Bo Jintao cocked his head from his own seat, the visitor’s seat. “Don’t play that game with me.”

Bao Zhuang opened his hands wide. “No games. You got your way. There was no doubt of that.”

“Then why bother with your theatrics?”

Bao Zhuang turned, and looked out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the water and paths of Zhongnanhai. Their offices stared at the same park at the heart of the eleventh century palace – the same ancient stone bridges and carefully spaced statues, the same waterfowl gliding to-and-fro – but Bao Zhuang’s had the better view. Despite his power being stripped away, the formalities were being observed. He remained President. He remained General Secretary of the party.

“I’m an old man, Bo Jintao,” he said. He looked back. Their eyes met. “And powerless at this point, as you’ve ensured. How will history look back at me? That seems more important now than it did even a week ago.”

Bo Jintao frowned. “So you vote for chaos?”

Bao Zhuang laughed softly, looking down at the massive desk before him. One hand came down, lifted up a photo frame, the one Bo Jintao knew was filled with a feed of his great-grandchildren.

“China’s changing,” Bao Zhuang said, his eyes fixed on the frame and the photos in it. “The Billion Flowers moment was ahead of its time, but much of it is inevitable.” He put the photos down, looked back up at Bo Jintao. “The people want new things: transparency. Freedom.”

“Freedom?” Bo shook his head. “Bao, you know as well as I do. Abstractions don’t matter. Real freedom is a bigger house in a better neighborhood. Real freedom is enough money to travel; to eat what you want, when you want; to buy the clothes you want. Freedom is a better school for your child, the best hospital when you’re sick. And more entertainment than you can watch or hear or play in a lifetime. That’s what people actually want.”

Bao Zhuang smiled softly at him. “So why didn’t you crush the protests right away?”

Bo Jintao closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. “People need an outlet at times. Dissipating frustration can be safer than meeting it head on.”

“They want more than just an outlet, Bo,” Bao Zhuang said. “More than venting. When your material needs are met, you start to want something more. That’s where our people are. They’ve gotten the bigger house, the full belly, the buying power. They crave what they don’t have. They want a say in how their lives are run. They want a say in how the country is run.”

Bo Jintao smiled. “We’ve given them a say. They have village committees now, they choose their own precinct councils…”

“Useless, pointless bodies. Placebos. Worse than that – insults to their intelligence. Mock democracy.”