Rewriting Stella

Home > Other > Rewriting Stella > Page 17
Rewriting Stella Page 17

by Tuttle, Dan;


  looked edible, like cabbage, and man-made.

  Impression struck immediately that all

  these pieces had their usefulness. The sprawl

  183.

  of city long behind them, Stella breathed.

  The greenness of the draft was hefty, wild,

  organically fulfilling. She had sheathed

  her diaphragm in shallow draw of child

  perforce to cope with urban smog. But here

  the air seemed almost pushy in its urge

  to permeate the pilgrims. Last frontier

  where verdurous assault had thus converged

  was in the massive wood where she, Abu

  and BLING had found Miss Gumi’s ring. “Nǐ hǎo,”

  said Shushu, then “huānyíng.” Ai’s mother moved

  toward both with grin and wide embrace. The plow

  at rest against the farmhouse showed fresh wear,

  a tool to harvest fest’s vowed fresh feast fare.

  184.

  “Wǒ hěn gāoxìng,” Stel made out from Ayi’s

  quick speech, excitement in the tone belied

  stiff bodies. Ai traced their plot’s boundaries

  in back of house, and Stel joined her astride.

  Abu came too, the first to ask their host

  and sister what the giant, round brick stove

  was used for—far too large to cook or roast

  the common foods, resembling treasure trove

  with smokestack. “Time ago, the Great Leap for

  the Forward,” Ai replied, “ask country all

  to metal tool and pot melt, give up. War

  to fast make industry. Did not work. Stalled.”

  “The rulers broke the country and you still

  wed your fate to fulfilling their state will?

  185.

  Since independence, we have never had

  regimes’ directives forcefully policed

  in households,” Stel said, hinting at ironclad

  power held by PSB’s enforcement beast.

  Ai understood more than she could express,

  and pulled the essence out of what Stel spoke.

  Ai’d hoped to fuller rationale profess,

  for Stel’s slight had conditioning evoked:

  “Past problem, okay now. I know from Dad.”

  “Upheaval every decade recently

  scarred people, my books mentioned,” Ab did add.

  “The Party line that old folks, seasoned, see

  is that you must give up control to be

  a part,” said Stel, “of this society.”

  186.

  “Not right,” Ai’s icy look showed that her pride

  was under fire. “That past, where China been.

  Today the problems harder. And inside

  the government is better peoples. Men

  try always building better China. We

  must do best for one billion every day.”

  Ab pondered difference in immensity

  compared to forty million in the fray

  in Tanzania. Twenty-five countries

  equivalent in single bundle tied

  together by bureaucracy. Bluntly,

  he saw how they had near-beatified

  past leadership. Distracted from the scene

  by nature, Stella turned from Ai’s smoke screen.

  187.

  The kids strolled past Jurassic furnace. Light

  was fading slightly, heatless sun sank, peeked

  one streak through dip in hills of hematite,

  whose long spine ridge made circular physique

  of valley bowl. Skies clearer than Chengdu’s,

  where crisp, bright orb was bled diffuse by smog.

  Its amber rays reflected down, clung to

  diagonal small panel, metal log,

  and box atop the roof. Stel pointed, asked

  what the contraption was as subject change.

  It gathered all the sun in which it basked,

  she learned, and put it through some heat exchange,

  and made hot water at a zero cost

  to cook or bathe through harshest heat or frost.

  188.

  Ai used Stel’s curiosity to pick

  back up the reason government was good—

  in gesture thoughtful, real, and politic

  they’d subsidized these heaters over wood,

  decreasing smoke, deforestation, and

  allowing homes without access to grid

  some benefit before the network spanned

  so far to reach them. Farms lost out amid

  the electricity demand that towns

  and cities showed. Since farmers couldn’t pay

  as much, priority for them went down

  and richer peers in cities took away

  those scarce electrons. “How’d you know all this?”

  asked Stella of impressive foster sis.

  189.

  “My dad work all it out. He tell me so.”

  This little bomb took Stella and Abu

  off-guard: they realized they hadn’t known

  what their host parents every day did do

  when they walked off to school. Small wonder Ai

  held such a Party line, though young. Her mom

  had counterbalanced stiff perspectives plied

  by father. She sat right in eye of calm

  in household storm of pro- and anti-state.

  Amazement was then interrupted by

  their auntie’s call to dinner. Heading straight

  back in, the scene seemed full of stimuli:

  a mind refreshed with inquiry constructs

  new truths, sheds what quotidian obstructs.

  CHAPTER 12

  190.

  With gānbiān sìjì dòu and nánguā plates

  for vegetables, plus rice, plus river snails,

  each chosen thus to reinvigorate

  the health and luck, as per tradition’s tales,

  the feast was hearty. Duck and dumplings too

  graced table, and each setting had one cup

  for tea and one for spirits. Shushu drew

  a bottle from the back room, “Bottoms up!”

  in rough translation drew some adult cheer.

