his mouth. Once you become an official, your mouth is no longer your own. Say what the Party wants you to say. Repeat what you have heard from your big brother. Do not violate this principle.
Academic credentials, on the other hand, are not to be taken seriously. You should have academic credentials, but not true knowledge. True knowledge will hurt you. With knowledge you will think independently, and independent thought is punished in politics. The members of the Central Committee, the two hundred dukes and earls of the nation and the one hundred alternates, have all procured lofty academic titles, like a master’s or a doctorate. These are fake. Party members are registered in the school record books, but their attendance is not verified and their tests are sat by others using their identification. Don’t be fooled by titles. They are not an indication of academic accomplishment.
Focus son. Don’t be distracted. The purpose of being an official is for the benefits it brings. Personal gain is your purpose. Seize every opportunity to enrich yourself. With the spoils of your plunder you can please your big brother. You will be promoted based on the wealth and influence you garner for your big brother.
Subordinates obey you because you can do the same for them. You don’t keep the riches for yourself. You give them away. This is how you climb within the Party tree. Some call this corruption, but you must not if you hope to reach the upper branches. The purpose of being an official is the accumulation of personal benefit. This is the only purpose. If this purpose becomes unclear, if it feels vague, if you become lost within a maze of moral scruples, then your failure is assured. You will fall from the tree and you will be left for dead. Don’t let this happen.
You will be given positions to fill and tasks to perform. Whether you know how to do the work or not doesn’t matter. You must learn how to manage relationships first, before doing the work. Your integrity and talent exist not in and of themselves, but only in the voiced opinions of others. Your relationship with people will colour their judgment of you, and thereby your reputation. Take care of your relationships and your reputation will take care of itself.
Flattery is a form of art. You must be willing to shamelessly belittle yourself to make big brother feel bigger. Flattery is used to influence your superior. In a Party tree populated by an unchanging, unchallenged central membership, the only way to progress is to grab big brother’s boot as he climbs. Reach up to the branch he has left. Push him higher yet to the branch above.
You may feel our family lives a far cry from village life. That time has changed the world. That we and the people we associate with are the sophisticated elite of society. Listen son, no matter how much our world appears to change, always remember that the members of the Party are farmers. A farmer’s focus is on short term goals. You must be blindly shortsighted. Once you look too far ahead, you no longer belong, and you will suffer the consequences. Mantras change and you must change with them. Black can become white with a word, and it must. Be flexible, and adjust accordingly.
Laws, regulations, and policies are not to be strictly adhered to. They are flexible as well. Rules are written to limit and govern others. You must understand how and when to deviate from the rules. Sometimes they must be observed, and sometimes they must be broken. You already know the answers you need if you have listened carefully to the advice I’ve offered. From here on out, I won’t believe a word you say. I suggest you do the same.
Good Luck.
Your father,
Holding Breath
The door slams behind him and Gun shudders. “What the flip is going on in Martial City?” Flatt’s face is creased with anger as he walks, much more quickly than usual, around his desk to the empty chair.
“There’s been an accident.” Gun tugs at his collar. He’s in fancy dress. This is a formal report. Maybe he’s put on a little weight.
“There’s been a flipping mistake.” Flatt corrects him.
“There’s been a leak.” Gun gets them a little closer still.
“Explain this to me in plain words, Gun. What’s going on in Martial?”
Gun leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks up past his brow at Flatt, sat on the opposite side of the enormous desk. Here comes the hard part. “We have a medical research lab in Martial. For the last few years we’ve had them researching viruses. Bat viruses, of all things. Bats, being mammals, share enough similarities with us that we can adapt viruses found in bats to infect humans.”
“Why the flip would you want to do that?” Flatt reaches into a cupboard by his knees. He takes out a bottle of whisky and one glass. Up on the desk they go. He pours out a drink for himself.
“We want to weaponize a virus. Maybe we could tailor it to infect the enemy and not us. Or we could make it highly transmissible and fatal to everyone, but we could develop a vaccine before releasing it on the world. Anyway we figure other nations are doing the same, so we shouldn’t be left behind in the research.”
Flatt pauses. He reaches down to the cupboard once again and retrieves a second glass. He fills Gun’s glass and clinks it with his own. That’s a pretty good idea. He can’t be mad anymore. The tension in Gun’s shoulders releases as he takes a big sip.
“So what’s gone wrong? Prophet says the leader of the lab, a man under your command, called him in hysterics. Whatever he was trying to say, Prophet had internal security lock the man up in a mental asylum. Now I’ve got one of your men wrapped up in a straight jacket and a muzzle, drugged and unconscious. What’s going to happen here, Gun?” Flatt really doesn’t know what to do. Gun doesn’t know what to do either. They can’t ask anyone. You can’t ask for direction from the people beneath you. That’s not the Party way. The top branches are supposed to have all the answers.
“Okay Gun. Here’s what were going to do. This thing is out? Out in the world? A virus?” Gun nods glumly. “And do you know any more about it?”
“I know a fair bit, General Secretary. But maybe time is a factor. We need orders from the top of the tree.”
“I understand the military shares the research facility with a civilian organization?” Gun nods. “And that you ran parallel research projects?” Nod. “The more adventuresome, ambitious projects were from the military side?” Nod “And the civilian side was funded by our enemies.” It wasn’t a question, but Gun keeps nodding. Flatt has heard a lot.
