Bury What We Cannot Take: A novel

by Kirstin Chen

  His fingernails dug into the flesh of his thighs and the pain made him exhale. “My wife, we’re both in agreement here. I’m simply asking for your patience.”

  “We can’t keep spouting the same old lies. Do you think the Party will accept you’ve been ‘clinging to your deathbed’ forever?” She covered her face with her handkerchief.

  He swiveled his chair to face the window, unable to watch her cry. He’d finally pulled together enough money to pay the landlord, but if he didn’t hand that over right away, Tam would evict his family. He wondered, crazily, if he could move his mother and wife and son into his soon-to-be-bare townhouse. To do so would be to accept that Lulu had left for good. Was this the sacrifice demanded of him by his family and his late father and the rest of his long string of illustrious ancestors?

  Ah Zhai felt his chair spin around. His wife fell to her knees before him. “My husband, I know you barely know our daughter. I know she’s only a girl child, as loathsome as a cowbird.”

  “Get up,” he said.

  “But she’s bright and obedient. She’s a good girl.”

  “Please, my wife, get up.”

  Seok Koon flung her torso to the floor, pressing her forehead to the carpet. “If you can’t do this for the girl, do it for me. I swear I will never again ask anything of you.”

  What was she implying? That she would grant him a divorce? “Stop this nonsense. Get up right now.” He no longer cared if his secretary overhead them.

  Seok Koon’s voice was muffled by the carpet. “I won’t until you agree.”

  Curled up on the floor, she was as helpless as a child, but, without money, he was helpless, too. “I just need a little time.”

  Seok Koon said into the carpet, “There is no time.”

  For a split second, he considered blurting out his financial woes. Instead, he seized the heaviest thing on his desk—a glass paperweight shaped like a swan—and raised it above his head. His wife’s shoulder blades shuddered beneath the lustrous silk of her dress. He heaved the swan onto the carpet in disgust, and it bounced up and dove headfirst into the thick weave before landing on its side.

  Startled, Seok Koon raised her head.

  “Write the letter,” Ah Zhai said. “The funds will be in my account.” He fell into his chair, overcome with exhaustion.

  At last his stubborn wife rose. She crawled over and nestled her face in his lap, her tears moistening his trousers. He stiffened, unsure of whether to nudge her away or comfort her.

  Aside from the occasional cursory embrace, or the dry sweep of his lips across her cheek, they’d barely touched. Now, however, her forehead pressed his inner thigh and he felt himself stir.

  “Thank you, my husband,” she whispered.

  The brief flicker of arousal immediately gave way to repulsion. He feared she might kiss him through his trousers. He gingerly rolled an inch backward in his chair. He didn’t know if his wife’s face expressed disappointment or relief.

  Gruffly, he said, “I have work to do.”

  “Of course.”

  At the door, Seok Koon murmured her thanks once more.

  Ah Zhai gazed down at his gold watch, which had been his father’s, and his grandfather’s before that, and wondered how much it would fetch at the pawnshop.

  19

  A deafening crash jolted San San awake. She raised herself on her elbows and gazed out the sole window in Spinster Lin’s dressing room, round and high like a ship’s porthole. Rain poured down in sheets. The sky was so dark she could barely make out the hands on her watch.

  And then she remembered what day it was. She clambered up the step stool to press her face to the windowpane. Surely the denunciation session would be postponed. The whole town couldn’t be expected to assemble outdoors in this storm.

  A flash of lightning evoked the jagged edges of the hole in the kitchen window. San San ran down the back stairs. Water spilled into the kitchen, drenching the straw baskets of dried goods and the earthenware jugs lined up against the wall. She wrapped her arms around a jug and strained to lift it, managing to clear the ground by no more than an inch. Changing course, she shuttled the much lighter straw baskets into the dining room, where the sight of the long teak table gave her an idea. She pulled open sideboard doors and drawers until she found a bright red tablecloth made from stiff, coated cotton. The fabric wasn’t waterproof, but it was better than nothing.