  To see the dish::rice ratio so big

  still went against the wallet-strapped austere

  upbringing Stella’d had. She thanked the pig

  in quiet word for giving them its life,

  as she was taught by Grandmum. Shushu’s wife

  191.

  explained in local dialect each dish

  had meaning in the feast, and Jiang Long turned

  the tales to English. “It is Ayi’s wish

  to know what you both think,” he said, “you’ve learned

  so much about this country now. How does

  it look and feel compared to yours?” “I can’t

  find where to start,” Stel said, “I guess because

  my mind keeps changing, as I learn. Tell Aunt

  Ayi I like her place, and China too.

  They’re really different to the naked eye

  from what I know from home. Here you’ve pursued

  fast growth, fast change. I’m trying to figure why.

  I see it even here: your farm’s got lights,

  a step above our kerosene at night.”

  192.

  Translation gave her time to think. “I’ll add,

  I’m struck how peaceful, calm it feels out here.

  The city by comparison is mad.”

  The aunt’s reply near whisper, “What appears

  so calm can hide so much you cannot see,

  the controversies farmers always stew.”

  Translating this accommodatingly

  was mother, stepping in. “Recall when you

  read ‘Wind’ by Xue Tao at the end is line,

  At night a path among the pines is des-


  olate and sad. Out here you’re not confined

  by space, but by the view you’re somewhat less

  than people in the cities.” Jiang’s look pierced,

  wife’s eyes conspiratorially fierce.

  193.

  Manila ultimatum folder stared

  back at the Secretary from his desk.

  It asked a comprehensive view prepared

  reporting on to what degree grotesque

  environmental consequences would

  result from building this new dam. To flood

  such drastic tracts in every likelihood

  would alter sediment deposits, mud

  distributed in patterns not seen for

  millennia. The Chair sought all details.

  The Secretary’s stakes on planned lakeshore

  were not to be this easily derailed.

  The trick would be to find the line where truth

  could blur to all but master bloodhound sleuth.

  194.

  A blend just right, he thought, will make it sound

  as if a couple species take a hit.

  That hurts but shouldn’t run into the ground

  approvals. And I’ll need some counterfeit

  assessment of the anaerobic rot,

  perhaps based on assumptions that we’ll clear

  organic residue from farmers’ plots

  before submerging them in water. Queer

  accounting for the carbon wouldn’t prove

  incriminating. Hopefully none pose

  the methane question, since he had removed

  its mention in the press. The only foes

  were Agriculture and Interior;

  their chance of winning ever drearier.

  195.

  Quite long ago as child he’d been Red Guard,

  the middle school patrols enforcing Mao.

  His puissant silver tongue left him disbarred

  by boss who’d felt his power was threatened. Vow

  to someday rehabilitate his brand

  had fueled resolve when he was forced to toil

  as peasant in decrepit hinterland,

  the punishment for all accused turmoil.

  He’d seen the land denuded, clumped soil turned

  from loam to dustbowl, powderized like souls

  of those he worked with, sum of Party’s spurned.

  Though loving nature, overriding goal

  became to rise past trauma and regain

  his dignity before that false arraign.

  196.

  Back in the time before the Red Guard, he

  like other boys delighted in the Earth,

  watched firs and tallows sway absorbingly

  in partridge-laden winds. His childhood mirth

  was artless, effervescing through his play

  with toys in dioramas nature made

  ostensibly for his amusement. Sway

  from early light naïveté to shade

  occurred when vengeance overtook his mind:

  to be deprived of rights put all else last.

  No conifer outweighed his years maligned,

  so nature’d take another blow if asked.

  As Secretary, now that pile of gold

  was his to take to heal the wounds of old.

  197.

  Across a labyrinthine set of halls

  in bureaucratic fortress, sat the Chair,

  with deputy of PSB on call

  to snoop into his colleague’s cloaked affairs.

  “The Secretary, I’ve come to suspect,

  has vested interests in this dam. I want

  you to identify what indirect

  investments he might hold. He oughtn’t vaunt

  this project quite as fervently if he

  were holding true to what his Ministry

  is tasked with. I suspect complicity

  with someone. Be discreet. When finished, please

  report to me directly. I’ll be back

  next week to bust this kleptomaniac.”

  198.

  Jiang switched the subject swiftly. “What’s the news?”

  he asked of gracious hosts. The following

  exchange occurred in flurry, words like ‘lose’

  and ‘fear’ and ‘fair’ flew ’round, with swallowing

  of caustic accusations. Kids confused,

  they waited patiently and ate their food.

  The bickering increased as adults boozed,

  yet seemed to not cause any souring mood.

