“Are your books bad?”
“No, they’re good,” he answered. “It’s important for us to understand and consider all sides before we make decisions.”
“And that’s why you’re hiding them?”
Wei nodded. “I’m saving them for you. When you’re older, you can read them all and make up your own mind about the life you want to live.”
“Where have you hidden them?” Tao asked.
He lowered his voice. “It’s our secret. When your leg has healed, I’ll show you.”
* * *
As Wei searched his bookshelves, his gaze halted at a slim volume of poetry, given to him on a long-ago birthday by a teenaged Sheng. Wei had written poetry as a young man and once entertained the thought of becoming a poet. The book, by the famous Tang Dynasty poet Tu Fu, was a favorite of his. Reaching for it now, Wei hoped that he’d told Sheng it remained one of his most cherished gifts. Every morning since Sheng had been taken away, Wei read a poem from the book, which somehow made him feel closer to his son. Now he sat down at his desk and flipped through the worn pages, the book opening naturally to the poems where the spine was broken. He read the first stanza of the aptly titled “Thinking of My Boy,” written for the poet’s favorite son.
Comes spring once more,
Pony Boy, and still we
Cannot be together; I
Comfort myself hoping
You are singing with
The birds in the sunshine …
Wei stopped reading, suddenly angered. He knew Sheng wasn’t where he could be singing with birds in the sunshine. Just after Sheng was taken away, Kai Ying had pleaded with the police officials to tell her his whereabouts, but to no avail. Two months later, they received word that Sheng had been sent to be reeducated in Luoyang in the western Henan province. As she read the note to Wei, Kai Ying’s face turned pale. Luoyang was in the central plains of China, more than a thousand miles away by train, another world away. They had hoped and prayed that Sheng was somewhere closer in Guangdong province. There, at least they could visit, and there was the chance of his returning home for a week’s furlough during the New Year holidays. Instead, it would take that long just to travel back and forth from Luoyang.
Wei had once studied artifacts from the region around Luoyang, one of the cradles of Chinese civilization and one of the original Four Great Ancient Capitals of China. Now he could only imagine it as a place of darkness and desolation, where men and women were worked to death or beaten to death or starved to death, a place where even birds never ventured unless they were vultures.
Wei had an old colleague, a Professor Wong from Lingnan, a steadfast and intelligent man who had always been an outspoken critic of Chairman Mao. His family had begged him to leave China before the Communists came into power, but he had refused. Within weeks of the new government, he was seized in the middle of the night by the police and sent to a reeducation camp in Shandong province to work in the mines. Before the sun rose each day, the prisoners were sent deep into dark, dank tunnels, reemerging later into darkness. Did Wong think even the sunlight had abandoned him? He was seventy years old and unfit for hard labor, his body failing even if his indomitable spirit hadn’t. The authorities said he had died of natural causes, but Wei knew they had killed him, just as if they’d held a gun to his head.
* * *
Wei’s eyes filled with tears. He swallowed, the words of the poem tasting bitter in his mouth. He closed the book and placed it on his desk, then unlocked a drawer and pulled out his worn leather-bound journal. In it was a rough copy of the letter he had sent to the Premier’s Office. The lines were burned into his memory. If China is to become a stronger nation, the Party must open its eyes and see that power comes from free expression. What freedom do we have in a Communist society if artists and intellectuals are tortured for following their hearts? What freedom do we have if art and ideas and politics can’t be appreciated and openly discussed? How can there be strength in suppression?
Wei had written his thoughts with such truth and clarity, as if a light had suddenly flooded a long-darkened room. Now those very same ideas had turned to needles pricking his skin, and the truth he’d written had condemned his son to hard labor. After a lifetime of keeping to himself and remaining closemouthed, what made him write the letter and sign his name? A moment of vanity and conceit, a need to feel important again, which only served to implicate Sheng, who had always been the one active in school forums and politics, and whose given name was also Weisheng, meaning greatness is born, each of them the long-awaited sons of their parents. Wei and Liang had called him Sheng since birth, so as not to cause confusion with his own name. So as not to cause confusion. Confusion.