  By now the pool of rainwater had crept halfway across the kitchen’s tiled floor. Water soaked through San San’s canvas shoes and the hems of her borrowed pajamas as she worked to tack the tablecloth over the broken window. Using all of her body weight, she heaved the jugs, one by one, to the opposite side of the kitchen. Rain continued to pummel the tablecloth. At this rate, the cloth would soon grow too wet to be of any use, but she’d worry about that when the time came.

  She shut the kitchen door and retreated to the living room to dry her feet on the sheepskin rug. It was then that the announcement came through the street-corner loudspeakers, informing the revolutionary comrades of Drum Wave Islet that due to inclement weather, the denunciation session and subsequent execution of Lee Chin Kong and Rose Lee would be pushed back to the following day. San San fell onto the stiff-backed sofa and stretched out her sore arms in relief.

  She must have dozed off because the next thing she knew, a watery ray of sunlight shone through a crack in the curtains and angry fists hammered the door.

  “Open up! Housing Registration Board. Open up right now!”

  She leapt up.

  “If you don’t open the door, we’ll have no choice but to kick it down.”

  She grabbed her shoes and sprinted to the stairs.

  “We saw the cloth over the kitchen window. We know you’re in there.”

  In the dressing room, San San retrieved her mother’s letters, now stashed in Spinster Lin’s leather portfolio. She ran down the back stairs into the kitchen, splashed through the rainwater pool, and slipped out the door just before the blast of splintering wood. She stuffed the portfolio in the waistband of her pants, knotted the drawstring as tight as it would go, and ran toward the sea.

  Thanks to the storm, Flourishing Beauty Cove was deserted. The summer before, San San and her brother had begged Ma to let them sleep right on the beach after a lazy day of swimming and fishing, but to no avail.

  That night, however, San San learned that the sand that was so soft and inviting against her feet made a poor mattress, that palm fronds were no substitute for a blanket, that upon sunset, the balmy ocean breeze grew relentless, harsh.

  The next day she combed the rocky shore in search of the oyster bed that a friendly fisherman had once led her and her brother to, but either the bed had somehow vanished, or she’d misremembered the spot.

  Lightheaded with hunger, she ventured back to the arts college on Chicken Hill Road. An enormous padlock hung from the gate. The summer holidays, she realized, had just begun, which meant there was no one to keep her from climbing the longan tree. She gorged herself on the succulent fruits until her stomach ached, and spent the rest of the afternoon recovering on the floor of an empty classroom.

  The following morning, the town announcer’s voice, transmitted by the many campus loudspeakers, echoed across the college. Due to an impromptu visit from important city officials, the denunciation session would be postponed by yet another day. And by the time that day rolled around, San San was convinced that Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose’s denunciation session would never take place. The Party was most likely trying to save face. Once the townspeople lost interest in the case—or found a new case to focus on—the Party would quietly release the captives.

  In one corner of the classroom blackboard, San San marked another passing day. The ship with the green flag would return to Xiamen in a week. If the doctor and her teacher could not leave with her, she trusted they’d know how to get her on board.

  Roaming the vacant grounds, she waited and waited for the announcement that would postpone
the denunciation session yet again. This time, however, none came.

  When she could put off leaving no longer, San San climbed over the college gate and hurried to town, taking the long way to avoid passing the cemetery. Perhaps the Party would save face by going forward with the session, after which they would let Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose return home. San San would have to sneak over to their house before the session ended. She pictured her teacher’s face lighting up when she saw her.

  She reached the town square as the last few stragglers, tiny-footed crones leaning on walking sticks, made their way to the high school basketball courts. Instead of following them through the gates, she circled the perimeter of the school. About fifty meters away from the basketball courts stood an old oak tree. She scrambled onto a low, sturdy branch behind a thick veil of leaves. She only had to peek through the leaves to gain a clear view of the stage that had been erected in the front of the courts.

