Hearing his father's words, Chen's chest tightened, and he found himself on the brink of tears. He was well aware of the bumpy road his father had taken through life. His father had been an important writer in Shanghai's "Lone Island Literature" movement during the war against Japan, among whose numerous novels and essays were works such as A Woman's Misfortune and Death's Victory. By the time victory over the Japanese arrived, his father had completed a draft of an open letter to the citizens of Shanghai, denouncing the high pay of Kuomintang officials, and proclaiming his unwavering support for the work of the Communist Party underground. After the founding of the New China, he became a professor at Xiamen University. He was later branded a "historical counter-revolutionary," and suffered twenty years of persecution by extreme leftists. It was because of his father that in 1960 Chen, whose scores on the humanities section of the national college entrance exam were among the top in Fujian Province, was not allowed entrance to the elite Peking University, and was instead admitted to the foreign languages department of Fujian Normal University. And now his retired father had developed dementia, to the point where he could not find his way home after he took out the trash. His father had forgotten everything, forgotten the door to his own home, forgotten that he was a university professor, and forgotten his own name. But, he had not forgotten that his son was representing China in the landmark negotiations with Britain for the return of Hong Kong. That was why he never forgot to exhort his son, "Britain's a sly old fox. You need to be careful!"
These words from a doddering old father had more effect than any famous sayings by wise men of yore. They resounded like a bell, constantly ringing in the heart of his son.
In the afternoon of the next day Chen got a call from Zhao Jihua, a member of the Joint Liaison Group and head of the Hong Kong and Macau bureau within the Foreign Ministry. Zhao told him that Burns had not, in fact, left Beijing, and had said that he would continue negotiations the next day.
Chen couldn't help but recall his father's warning: "Britain's a sly old fox. You need to be careful!"
Despite a lack of guns or knives, the negotiating table is a battleground, a place where wit and courage are tested in a struggle to the death.
On April 13, the British and Chinese negotiating teams met again in the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse, with Burns no longer arrogant, an urbane smile on his face. He invited Chen to take a walk with him in the garden, where they could chat one-on-one. There, he asked Chen imploringly, "Mr. Chen, the day after tomorrow will be my wife's birthday. All my children will be going back to London for it. I love my wife and my family deeply, and I truly hope I can spend the day with them. But the foreign minister has obliged me to stay here to continue the talks on the new airport in Hong Kong. Would you perhaps be able to see your way to helping me get this problem cleared up?"
Chen replied that the two sides were both obliged to uphold the principles of the Joint Declaration, that this was the baseline for their talks. Only if conducted on this basis would the negotiations be productive. Even though the mood of talks that day was friendly, they hadn't produced any substantial results.
The next day, Burns returned to London for his wife's birthday, squandering another six days of first round negotiations with little to no result.
On May 18, 1991, the two sides began their second round of negotiations on the question of a new airport for Hong Kong, still ensconced in Building 15 at the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse. As one day stretched into four, the two sides exhausted each other in a series of bitter clashes. But by the end of four days, their positions had come no closer. Even the arrogant Burns could no longer summon the energy to be arrogant.
On the 22nd, talks entered their final day. Although they were scheduled to begin at 10:30 am, the British side held up the start until 4 pm waiting for instructions from London. Talks stretched until midnight, and yet again concluded with no result.
On June 27, 1991, the third round of Sino-UK negotiations began.
New British Prime Minister John Major had sent a special envoy, his advisor on foreign affairs and "China hand" (and previous ambassador to China) Percy Cradock, who brought with him to Beijing—via a circuitous secret flight through Frankfurt—new plans for the construction of Hong Kong's airport. Sat across from him were Lu Ping, head of the Hong Kong and Macau Affairs Office and his assistant Chen Zuo'er.
Cradock was an experienced diplomat, tall and slim with an aquiline nose. He was careful with his speech, and when he sat down to negotiate, his face a stern mask, he affixed his counterpart with an unwavering stare, seemingly to break them down through force of gaze alone.
Cradock brought his gaze to bear on Lu Ping, watching him without moving a muscle. Lu's wise visage met Cradock's penetrating stare directly, unflinchingly, until Cradock himself eventually turned away. How many times had the two of them met across the negotiating table over the years, neither one yielding an inch? They skipped pleasantries and got straight down to business.
"Mr. Cradock, how much in the way of financial reserves are the British prepared to leave the Hong Kong SAR government?
"Six billion."
"Surely you must be joking?"
"How about seven billion?"
"Please, don't joke with me."
"Then … how about eight billion?"
"Please, enough with the jokes!"
The two haggled back and forth, trading numbers like two old women buying vegetables at the market. They continued on like this for four whole days. Like squeezing toothpaste, little by little, the number grew gradually from five billion to ten billion, then to twenty billion, then finally to twenty-five billion.
