Cloud Mountain

by Aimee E. Liu

  “You have managed not to for four years. It makes me wonder what else you’re hiding.”

  “We cannot know everything about each other.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “And if we did know everything, we’d probably lose interest. But it’s the striving to know that holds us, don’t you see that, Paul?”

  He kissed each of her fingertips in turn, then guided her arms around his waist and kissed her softly on the mouth and eyelids and nose. The low, sonorous hoot of a barge whistle floated up from the Bay, and the mist spread its fine veil over their skin. Hope was chilled through now, yet when Li-li opened the door and peeked out, she pushed Paul back into the shadows. The door closed, and the dark peach of Li-li’s dress moved from one window frame to the next. The door to the nursery opened, and they watched through the sheer curtains as the amah bent over the crib, then lifted her arms to undo her braids. Across the property, the spray of gravel and guttering of a motor announced Thomas’s return.

  “Come,” said Paul.

  “No, wait,” whispered Hope. She couldn’t describe what held her. Inertia, fascination, fatigue. The sense that she and Paul were at once hiding and watching. Not quite spying, but it had that same clandestine quality. She wasn’t ready to give it up.

  The door of the Model T shut with a bang. They couldn’t see him for the tree, but they could hear Thomas’s footsteps sinking into the grass, moving down the hill toward the Y where the drive split toward their cottage. Hope lifted her head off Paul’s chest—his heartbeat was so loud that she could not tell if what she thought she detected was so, but yes. She could see Thomas now. Slowing. Turning.

  Over the two years since Li-li had come to them, Thomas had been restored. Not only had he plunged back into his work, but he had put on weight. His cheeks were flushed, his step buoyant. He dressed with a flare that Hope would never have imagined he possessed, and he proved his skill as a builder at home, with Pearl as his excuse. The swing was his first gift, constructed like a bowl with holes for the baby’s chubby legs, so she could not fall out as Li-li pushed her. Then he erected a folding rail, so they could play out on the porch in summer without Pearl tumbling down the steps. Then a little wagon, painted red and yellow, in which Li-li could trundle Pearl up and down the drive. Often Thomas would walk along with them or come out to push the baby on the swing. Hope had welcomed these attentions, thinking he was experiencing through Pearl the fatherhood that had been denied him when his wife died. Now, as she watched the way Thomas stood outside the nursery window, she realized she’d had it all backward.

  He was watching not the baby but Li-li, as she stood in that peach dress in her lamp-lit room, slowly brushing her waist-length hair.

  January 5, 1911

  My father came for three days over Christmas and Thomas fed us a standing rib roast, which he and Li-li cooked entirely by themselves. There was a magnificent blue spruce in the parlor and a crackling fire. We drank whiskeyed eggnog and pretended not to notice the mistletoe dangling like an errant cupid in every doorway. My father made one of his typically pungent remarks about the powers of Chinese aphrodisiacs, sending Mary Jane into gales of laughter while poor Thomas and Li-li turned red as tomatoes. Paul saved the day (sort of) by asking Dad if he’d ever tried any of those magical herbs and, when Dad said regrettably that he had not, offered to procure some for him. This was Dad’s cue to color. He only saved himself (sort of) by announcing that he’s finally given up his mining fantasy at La Porte and is moving down to Los Angeles to go back into the naturopathy business. Said maybe he and Paul could trade a few herbs, see whose worked the best. We drank to that.

  Throughout the evening Thomas and Li-li couldn’t take their eyes off each other. There was a sparkle in Li-li’s laughter that I’ve never heard before, and Thomas poured so much wine that I started to wonder if that were the aphrodisiac. Finally, as the flames danced around the plum pudding, Thomas made the announcement we’ve all expected—and I’ve been dreading—for months.