  Ten minutes in, the mother turned to kids

  to share what Ayi’d laboringly told:

  the province once decided to get rid

  of half a million family farm households

  because they lived in valley ringed in by

  some overlapping mountain ranges high

  199.

  enough to make a floodplain quarter-mile

  in depth. That height made electricity

  from hydro economic and worthwhile.

  Her cousin led a life simplicity

  would envy, didn’t know a trade besides

  the age-old art of cultivation. When

  forced into town, he soon began to slide:

  unwittingly they’d fashioned mice from men

  by robbing them of dignity of work.

  No money in the pocketbook could quell

  the scathing goblins that within him lurked.

  Ripped off, away from purposed life in dell

  it wasn’t long before he chose to part

  this world, fatigue at leeching in his heart.

  200.

  Details of Ayi’s story further grim,

  accentuated how it must have felt

  to cede career on governmental whim.

  The payment to offset where they had dwelt

  came late, and less than promised. Wealth was used

  as selling point persuading folks to leave,

  then claims for those amounts were all refused

  once families relocated. “These days, we’ve

  chance of like crisis here. The rumor mill

  round Fan says Party’s putting plan in pen

  to dam and flood this valley too. None will

  confirm it, but one local councilman

  whose opposition tendencies are clear

  has hinted possibility is near.”

  201.

  Abu looked sullen, dragged by bygone world.

  This type of story seldom had effect

  on him, Stel thought. His story she unfurled:

  “From Syria to Turkey family trekked,

  then Tanzania next to reinvent

  themselves, for loyalty. They bought a farm

  at uncle’s urging. That was what kin meant.

  They wanted to be close to him. The charm

  of farming was corrupted as rains notched

  a drought, and parents tilled the soil to dust.

  Their midlife change of jobs, completely botched,

  left hungry mouths. It takes time to adjust.”

  The dignity effects of daily work

  seemed unconfined by any culture’s quirk.

  202.

  Jiang Long had set down chopsticks and tuned in

  to narrative that Stel shared. Too engrossed

  by learning of the demons lodged within

  that boy from past detailed, he played poor host

  and failed to translate back for in-laws. Toasts

  decelerated, teacups took their place.

  To turn productive elderly to ghosts

  in culture that cast work as sign of grace

  brought worry to his mind. The old endured

  so much upheaval, many decades missed.

  To hear from son who saw dad thus unmoored

  was hauntingly a future, reminisced.

  His heart would break to himself be denied

  his livelihood and watch it impact Ai.

  203.

  “
Good Uncle, pray tell me which councilman

  you heard in opposition,” said Jiang Long,

  “you know discussion’s classified. Till Fan

  and others in this farmland basin prong

  hear Party proclamation on what’s best,

  that rumormonger’d best to still his tongue.

  The last thing China needs is false distress

  to spring from mouth upon whose station’s strung

  authority of our officialdom.

  Maintaining order means maintaining minds

  in tranquil form of beneficial mum

  until the spokesman shares what Party finds

  is best for those affected. Proffer trust

  to cadres duty-bound to do what’s just.”

  204.

  “So tell me, Secretary, just how much

  displacement you’re envisioning.” “Well, sir,

  we forecast that the water’s set to touch

  the land of near a million.” “I’d prefer

  to know the demographics. Are they young

  and able to relocate? Capital

  from relocation payment could be flung

  productively in ways compatible

  with training them and integration. But

  if they’re all old, our challenge changes in

  its very definition. Old folks cut

  off from support are left estranged. It’s grim.”

  “Since youth have moved to cities, sir, the share

  of elderly’s two-thirds of those left there.”

  205.

  Back at the dinner, chopsticks’ plastic ticks

  and jostling arms for reach made background noise

  layered in a dissonant yet rhythmic mix,

  with punctuating lines in filtered voice,

  mouths full. The guttural provided bass

  and click of polymers on melamines

  like maladjusted metronome whose pace

  had self-doubt, like a tango Argentine.

  The sonic texture mimicked what they’d heard

  in restaurants: the pandemonium

  of eating they had culturally concurred

  was diamond loud; when soft, zirconium.

  Why mumly masticate and feel contrite

  when body’s sounds express the tongue’s delight?

  206.

  Above the munching, crunching overheard

  and Lazy Susan click-spin ’round and ’round,

  Abu let fly a question he’d deferred

  about the bountied grub that did surround:

  “This pork that’s red—it’s sauce, not blood, that’s right?”

  Not tasting pork back home caused innocent

  yet pointed questioning to follow tight

  behind each unfamiliar dish. Slow went

  his progress picking up the words for foods.

  “Dāngrán,” said Ai, (‘of course’ in mother tongue)

  “it called the hóngshāo ròu.” “The name alludes

 

‹ Prev