REPARTEE WITH MAO

When he met with China's leaders during Nixon's first term, writes Kissinger, "we developed between us a habit of candor, honesty and long-range thinking." It was this, he adds, that became "the key to the Chinese-American relationship at a point when few concrete results were achievable and our bonds depended on intangibles. Our ties were cemented not by formal agreements but by a common assessment of the international situation." In two long talks with Mao in 1973, Kissinger helped solidify those ties.

During his lifetime, Mao Tse-tung, Chairman of the Communist Party of China, was shrouded in mystery and reverence much as were the emperors he replaced. When I visited Peking in February 1973, Mao's portrait was everywhere. The emphasis on personality in a Marxist system was astonishing. It was as if the titanic figure who had risen from humble origins to rule nearly one-quarter of mankind did not trust the permanence of the ideology in whose name he had prevailed. In fact, in attempting to inflict upon his country the tour de force of a lasting revolution, he reawakened the historical Chinese yearning for continuity. By a remarkable irony, the leader who seems to have survived in the hearts of his countrymen is not the epic giant who made the Chinese revolution but his more anonymous disciple Chou Enlai, who worked unobtrusively to assure the continuity of life rather than the permanence of upheaval. In February 1973, however, Mao towered above everyone.

Around 11 p.m. on Feb. 17, while Chou and I were meeting in the state guesthouse, we were summoned to a meeting with Mao. The Chairman's domicile was modest, like that of a middle-level functionary. Inside, Mao stood in front of a semicircle of easy chairs. Books were everywhere.

The purpose of the meeting was to underline that friendship between the U.S. and China was to be consummated while Mao was still alive. As we headed for the easy chairs, he said: "I don't look bad, but God has sent me an invitation." Somehow it did not seem incongruous that the dialectician of materialism should invoke the Deity. No being of lesser rank could presume to interrupt the Chairman's labors. Even more striking was the casualness with which Mao treated the imminent end of his rule and hinted at the urgency to complete certain business.

Mao engaged me in a joshing Socratic dialogue. His observations seemed random but formed a pattern spelling out a series of directives for his subordinates. Both Presidents Harry Truman and Lyndon Johnson had died within the previous two months, he noted. With them the old China policy and the old Viet Nam policy had been buried. "At that time, you opposed us. We also opposed you. So we are two enemies," he laughed.

"Two former enemies," I replied.

"Now we call the relationship a friendship," he insisted.