  The good news is that they are planning to wait until the spring, and they insist that the only significant change will be Li-li’s move across the yard. Paul and I are to “stay put,” in Thomas’s words, and Li-li made me promise not to hire another amah for Pearl. So everyone is happy. We all told them how glad we were. We all held our tongues with regard to the prejudices they well know they are going to encounter. Then Pearl, little queen that she is, demanded Thomas and Li-li each give her a kiss, and everyone agreed that the union had now been officially blessed.

  What mystifies me are the strange currents of jealousy that have been dogging me ever since the announcement. I find myself watching as they sit together up on Thomas’s porch after supper. I note the attentive cock of his head whenever she is speaking, the flush that comes into her cheeks at the least sight of him. I am forced to admit that Paul and I have already slipped out of this magnetic newness of love. We are married folk. We have a life together. A different magic holds us now, a sense of comfort and trust, but also a kind of melancholy dawning.

  Sometimes in the middle of the night I’ll glance over at Paul’s lovely sleek head curled asleep like a child’s in his pillow, and this melancholy will settle at my throat, pressing softly but steadily until I cry out against it. Then Paul will curl an arm and hold me, murmur something I can’t understand, and I will at once feel soothed and lonelier than ever. Last night when this happened I lay there for a long time awake in his sleeping embrace, and finally I saw the true source of my jealousy.

  I realized that when we fell in love, we also fell into an illusion. We believed—I believed—that by joining together as close as a man and woman can possibly be, we would come to know each other. Here was this other person, a finite body with finite experiences—like a treasure chest. By loving enough, by giving ourselves to each other completely, we would be able to take that treasure in hand and possess it physically, spiritually, emotionally. Totally. What we didn’t realize, and what perhaps new lovers can’t bear to believe even if someone is stupid enough to try to tell them, is that this treasure, which we desire so deeply and hold so dear, is not finite at all but ever expanding. Now the instant I touch Paul, he seems to multiply before my eyes. He is not one man but five, has not one life but twenty, not ten ambitions but hundreds, and not a hundred friends but thousands. The extensions and folds in his experience are limitless, as are mine, I suppose. But the more I know him the less I know of him. That is the hard truth that comes only with marriage. And there is nothing—absolutely nothing for it.

  9

  The next months for Hope had a bittersweet quality, like the end of a long holiday. She reveled in her hours with Li-li and Pearl, in the celebration of Thomas and Li-li’s wedding, in her afternoons with students at the Mission, and evening chats with Mary Jane. But these days were shadowed by the steady procession of events in China.

  After a stall of nearly two years the Manchu government had finally allowed provinces to elect representatives for a National Assembly, however they had refused the representatives’ demand for an opening of parliament. Some of Paul’s former classmates attempted to assassinate the Prince Regent, but were arrested, tortured, and executed. Others of his confreres in Wuhan established a secret revolutionary organization under the decoy name, Hupei Literary Society, funded largely by hua ch’iao contributions collected by Paul and funneled through the Ta T’ung Daily. All of this meant that Paul spent more and more of his days either at the paper or in smoke-filled halls lecturing to merchants and sojourners. He attended classes rarely, delegated his schoolwork to underlings at the paper, and shrugged off Hope’s occasional reminders that his visa status depended on his at least pretending to be a student. He was too mired in strategy and scheming on a grander canvas.

  For the first time Paul’s political dedication began to encroach, as well, on their private life. He barked at Pearl when she toddled up and searched his jacket pockets for the sweets he used to bring home every evening. Hope ofte
n had to ask a question three or four times before he heard her, and in bed he would lie for hours with his open eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  “You wish you were back there launching the final revolt,” she said one evening as he sat at his desk studying the day’s telegrams, which numbered more than the cables he had received in the whole first year of their marriage.

  “I am living in exile.” He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his temples, switching into Mandarin. “I am following orders and saving my neck while men who once admired me are risking their lives to save China.”

  Hope tugged off his jacket and unbuttoned his collar to massage his shoulders. “You know, Paul, without you here those men would not have a prayer. Now more than ever.”

  He reached up and stopped her hands. “You will come with me,” he said, “when it is time?”

