The Yellow Papers

by Dominique Wilson

  ‘No, listen to me—’

  ‘I said enough!’

  ‘Fine. Don’t listen. I’ll be quiet. But I want you to think of one thing. Before you dismiss Chen Mu, before you turn your back on him now that he needs you, ask yourself this: were you – and by that I mean all of you, the Australians and the English and the Americans – were you so bloody perfect in Korea? How did you lot treat the Koreans? The Chinese? Answer me that, Dad. What did you do to them?’

  He kicked the sheet and blankets off and tossed, exhausted yet unable to sleep, unable to block out Charlotte’s words. Answer me that, Dad. What did you do to them? He didn’t want to think about what he’d done in Korea. He didn’t want to think at all.

  He turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the time. Three thirty. Too early to get up. Turned off the light. He had a long drive to Adelaide tomorrow. Like it or not, he had to get some sleep. Think of something pleasant. What? His granddaughters. There were three now. Little Elizabeth – all pink and soft and smelling of milk and talcum powder. Such a big name for such a little soul. Elizabeth. Beth. Yes, that’s what he’d call her, though Charlotte would probably object. Beth and Maggie, but then Sophie would want a special name too. What could he call her? He was too tired to think of a name just now. He could tell her a story instead. She always wanted stories, that one. He’d make up a new one for her.

  Granddad, tell me a story. Tell me another one. Please, Granddad? Okay. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. No, not a princess. There was a … A bunny rabbit, Granddad! A bunny rabbit! Yes, a rabbit. Sophie loved rabbits. Once upon a time there was a bunny rabbit who loved carrots. Every day he would eat his carrots until one day he had no more to eat. None at all. ‘That’s no good,’ thought the rabbit, ‘what will I do now?’, but a little brown sparrow told him of a paddock full of carrots not far away. So the little rabbit hopped away, down the lane and over the hill. By the time he got to the paddock it was getting dark. The little rabbit was worried to be away from home so late, but he really wanted those carrots. So he hopped into the paddock, and was just about to pull a fat juicy carrot out of the ground when a shadow spread across the rows. The rabbit turned and there, towering over him, was a huge scarecrow. A scarecrow with the face of a monkey. The rabbit screamed and ran, but the paddock swelled and rose, becoming rocky pinnacles around which huge black crows circled. The rabbit ran into a cave, trying to get away, and the floor of the cave melted, turning to water that swirled around his feet then froze again, freezing him to the ground, freezing his fur into needles of ice that pierced his flesh whilst on rocky ledges around the cave Korean women laughed and yelled at him to confess as they cut their hearts out with slim-bladed knives and gave them to Ming Li who threw them in a woven basket where each exploded in a flash of phosphorous. The monkey-faced scarecrow laughed and scooped out handfuls of flaming maggots which he slowly spread over Ming Li’s body and she moaned with pleasure whilst a cacophony of bugles and whistles reverberated around the cave walls.

  Edward sat up, stifling a cry. Rivulets of sweat wriggled down his shivering body. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and lit a cigarette, drawing deep. The sooner he got to Adelaide, the better. He needed a drink.

  In these predawn hours the house no longer looked familiar. Tea chests and boxes stacked on top of each other were silhouetted against bare walls. He moved from room to room, his hand skimming walls and packing containers – though he no longer needed a cane, he lacked confidence in the dark. When he came to the kitchen he turned on the light. Though everything had been packed, Charlotte had left the kettle and the makings of coffee on the kitchen bench, but he was no longer thinking of making coffee.

  She had placed it in the centre of the kitchen table, on its own, on top of its box. A translucent apple-green shard from a past he had forced himself to forget. It burrowed deep into his memory, shredding his defences as easily as his knife had slipped between men’s ribs.

  He sat at the table, shivering, staring at the delicate jade brush-rest. The clock on the kitchen wall tick-tocked the seconds.