* * *
Wei swallowed. He was nothing more than a pompous old fool, sick with regret. The morning the police came for Sheng, he had taken hold of his son’s arm in all the commotion, leaned in close and told him, “I wrote the letter. It was me,” before they pushed Sheng back and pulled him away. But not before he saw the moment of understanding cross his son’s face. Wei had tried to make them listen to him. He grabbed a policeman’s arm and said over and over, “It was me, not my son. Take me!” only to be pushed away, hard and firm, as he stumbled back. He heard Kai Ying pleading with the other policemen. “Don’t worry,” Sheng said to him. “Don’t say a word. I’ll be all right.” His eyes told Wei that he meant it. A look of trust a father would give a son. And then Sheng was gone, and he was the one left helpless and heartbroken.
He couldn’t imagine what Liang would think of him now. What kind of father would allow his son to take his place? Wei sat back and closed his eyes, but even Liang wouldn’t return to him.
* * *
Wei stood in the doorway of Tao’s room. He could barely see his grandson behind the cast, but he could feel his growing restlessness each day as he regained his strength. It’d been nearly two weeks since his return from the hospital, and he saw similarities between Sheng and his grandson that hadn’t been so apparent before. It was only Tao who gave him moments of solace now. Wei looked around the room, thinking it might be a good change for the boy to be carried downstairs for dinner that evening. Still, it was something he would have to discuss with Kai Ying first. Tao’s cast was scheduled to be taken off in a few weeks, and she didn’t want him moved, for fear his leg wouldn’t heal right and he would always walk with a limp.
Yesterday morning was the first time Kai Ying had looked relaxed around him since he’d taken the cleaver to the tree. Wei had made a feeble apology to her, but how could he tell her that the tree he had always loved had suddenly become his enemy, the only thing he could take his anger out on for hurting his grandson? It sounded like senseless gibberish coming from a crazy old man, when the simple truth was all the pent-up fury was directed at only one person: himself.
* * *
“Is that you, ye ye?” Tao asked, straining to look around his elevated cast.
Wei stepped into the room and smiled.
“Yes, it’s me.”
* * *
The book felt solid and heavy in Wei’s hands. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, gesturing toward his grandson’s untouched breakfast.
Tao shook his head.
Wei sat down on the chair next to his bed. “Well, maybe eat a little something to keep you going until lunch. You’ll need energy to get better.”
Tao nodded.
Wei handed him the piece of bread, then tapped on his hard cast. “And how are you feeling?”
“It itches,” Tao answered.
Wei leaned over. “Here? Or here?” He scratched several different places down the length of the hard cast until Tao finally smiled. “Ah, I see you’re feeling better.”
“A little.”
“Good,” Wei said. “Little by little, and you’ll be up and running very soon.”
Tao shrugged.
“Look what I brought for you to look at today.”
Wei held up the book, which loo
ked similar to the one he had brought the morning before and the day before that. He opened the large leather-bound book slowly and lovingly as Tao remained quiet, watching. “I thought you might like to see these,” Wei said, turning the pictures in his direction.
He helped Tao sit up to look at the bright, beautiful paintings of the dragons, tigers, phoenixes, and tortoises. “They’re the four creatures of the world,” Wei explained.
Tao appeared distracted. He glanced toward the window and Wei rose and pulled the curtains back, letting in more light. “That’s better.” He sat back down beside him.
“Do you need me to do anything else?” he asked.
Tao shook his head and finished his toast. He looked down at the paintings in the book.
Wei recalled the time one evening when Sheng, not much older than Tao was, stood in the doorway watching him, studying him. He had looked up instinctively from the book he was reading to see his son standing there. “What is it?” he had asked abruptly, distracted, as if Sheng were simply a student waiting to see him. The boy looked at him, slightly embarrassed, lingered shyly for a moment before he finally said, “It’s nothing.” And then he turned around and was gone. Only now did Wei see it as one of many moments when he should have reached out to his son. “Come talk to me,” he should have said. “Come tell me about your day.” It all seemed so much easier with Tao.