  She swallowed and shut her eyes against the ocher glare of his lamp. Down the hall, Pearl was crying out in her sleep.

  “I don’t know,” she said, tears that she had not foreseen spilling as she turned away. “Please don’t ask until it’s real. Pearl needs me. Paul, please let me go.”

  She was nearly two months pregnant.

  The cable she had been dreading arrived the afternoon of October 13, 1911. Four nights earlier, Paul’s friends in the office of the Progressive Society in Hankow’s Russian Concession accidentally exploded a bomb intended for an uprising later in the month. Scores were arrested and executed, but the following day the surviving rebels, supported by mutinying government troops, seized the armory in the neighboring city of Wuchang, Paul’s hometown. In another twenty-four hours the revolutionaries controlled all three of the sister cities—Wuchang, Hankow, and Hanyang—that together formed Hupei’s provincial capital, Wuhan. Now armed revolts ignited across China like firecrackers on a winding fuse. One by one, then in twos and threes, cities and provinces were proclaiming their independence, and the last of the Manchu armies were crossing over to the revolution.

  That evening, as Hope stood watching from the doorway, Paul hugged his three-year-old daughter so tightly that she squealed, “Papa, too strong!”

  He smoothed the bedclothes and rubbed a thumb over her thick dark eyebrows. “And you, my precious Pearl? Are you strong?” The child drew her lips in, scowling and dimpling in the very image of power. “You must be strong, my daughter.”

  “Why?”

  A glance to Hope. A smile. “I must go far away, and you take care of your mama. Soon, I send for you and Mama to come to me.

  “Where?”

  “To China. Your other country.”

  “What a country, Papa?”

  “A country—” But he could not think how to explain the idea of statehood to the child. She was like a little Dowager Empress, his Pearl, so sheltered from the larger world.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he said instead. “When I am a little boy I live in China. Every day I eat candies—horses and tigers and pigs of spun sugar. In winter, snow falls white and cold and taller than you. In spring, jugglers and puppet man and acrobats come. We make a festival with flowers and painted banners. I have a pet pigeon and yellow canary, and many kites, shape of snakes and dragons, and on windy days …” But his daughter’s small fingers had curled into sleep and she no longer heard him. He pulled the blanket to her chin and kissed her dark lashes.

  “Tso ko Chung-kuo men, mei-mei,” he whispered. “You will be there soon.”

  “You mean to enchant her,” said Hope.

  He switched off the light and followed her out. His trunks and lacquered crates littered the hallway. “I mean she will not be afraid.”

  “Do you really believe that enchantment will still be there after your revolution?”

  “Hope.” He started to shake his head, but she laid a hand on his cheek to stop him.

  “Pearl isn’t afraid, Paul, but I am. What story are you going to use to make me feel better?”

  He sighed. The house looked as though a typhoon had struck it. His clothing, papers, open valises, and books were everywhere. He would be up until midnight packing. But first he gathered her against him, resting his chin on the crown of her head. “One month,” he said, “no more than two, I will send for you and Pearl.”

  She held still. “The baby—”

  “That is why, no longer than two months.”

  “And if I want this child to be born in America?”

  He stiffened.

  “I’ve chosen to give up my citizenship for you, Paul, but at least if this child is born here, he and Pearl will both be able to make their own choice.” She stepped back, lifting her face defiantly. “You don’t know what things will be like there for us—for the children. You can’t know.”

  Now he gripped her hands tightly, shaking them as if to awaken her. “This baby will not come until April. Do you want to be apart so long?”

  “No,” she said. “No, of course not, but—oh, why must you go!” Her eyes blazed, then brimmed with tears. He bore her anguish at first without moving, then softly, gently brought her arms around his waist. He stroked her hair, pressed his lips to her forehead, and for several minutes they stood together. There was nothing more to say.