  Slowly, hesitantly, he ran his finger along the sculpted edge of the lotus leaf. While firm, it will not wound, suggesting duty … Was that Charlotte’s message – that it was his duty to visit Chen Mu? His finger outlined the lotus flower bud. The light outside the kitchen window lightened to a predawn grey. A bird chirped, then was silent. He ran his finger over the conical seedpod, feeling the tiny pointed seed heads. He remembered a little boy running after a Chinese gardener. Wait for me, Chen Mu! Wait! Chen Mu sitting cross-legged opposite him, asking the Chinese words for a rice bowl. A clay jar. He heard the slow clip-clop of the milkman’s horse coming up the street, the clatter of milk bottles. Remembered Chen Mu cycling the roads of Macoomba during blackout. Chen Mu absorbing his anguish, his despair at never seeing Ming Li again. Absorbing, accepting, never judging. The milkman’s horse passed the house and stopped two doors down. Never judging. Would Chen Mu still not judge if Edward were to tell him how many Chinese he’d killed? If he were to admit that there were times when feeling the glide of his knife slitting a man’s throat had been an almost erotic experience? Edward could barely admit to himself the strange intimacy he’d felt when grappling with an enemy. These thoughts were unacceptable, even to himself, so why did he think of that now? And what about the innocents? The women and the children he’d killed? What would Chen Mu think if Edward were foolish enough to tell him, he who’d led such a sheltered life? For a moment he wished he could behave like his daughter and her husband, like all those who hadn’t been to war, who believed war could come and go without changing men’s hearts, without mutating men’s souls.

  Edward picked up the brush-rest and laid it in the palm of his hand. He lifted it towards the light, repeating the gesture of long ago. I would have given it to my eldest son, had I children. I want you to have it. He placed the little jade brush-rest back into its silken nest. It could not possibly go to anyone else. He sighed. Replaced the lid on the little box.

  Maybe he should go see Chen Mu – for the sake of his relationship with Charlotte, if for no other reason. The old man was dying, she’d said. Surely he could manage a short visit. There was no rush to get to Adelaide; he could pay the removalist to hold his things for a day or two. It would please his daughter and close that part of his life forever. Charlotte was big on closure. Another little box, another lock. He should be able to manage that. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had been close to the man once. That had to mean something. Had meant something. Did it still? No, he couldn’t weaken. Not now that he had his emotions under control. But surely he was strong enough to visit the man and still control his emotions. Maybe Charlotte was right; maybe he did owe him that much.

  26

  He reminded Edward of a little old Chinese mouse. Propped up slightly in bed, surrounded by pillows, Chen Mu dozed, his glasses slipped to the end of his nose. His hair was now all grey except for a white tuft in the centre, and a few white hairs sprouted from his upper lip and chin, giving the impression of whiskers.

  ‘He sleeps most of the time now,’ the woman who’d introduced herself as Betty Ingram told Edward. ‘His mind wanders a bit, when he’s awake. But he’s comfortable.’

  ‘What does the doctor say?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to say, really. He’s just old. Older than most folks around here, I’d say. It’s just that his time’s come …’ She pulled a chair beside the bed for Edward. ‘I’ll give you some privacy. Call out if you want anything.’

  Edward watched Chen Mu sleep. What would he say to him when he woke? How would he explain being back three years and not once visiting in all that time?

  Chen Mu breathed gently, and every few breaths he seemed to stop for a few seconds, then he’d take a deep breath and breathe normally again. The bedroom window was open and a soft afternoon breeze fluttered the curtains. From the kitchen Edward could hear Betty Ingram pottering about. He
was glad Chen Mu slept – it gave him time to examine his own feelings. Did he, as he had expected, feel hate? No. Not hate. Fear, at first, yes, when he’d walked up to the cottage, but this thin wrinkled little old man was no threat. But he did feel anxious. Why? He didn’t want to examine why right now. He looked around the room. Though he’d been to Chen Mu’s cottage many times in the past, he’d never been in this room. A wardrobe, a matching tallboy. By the window, a small table with photographs in frames. He rose to look at the photographs.

  The first was more a card than a photograph. On thick cardboard with bevelled edges painted gold, it showed a sepia portrait of a young Chinese man that could only be Chen Mu. He wore a dark morning suit and a tie in a Windsor knot. His hair was parted in the centre and he sat ramrod straight on a chair. Beside him stood an Indian woman in a dark, slim fitting, pinched-waisted dress that looked like taffeta. The skirt was trimmed with shirring and pleating, and the cuffs and yoke were ruched. She wore a small bonnet, and held a posy of flowers in her right hand. Both had a serious, formal expression, and the photograph could have been considered impersonal if not for the woman’s left hand – with its shiny new wedding band – resting on the man’s shoulder.

