A concentrated Mao Tse-Tung bends over a sheet of paper in the train compartment.
In his gray coat, with his pen out, he put his forearms on the white lace doily on which there is a porcelain jug decorated with gold and something like a sugar bowl.
The protective cover of the head end of the chair is also white, as is the milk glass lamp screwed to the table in the shape of a torch.
The Grand Chairman on the express train: clean, safe, dutiful, even in the stuffy comfort of the first-class compartment in constant use for the Chinese people. And yet: something is wrong.