getting a job, from being promoted, or from moving from province to province even for private matters. (Here, Hulan was letting a Western attitude invade her mind, for there were no words in Chinese for
private
or
privacy
.)
At another corner of the triangle stood the
danwei
or work unit, which provided employment, housing, and medical care. The work unit decided if you could get married and issued pregnancy permits. It determined whether or not you were eligible for a one-or two-bedroom apartment and if you would live close to your factory or miles away.
At the apex of the triangle was the
hukou
or residency permit. It looked like a passport of sorts, and that’s exactly what it was. It stated your name, listed your relatives, and said where you were from. Even though in the last ten years the government had loosened just slightly its stranglehold on the population by allowing its citizens to travel on vacation within China without getting permission, it was still nearly impossible to change the status of a
hukou
. So, if you were from Fooshan and were accepted into Beijing University, you would be allowed to go, but at the completion of your education you would
have
to return to Fooshan. If you were from Chengdu and fell in love with someone from Shanghai, you would have to abandon the romance. If you were a simple peasant, eking out a meager existence in the countryside, there you would remain just as your parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents had.
Today, the iron triangle had trapped at least two people—Mr. Su and Widow Xie.
The allotted ten minutes had passed. Hulan stood, gathered the files, and went downstairs. In the courtyard, one of the officers reported that two residents had confessed to being in Beijing illegally. A few had added what they could to the story of Shih and Su. But most of the people had come to make reports on Widow Xie’s corruption. Hulan had anticipated this last wrinkle. Making public criticisms of people who were falling out of favor was as old as the regime.
Fatigued and depressed, she got into the backseat of a white Saab. Her driver, a compact young man who liked to be called Peter, asked, “Where to now, Inspector?”
“Just take me back to the office,” she said, laying her head back on the soft seat cushions.
Peter pulled away from the curb and began making his way toward Tiananmen Square and MPS headquarters. Hulan had no illusions about Peter Sun. He was an investigator third grade, and his main job was to inform on her. She did her best to circumvent this by relegating him to the position of driver rather than partner. He seemed shy and unprepossessing until he got behind the wheel.
Now here he was as usual, honking the horn at bicyclists, yelling out the window—“mother of a fart” and “mating worm”—frantically cutting in front of other cars even if it earned him only a few feet, and ignoring the invective that was hurled back at him. Hulan preferred this to the alternative: Peter turning on the siren, paying no attention to anything or anyone in his way or whether he was going the wrong way down a one-way street. “We have the right to do this,” he used to say, and she would answer, “But the people will see it as an abuse of power, and I’m not in a hurry.” After several months of working together, he had grown used to her ways and she had accepted his.
Twenty minutes later, they turned into the gray stone low-rise multibuilding compound of the Ministry of Public Security. Two smartly dressed guards carrying submachine guns waved the car inside once Peter flashed his identification. Despite the cold weather, a group of MPS agents were playing half-court basketball near the parking area. Hulan got out of the Saab, walked through an archway, into an inner courtyard, and through a set of massive double doors. Her shoes clattered along the stone floor as she avoided the main stairs and crossed the lobby to the rear of the building. She turned left
private
or
privacy
.)
At another corner of the triangle stood the
danwei
or work unit, which provided employment, housing, and medical care. The work unit decided if you could get married and issued pregnancy permits. It determined whether or not you were eligible for a one-or two-bedroom apartment and if you would live close to your factory or miles away.
At the apex of the triangle was the
hukou
or residency permit. It looked like a passport of sorts, and that’s exactly what it was. It stated your name, listed your relatives, and said where you were from. Even though in the last ten years the government had loosened just slightly its stranglehold on the population by allowing its citizens to travel on vacation within China without getting permission, it was still nearly impossible to change the status of a
hukou
. So, if you were from Fooshan and were accepted into Beijing University, you would be allowed to go, but at the completion of your education you would
have
to return to Fooshan. If you were from Chengdu and fell in love with someone from Shanghai, you would have to abandon the romance. If you were a simple peasant, eking out a meager existence in the countryside, there you would remain just as your parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents had.
Today, the iron triangle had trapped at least two people—Mr. Su and Widow Xie.
The allotted ten minutes had passed. Hulan stood, gathered the files, and went downstairs. In the courtyard, one of the officers reported that two residents had confessed to being in Beijing illegally. A few had added what they could to the story of Shih and Su. But most of the people had come to make reports on Widow Xie’s corruption. Hulan had anticipated this last wrinkle. Making public criticisms of people who were falling out of favor was as old as the regime.
Fatigued and depressed, she got into the backseat of a white Saab. Her driver, a compact young man who liked to be called Peter, asked, “Where to now, Inspector?”
“Just take me back to the office,” she said, laying her head back on the soft seat cushions.
Peter pulled away from the curb and began making his way toward Tiananmen Square and MPS headquarters. Hulan had no illusions about Peter Sun. He was an investigator third grade, and his main job was to inform on her. She did her best to circumvent this by relegating him to the position of driver rather than partner. He seemed shy and unprepossessing until he got behind the wheel.
Now here he was as usual, honking the horn at bicyclists, yelling out the window—“mother of a fart” and “mating worm”—frantically cutting in front of other cars even if it earned him only a few feet, and ignoring the invective that was hurled back at him. Hulan preferred this to the alternative: Peter turning on the siren, paying no attention to anything or anyone in his way or whether he was going the wrong way down a one-way street. “We have the right to do this,” he used to say, and she would answer, “But the people will see it as an abuse of power, and I’m not in a hurry.” After several months of working together, he had grown used to her ways and she had accepted his.
Twenty minutes later, they turned into the gray stone low-rise multibuilding compound of the Ministry of Public Security. Two smartly dressed guards carrying submachine guns waved the car inside once Peter flashed his identification. Despite the cold weather, a group of MPS agents were playing half-court basketball near the parking area. Hulan got out of the Saab, walked through an archway, into an inner courtyard, and through a set of massive double doors. Her shoes clattered along the stone floor as she avoided the main stairs and crossed the lobby to the rear of the building. She turned left
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