* * *
He looked down at Tao. “Look here,” he said, pointing at the paintings. “Each animal represents one of the four directions and one of the four seasons: the Green Dragon, east and spring; the White Tiger, west and summer; the Red Phoenix, south and fall; and the Black Tortoise, north and winter,” he said, his voice rising dramatically. He hoped his grandson would be intrigued by the myth, and by the fact they were being guarded by such creatures. “And just what creature do you think is being protected in the very center by the four others?” he asked.
Tao looked intently at the painting, and finally said, “A monkey?”
Wei smiled and shook his head. He saw Tao’s eyes light up with interest.
“An ox?”
He shook his head again.
“A horse?”
“No.”
“Neighbor Lau’s rooster?”
Wei laughed. Tao laughed too, suddenly the little boy he knew again, and it brought a moment of joy. What he couldn’t give to his son, he could at least give his grandson.
“It’s a snake coiled in the center of the four,” he said. “And right now, you’re just like that snake being protected by the four creatures of the world until you get better.”
Tao smiled. And then he was quiet again in thought. “Will they protect ba ba, too?”
Wei hesitated a moment. He looked down at his grandson, who resembled his son so much that it made his heart break. He leaned in closer. “Yes,” he said, “they’ll protect the both of you.”
Tao smiled. Then he reached over and did what Sheng would have never done as a boy, stroked the prickly, gray whiskers on Wei’s chin.
Tao
Tao’s grandfather carried him down to the kitchen, where he heard his mother and Auntie Song’s voices before he saw their familiar, smiling faces.
“Ah, here he is,” Auntie Song said, the slightest whistle escaping from the dark window where her tooth had been. She kissed him on the cheek and he could smell the earthy scent of her garden, which made him miss their days outside together. His mother stood back, watching. Tao thought she looked tired and a little nervous, but she stepped forward and reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
The kitchen was warm and aromatic with all his favorites: fried rice with scallions and dried shrimp, and long beans and Chinese mushrooms in oyster sauce. Auntie Song returned to her chopping and mincing. The kitchen door stood ajar and Tao looked out into the courtyard. An afternoon thunderstorm had come and gone. Before his grandfather set him down on one of the two chairs facing each other, one for him to sit on, the other arranged with pillows for his leg, Tao leaned close and asked, “Can we go outside for just a little while?”
His grandfather looked over at his mother, and Tao watched one of those silent grown-up conversations between them where decisions were made simply by a look or gesture.
* * *
The courtyard was warm and steamy, fragrant after the thundershower. The air felt good after weeks of being pent up in the hospital and then up in his room. The kapok tree stood dark and silent. Was this the same courtyard he had played in since he was just a baby? Tao closed his eyes and opened them again. He looked over at the Ming-tiled wall, the faded red gate, up at the second-floor terrace where he and his ba ba used to stand looking for White Cloud Mountain; it was all beginning to feel familiar again.
His grandfather walked around slowly, uncharacteristically quiet with him. Tao noticed he carefully avoided the tree and the spot where he had fallen, even when he tried to turn and get a better look at the tree. Since his father left, his ye ye had changed. He had once walked in on his father and grandfather arguing about something, their voices sharp and strained. When they saw him standing there, they smiled and lowered their voices, but it was an entire day before they were themselves again. His ye ye hadn’t been himself for a very long time. He and his mother were sad, but his grandfather’s sadness was different, heavier, like a weight pulling him down. Tao just wanted to pull him back up, but he didn’t know how. He wondered if his mother had a tea or soup that would help his ye ye feel better, and if so, why hadn’t she already made it for him.