  Edward replaced the card and picked up the next photo in a frame. It was of himself – his graduation photo from Oxford. How did Chen Mu come to have a copy? The rest of the photos on the table explained its presence – a photo of Charlotte on her wedding day, photos of Charlotte’s children. Another of Charlotte and her husband each holding a child. One with Chen Mu holding Maggie as a toddler – it must have been taken when Edward was in Korea. At the back, a photo of Chen Mu wearing his air raid tin helmet and armband, gas mask hanging off the handle of his bicycle. He was smiling broadly at the camera. Had Charlotte taken this photo?

  ‘I thought you might be hungry, so I made you some sandwiches.’ Betty Ingram carried in a tray laden with sandwiches, a pot of tea and a cup. ‘Hello, he’s awake. I’ll let you visit then, shall I?’

  Edward sat beside Chen Mu’s bed, embarrassed, not knowing how to begin. Chen Mu watch Edward for a while, then closed his eyes. The silence between them grew and Edward wondered if Chen Mu had fallen asleep again.

  ‘I knew you’d come, Master Edward,’ he whispered at last.

  Edward nodded, then realised Chen Mu still had his eyes closed.

  ‘I couldn’t. Not before.’ Chen Mu nodded but still did not open his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Chen Mu smiled and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. Edward waited for him to say something else. Knew he should explain himself, apologise with more than an I’m sorry, but he didn’t know what to say, what words to use to explain. So he sat there, watching Chen Mu, until he heard him begin to snore softly. He rose quietly and took the untouched tray back to kitchen.

  ‘Will you be staying?’ Betty Ingram asked, pouring a cup of tea and placing it, and the plate of sandwiches, on the kitchen table in front of Edward.

  Should he stay? They’d barely said two words to each other, and suddenly that wasn’t enough.

  ‘Yes, I think so. I’ll sleep on the couch.’

  ‘I’ll make it up for you then, before I go.’

  ‘No need, I can manage. Mrs Ingram, I appreciate what you’re doing for him. You must let me pay you for the work you’re doing.’

  ‘But I’m already being paid, Mr Billings. Your daughter and her husband – they hired me months ago. Didn’t you know? Though to tell you the truth, I’d have helped out for nothing. Lovely gentleman, Mr Chen. Everyone in town thinks so. But your son-in-law, he said no, he wanted someone here every day, to look after Mr Chen properly like, and cook and keep the place clean, so he pays me a wage; puts it straight into my bank account, he does, every week. He does it all from New Zealand. I thought you knew. ‘

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I forgot – overtired, I imagine.’

  ‘Of course. Well, I’ll be off then. If you need anything, my number’s by the phone. The doctor’s too. Well, goodbye. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Ingram. Thank you.’

  He’d been sitting beside Chen Mu’s bedside for hours, unable to sleep, feeling shamed by his daughter and her husband. And in the silent hours of the night, he came to admit that this man had, indeed, been more of a father to him than his own grandfather. His assumed hate for Chen Mu, his refusal to face the man, had been his refusal to face his own fears, his own guilt. ‘If you don’t understand what life is, how will you understand death?’ Chen Mu had once quoted in a letter. He’d never really thought about those words before …

  It had been so much easier to lump them all in the one box – the Koreans, the Chinese, Chen Mu – and label the box ‘hate’. Because then you didn’t have to question. Didn’t have to face your own behaviour. You could pretend you’d never weakened – that there were never times in Korea when you would have done anything to get them to stop – that you never told yourself next time, next time I’ll sign whatever they want and then the pain will stop. You could forget that you’d slit Chinese and Korean throats with no regret or pity. That you’d been willing to kill your own team if need be. Chong Lueng. Thinking of Chong Lueng meant admitting that he probably wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t gone to find Ming Li in your place. Your fault, your guilt. How many had you killed in Korea?

  And when you’d come back, hate had made it easy to ignore someone who had always been there for you, ever since you were just a very lonely little boy, because deep down you’d known that if you didn’t hide behind hate, you could never look at yourself in the mirror anymore.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mā. I’m sorry!’

  ‘Chen Mu? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Mā? Please, I didn’t mean to kill them. Please Mā, I’m sorry! Don’t send me away!’