  Students arranged according to grade sat cross-legged on the already sun-scorched concrete, while the townsfolk filled in behind them. Some of the townsfolk sat on stools they’d brought from home, cooling their faces with paper fans. San San scanned the rows of elementary school students. It was hard to tell, given their identical white shirts and navy-blue shorts or skirts, but wasn’t that Little Red right there in the third row? The girl with the pointy chin turned slightly, confirming San San’s suspicion. Little Red pulled a loop of string from her pocket and engaged the girl next to her—Steamed Bun, of course—in a game of cat’s cradle. The thumb-sized lump in San San’s throat welled to a fist.

  A man with Cook’s round belly and head of gray hair caught her attention, but this time she was mistaken. The man was a stranger. She’d spent the past week in total solitude, and yet she’d never felt more alone than she did at this moment, sitting on her tree branch, close enough to shout her presence to the entire town. She searched in vain for Cook and Mui Ah, wondering how hard they’d looked for her. She hoped they’d told her mother she’d gone missing; she hoped the news had devastated her.

  The town announcer, an attractive woman whose tunic and trousers were somehow sleeker and less drab than everyone else’s, strode onstage and led the townsfolk through a rousing rendition of “Socialism Is Good.” San San had always admired the announcer’s mellifluous singing voice, and despite her distress, she found herself humming along.

  Once the song was over, the hateful Comrade Ang bounded onstage with a bullhorn. San San hadn’t seen him since her self-criticism session, and she hoped he’d trip on a loose plank and fall flat on his face.

  But Comrade Ang moved with grace and ease.

  “Serve the people!” he yelled into the bullhorn.

  “Serve the people!” the crowd yelled back.

  And, “Dare to struggle, dare to win!”

  And, “Fight, fight to the finish!”

  The crowd clapped their hands and stamped their feet. Comrade Ang’s face turned bright red as he continued to shout and wave.

  San San typically enjoyed chanting sessions—all these voices in unison, like an immense chorus or orchestra, something she never experienced in her own musical life. “The piano is a lonely instrument,” her mother had warned when San San first started lessons. Auntie Rose had countered, “Self-sufficient—one needn’t ever depend on an accompanist.”

  This morning, however, San San drew no pleasure from the crowd’s wanton, almost hysterical display. Their eyes bulged and their jaws flexed, turning their faces into ghoulish masks. How had she never noticed before?

  Above the furious chanting soared the wail of a siren. A police van sped past San San’s tree and halted at the edge of the basketball courts. Comrade Ang signaled for the crowd to quiet down and ceded the stage to the announcer.

  “The prisoners have arrived,” she said.

  The crowd erupted. If San San hadn’t been holding on to her branch with both hands, she would have covered her ears.

  The van door opened, and two policemen clad in crisp olive-green uniforms stepped out. They saluted the assembled before leading out their charges. Soiled pillowcases masked the prisoners’ faces. Baggy jumpsuits hung off them like burlap sacks.

  A low hum of approval rose from the crowd. It was impossible to tell if the prisoners were male or female, young or old, but San San was certain they could not be Auntie Rose and Dr. Lee. These figures were emaciated, shrunken, nothing like her plump, pretty teacher and the tall, broad-shouldered doctor. In fact, now that she stopped to think about it, she hadn’t heard their names mentioned all morning. Had she mistaken the date? Was she at the wrong denunciation session?

  The policemen prodded the prisoners with the butts of their nightsticks, as though they were too squalid to be touched. Blinded by the pillowcases, wrists bound behind them, the pair gingerly edged forward.

  The crowd jeered.

  “Show those turtle eggs who’s in charge now!”

  “Make that son of a dog pay!”

  By now San San was sure she’d somehow attended the wrong session, and she laughed along, her voice foreign and rasping in her ears.

  After the prisoners had shuffled along for a little while, the policemen grew impatient. They seized their bound arms and half pushed, half dragged them onstage. The prisoners stood there dumbly, their covered faces jerking toward each insult that flew through the air.

  “Let the denunciation session begin!” cried the announcer.

  On cue the policemen rammed their nightsticks into the prisoners’ backs. They crumpled to the ground as if made of cardboard. If either, or both, cried out, the sound was lost in the crowd’s cheers.