“Look here, Gun. Take hold of all documentation pertaining to this centre. Anything to do with these projects. You take the originals into the military, and burn everything else. Not a scrap left over, Gun. Not out on someone’s shoe, like this bug. Drink.” Gun follows the order.
“I want personnel. The whole facility. They’ll be lucky if they live long, healthy lives. Their families too.” Flatt pours out another two.
“Yes sir. Cover it up. It didn’t happen.” Gun doesn’t flinch. Flatt clinks his glass and drinks. Gun has the instructions he needs to act.
Just a few short months later, the proliferation of the novel virus has spread extensively throughout the local population in Martial City. Visits to clinics rise. Clinic operators take notice. Hospitals, doctors, nurses, and administrators carry the virus off with them to wherever whence they roam. Buses, trains and airlines transmit the virus at home and abroad. The local infection rate is rising fast. The virus has had time to build a community foundation.
A band of doctors, eight of them, cooperate, the scoundrels. A signed document is sent to the media, releasing details about the killing virus. The report plants the seeds of fear in the public. Deeply disliked by the leadership, the doctors disappear, never to be heard from again. Knowledge, the enemy of the Party, must be erased.
Gun thinks up all sorts of clever ways to prepare for the inevitable accusations. There are bats all over the night markets in the kingdom. There’s a night market within minutes from the virology lab. This was animal to human transmission. What could be more natural? A little exotic, it doesn’t happen every day, but perfectly plausible. If we say it enough times, it will be true. You can’t smooth it out from the memory of the people once it’s burrowed a groove in there.
You know what would be tasty? Blaming it on the foreigners themselves. Saying they brought it with them, and infected the locals on purpose. Since there’s really no evidence of such an event, we’ll keep this one on the second tier media. Maybe third tier.
Gun has already bought up many months worth of reserves of protective equipment. He starts hoarding those right away. Medicines of all sorts he stockpiles. Even staff are doubled at important hospitals, in anticipation of the need. They don’t have enough staff available for unimportant ones, but that’s not really a concern. Security personnel follow medical staff, even from the unimportant ones. Gun has enough of those. Body bag manufacturers are doing very well. It’s not a total loss.
Gun knows an edict will descend from the top. General General must deploy resources in response to the disease. But deployment is an admission of failure. Recognizing the problem means confessing it happened. The day has come. The cover, big though it is, is no longer big enough to hide the problem. The world is waking up with fleas.
At first they aren’t much noticed. They’re seen in ones and twos, caught in kitchen cellars, or crawling over shoes. The people start to talk about the problems that they make. Just what it is that they should do, what precautions they should take. Some are laying poison out, some are grabbing brooms. Cats are hunting everywhere, in each and every room. It’s not enough, the rats still spread, determined in their doom. A week goes by, their numbers grow, the stored grain’s getting thin. The fields are bare, rats ate it all, no harvest’s coming in. Nothing done can stop the rats, and, much to their chagrin, the town concedes against the rats they simply cannot win.
The young are in a panic. Their screaming fills the air. The old are much more stoic, absorbed in silent prayer. Many carry handkerchiefs to mop a teary face. We’ll not humiliate them in this very special case, for I would be found sobbing, curled up fetal on the ground if these vicious rats in masses came laid siege within my town. Cupboards barren, money spent, the water’s stained and brown. They chew and gnaw and bite and 20 claw, they scratch and make a mess. They’re everywhere and all at once, a growth we can’t suppress. We’re on the brink, we’re at wit’s end, and now I must confess I’m off to drink one with a friend, I do humbly acquiesce.
Jerome the gnome, mayor of Hamelin, sat fat and official, defended by a broad oak mayoral desk. You’ve met once before, so you know what’s in store from this self serving whore. “You lousy, sub intellect, bleating, furred moo! I’m blaming this whole god damn mess upon you! You were cheap and indulgent, you let them begin, and now they’re amok! Tell me, where they’re not in!? An election is coming, just a twelvemonth to go. You’re fired! It’s all on you. Get me re-elected. I’ll find you something new. Now call in those guys that came in from the zoo.”
“You there! You guys go round up these rats. You can use nets, bullets or cats. I don’t care what you do and I won’t ask you why, but those rats have to go or we’re all going to die.”
In runs a man with a worried nervous look. In his hand he holds but one sad lonely chewed up tattered book. “It’s all that’s left! They’ve come and eaten every single page. Our knowledge, lore and custom gained in struggles over ages gone in days. This infestation must be stopped! Or the mayor’s head, off it will be chopped!”
Here comes a girl, a forehead full of furls. So young to be anxious, but she’s trying to be brave. “These rats, my lord! Have no respect, they fill each nook and cave within my home and in the street. They cannot decently behave! I’ve come upon a prayer that the state my soul will save!”
A third shuffles in, this one just a child, “My tummy is empty, I haven’t eaten for a while. No grain, one can’t get fed. Can one of you here spare some bread?”
“Out, child, now! That’s enough of your complaints.” He was pushed out the door and later put into restraints.
“You bastards are staining my triumphant campaign! My career is over and my
secrets out! My guilt and my shame! No! I’ll
not have it. We’re stopping this game. Set
fire to the buildings. We’ll burn the place
down!”, when in pokes the head of a mysterious clown. Or colourful, one might say.
“I’m Piper. I can help, if you’ll pay.”