His grandfather stopped for a moment. He must have been tired of carrying him, the cast itself a heavy burden. Then, as if he knew what Tao was thinking, he strode over to the stone bench and gently sat him down, carefully lowering the cast onto the bench.
“How does it feel?” he asked, rubbing his arm.
“Good,” Tao answered. “Am I too heavy?”
“You’re helping me build muscles,” he said, sitting down beside him. “Let me know when you’d like to go back in.”
He nodded, and leaned back against his grandfather. Tao looked around the courtyard and could almost feel his father’s presence. If ba ba were here, he could easily carry him down to the canal where they’d watch the ducks, even if his mother objected. If he were home again, they would be having a real celebration.
His grandfather drew a deep breath and stretched his long legs out. “It’s worth the afternoon rain for this moment afterwards,” he said.
Tao took in a big breath, the thick air tasting sweet, like the big magnolia tree blooming down the street. He heard his mother’s voice from the kitchen, the sound of oil splattering in the wok. From the distance came other voices. Tao was feeling himself again.
“You ready to go inside?” his grandfather asked. “I’m getting hungry.”
He nodded.
His grandfather smiled and picked him up and into his arms with a low grunt. He had just turned around when Tao saw it; the thin, pale gash across the trunk of the kapok. It was no longer than his hand; still, he winced at the thought of the scar it would leave.
Moon Festival
September 1958
Tao
Tao heard the courtyard gate whine open and quietly close again. The night before, his mother had told him she would be leaving the house early for the marketplace, so he lay in bed listening. Since his return home from the hospital over six weeks ago, she’d rarely been far from his side. Tao could imagine her walking down the street, turning back once before she disappeared around the corner. He already missed her. Still, he knew she wouldn’t be gone for too long, and he’d been too excited to sleep knowing he was finally going to have his cast taken off that afternoon. Tao couldn’t wait until he was able to freely move around and finally return to school.
It was September and the new school term had started almost two weeks ago. His best friend, Little Shan, had come by last week, bringing with him an air of self-importance at now occupying Tao’s second seat. “For now, L
ing Ling is still first seat,” Little Shan boasted. “You’re lucky to be home, we’ve had to learn at least a dozen new characters so far.”
Tao shrugged and acted as if it didn’t bother him. “I’ll catch up,” he said. He was more determined than ever to recapture his place.
“Teacher Eng sweats a lot and always has dark stains under his arms,” Little Shan laughed. “Wait until you see him.”
Tao smiled and watched as Little Shan rambled on. Not long ago he would have been laughing along with him, lifted out of his loneliness, but he was still reeling from the real surprise that caught him completely off guard. The once short and chubby Little Shan he’d always known had become a taller, thinner version of himself, a growth spurt that had happened over the summer. Tao was relieved to be seated with his leg propped up, but even so, he could easily see that his friend was taller than he was now. It gave Tao a sudden, sharp stomachache to see how much life around him had changed since his fall from the kapok. It was another small blow he tried to ignore after Little Shan left.
Kai Ying
After a sweltering and lethargic August, September slid in quick and urgent. Kai Ying had canceled all her patients for the day and left the house early. It was still warm and humid in the afternoons, the threat of rain always hovering in the low, gray sky. They’d had a mild summer rainfall but no heavy monsoon storms for the first time in years. She could feel the changing seasons in the air, the arrival of shorter, darker days. Already, the light had a serious, pressing feel to it. Still, Kai Ying was thankful to see the summer end. It had been a demanding one with Tao’s fall, which only made Sheng’s absence all the more difficult.
It felt good to be outside and simply walking, away from the hot, steamy kitchen and the everyday illnesses Kai Ying treated. The air still held some coolness from the night before and she breathed in deeply, filling her lungs. She’d forgotten how happiness felt. In that moment Kai Ying dared to hope, to believe that Tao’s leg would be completely healed when his cast came off that afternoon, and how they would be happily celebrating his recovery along with Moon Festival tomorrow evening.
A Hundred Flowers Page 6