  San San’s throat constricted. She clung so tightly to her branch that she wouldn’t have been surprised if her palms began to bleed.

  The announcer unfurled a long scroll and began to recite the prisoners’ crimes, but the chanting crowd drowned her out. Only after Comrade Ang sprang onstage and waved his arms wildly did everyone finally calm down.

  When the announcer declared it time to reveal the faces of the counterrevolutionaries, a hush fell over the basketball courts. The seated townsfolk rose from their stools. The kindergarten teachers quieted the smallest students. Every muscle in San San’s body tensed with dread and hope and fear.

  The policemen took their places behind the kneeling prisoners.

  “Here we go,” said the announcer. “One . . . two . . . three!”

  The dirty pillowcases flew off. A strangled wail left San San’s lips, a strange, animal sound she’d never made before.

  There, onstage, was the doctor, barely recognizable beneath the foul, blood-soaked bandages encircling his head and one eye. His other eye was swollen shut.

  Someone in the crowd yelled, “Scoundrel! Pervert!”

  Dr. Lee’s head jerked, seemingly involuntarily, in the heckler’s direction, drawing more taunts.

  But it was the sight of Auntie Rose that made San San let go of the branch and lose her balance and very nearly crash to the ground.

  Auntie Rose’s thick, luxuriant hair had been shorn to the scalp, revealing the tender, bony knobs of her skull. Her skin had lost all color, aside from a brilliant crimson slash down the side of her face from temple to chin. She knelt with her head cocked to one side, half-open eyes blinking slowly as though she were barely awake.

  A line of children trooped onstage.

  “Please welcome our little friends,” the announcer said.

  The children filed past Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose with their eyes trained straight ahead. There was Kong Ping Ping, a classmate of Ah Liam’s, and little Tan Huat of Sea and Sky Mansion, and the Gao brothers, who were identical twins. It dawned on San San that like her, all of them were Auntie Rose’s piano students.

  “Go on, little friends,” the announcer urged. “Tell everyone how Rose Lee polluted your bright young minds.”

  Ping Ping took the microphone and gave the crowd a dazzling smile, as if competing in a talent show. “Rose Lee only teaches her stude
nts Western music. Rose Lee idolizes Mozart and Chopin and Bach. She believes Chinese music to be inferior to Western music. She has poisoned the minds of our islet’s next generation of musicians, and she must be punished.”

  The crowd applauded, and Ping Ping passed the microphone to the next child in line, but San San was no longer listening. She watched the way Auntie Rose hung her head, her eyes milky, her face blank. She wondered if her teacher was feigning stupor in hopes of garnering pity. They’re just words, she longed to tell her teacher. Let them pass over you, and soon it will all be over.

  When the last child had spoken, the announcer retrieved the microphone. “We have assembled all of Rose Lee’s former students except for one,” she said to the enraptured crowd. “One student did not get to speak. One student’s voice has been silenced forever.”

  The announcer turned and pointed first at Dr. Lee and then at Auntie Rose. “Where is Ong San San? Confess to the masses before you meet your end.”

  The crowd erupted once more.

  “Confess! Confess! Where is Ong San San?”

  San San dropped down from her branch and hid behind the thick tree trunk.

  Onstage, Dr. Lee raised his face to the sky and contorted his features in agony. The announcer passed the microphone to one of the policemen, who held it to Dr. Lee’s lips. His voice was hollow and hoarse. “I don’t know where she is. I swear on my father’s grave.”

  An icy current poured through San San. She wrapped her arms around herself and pressed her forehead to the rough tree bark.

  “Confess!” yelled the crowd. “Worthless traitors! Heartless kidnappers!”

  If San San turned herself in, was there any chance that Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose would be released, or would she be shot alongside them for trying to flee? Had her disappearance caused their sentence, or was it part of an auxiliary crime, wielded by the Party to rile up the masses?

  Egged on by the crowd, one of the policemen reared back his leg and kicked the doctor with his heavy black boot. The doctor groaned and toppled onto his side. This finally shook Auntie Rose awake. She tried to crawl to him, but the other policeman restrained her by the collar like a dog.