  Aboard the SK Korea

  December 2, 1911

  Dearest Dad,

  This is surely the most difficult letter I have ever written. I dread hurting you. I refuse to say goodbye. But what has happened must come as no surprise. We all knew that my future and that of my children lay with my husband—whether he remained in America or returned to China. Well, he has returned to China, as you know. It appears the violent revolution we all feared has not come to pass, the Manchus are in the process of capitulating with barely a whimper, and your son-in-law is preparing to take his place as senator from Hupei in the newly forming government of the Republic of China. Last week he wired the arrangements for Pearl and me to join him in Shanghai.

  It all has happened so quickly, Dad. I knew you would oppose us. I would in your position. But I am a grown woman and a wife, and my allegiance now is to my husband. And I know you will not argue the truth or appropriateness of that.

  Dad, you have been a pioneer all your life. You have bequeathed to me that same spirit of discovery, and you have supported me—against your instincts, I know—in marrying the man I love. Now I count on you supporting me in this greatest of all pioneering acts of my life, in traveling halfway around the world to discover a whole new continent.

  I exaggerate only to win your smile. Paul is the true pioneer, for it is he who will bring democracy to this ancient empire. He has assured me that we will suffer neither hardship nor discomfort. Certainly nothing to compare with the hard knocks you and Mother must have endured. Some small part of me actually regrets Paul’s promising ease and luxury, for I love you all the more for what you’ve lived through. I wonder, if we are truly to be pampered in this strange new world, whether I will be able to live with myself!

  If this ship is any indication, the answer is a resounding no. By Paul’s arrangement our cabin was equipped with champagne and chocolates and a bouquet of long-stem roses when we boarded! We have everything we could possibly need, including our own private washroom, and we dine, when the seas are not too rocky, on white linen set with china and silver so sharply polished that Pearl uses the spoon for a mirror—taking great delight, as you can imagine, in her upside-down reflection! So you see, my husband is already delivering on his promise, and my only complaint is that he takes too good care.

  I will post this letter from Hawaii so it reaches you at about the same time we are landing in Shanghai. Think of us on our great adventure, and do not worry too awfully. We will be well taken care of, and when we are settled you will come visit. Oh Dad, please, please understand. This is not, will never be goodbye.

  Your loving daughter,

  Hope

  BOOK TWO

  Delicate trees paint the peaks green.

  Through the window I see an abandoned castle.

 
; A womb of clouds carries the coming rain,

  In the mountain ranges the bubbling of springs,

  Rays of sunshine peal off the golden tower.

  The scent of spring coats the growing grass.

  Every morning I watch without tiring.

  It holds the love of a woman.

  V

  CROSSING

  SHANGHAI

  (1911–1912)

  1

  As Hope and Pearl stood watch, beads of ocean cold frosted their hair, the nap of their coats, their cheeks. Pearl laughed and stuck out her tongue. She took a child’s delight in weather, ignoring all discomfort and measuring temperature, it seemed, by some internal thermostat entirely disconnected from the surface of her skin. Even during the week of high seas, when they had to lock themselves in their cabin and strap themselves into their berth, her daughter’s sleep seemed so peaceful that Hope would marvel at her trust. She could feel this same trust even now in the warmth of the small bare hand pulsing through her glove, and in the new baby’s firefly movements.

  Yet the utter dependence of one child by her side and another in her womb, the resounding soul of a third left far and forever behind, evoked a terrible unease within Hope. She had already failed one of her children. Whatever awaited her, she must not fail another.

  “Look, Mama!” Pearl was jumping, poking sausage fingers through the mesh guard. “Castle!”

  “Woosung Fort,” corrected an elderly Britisher standing beside them. “Have to go to England for a proper castle.” As they drew closer to shore, the decks had crowded with passengers venturing from their warm compartments for a glimpse of their destination, but here on the cabin-class deck, where the majority were American, English, or Japanese, expressions of grim resignation rather than excitement reigned, and this Englishman was no exception. As he tugged his gray flop-hat down over his ears and fixed his horn-rimmed spectacles, he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.