  ‘It’s all right, Chen Mu. You’re all right. Everything’s all right.’

  Chen Mu shook his head, then sighed. Edward took the old man’s hand in his and stroked it, hoping to calm him. Outside a wind sprung up, rustling the trees. Chen Mu laughed.

  ‘His queue’s like a mouse’s tail! Cut the tail! Cut the mouse’s tail!’

  ‘Chen Mu? Wake up. It’s me, Edward.’

  Chen Mu frowned, then opened his eyes, confused.

  ‘It’s all right, Chen Mu. Everything’s all right.’

  ‘Master Edward?’ His voice was weak.

  ‘I’m here, Chen Mu. How are you, old friend?’

  ‘I’m dying. Yes, I am. I don’t mind, Master Edward. It’s the universal order of things. I’ve been here too long already.’ He coughed and Edward helped him sit up. When the coughing subsided he laid him down again. ‘I’m leaving the cottage to Miss Charlotte,’ he said, his voice weaker still. ‘Everything else – nearly everything – to you.’

  ‘Don’t talk about that now. Chen Mu, listen. I have to tell you something. Explain. When I came back from Korea—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain, Master Edward.’

  ‘I want to. Have to. When I came back, I hated you. Or I thought I did.’ Edward felt like a small boy again, admitting some naughtiness to Chen Mu. ‘I thought I hated you but I was wrong. So wrong …’

  ‘I understand, Master Edward. No need to explain …’

  Chen Mu closed his eyes. His breathing became so soft Edward thought it had stopped. He stroked the old man’s hand.

  ‘Chen Mu?’

  ‘Did you ever …’

  ‘What? I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘The woman. Did you ever find her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aah …’

  Chen Mu coughed again, and this bout seemed to tire him even more.

  ‘Don’t talk, my friend. Don’t talk. I’ll be here. We’ll talk in the morning.’

  He sat holding Chen Mu’s hand for the rest of the night. Sometimes Chen Mu would call out, talking to people Edward didn’t know. He called to Sahira once, urging her to go swimming, and another time he spoke to Mrs Hannigan, the
Dawsons’ cook on Walpinya Station when Edward was a boy, about rabbits that needed skinning. And as the night deepened, Edward allowed himself to open some of those little boxes he had buried deep inside, and peer into them. Hesitantly. Carefully.

  The hours dragged into dawn, and Edward rested his head on the bed but didn’t let go of Chen Mu’s hand. He knew now that he could tell Chen Mu anything, and that Chen Mu would still never judge him.

  When he woke to the sound of a kookaburra laughing at the dawn and Betty Ingram’s keys in the lock, he saw that Chen Mu had died.

  PART Three

  27

  Ming Li dusted the glass cabinet that held an assortment of hairpins. Made of gold and silver, and decorated with jade, pearls or feathers, they made attractive souvenirs for Westerners. Over the seven years she’d had this shop she’d amassed quite a collection. Their small size made them easy to hide and smuggle into Hong Kong by refugees who risked their lives for freedom.

  Whilst the borders between China and Hong Kong remained firmly closed, the flow of refugees continued, though now illegally, and with them came news of Mainland China. Ming Li had heard the results of Mao’s Great Leap Forward – the blast furnaces, the forests stripped of vegetation, the agrarian reforms – and with it the political meetings, imprisonments and re-education farms. She could well imagine what people were going through. And now there were reports of droughts and typhoons such as had never been seen for generations – maybe, she thought, nature had finally decided to seek revenge.

  She worried constantly about MeiMei and the boy. How old was Huang Ho now? Ten? No, he’d been born in ‘49 – that would make him eleven. But were he and MeiMei even alive? She knew famine had China by the throat, and had heard how millions were dying, falling wherever they stood, left unburied in the fields and muddy paths, or in streets whose buildings were plastered with brightly-coloured posters showed plump, rosy-cheeked children cavorting amongst abundant fields of giant vegetables, and where those surviving crawled on hands and knees amongst the bodies to hunt for something to eat – maybe a frog, or a weed struggling through concrete. Was MeiMei one of those crawling on her hands and knees? Was Huang Ho? No wonder so many were willing to risk their lives to reach Hong Kong. Here, at least, if they managed not to be caught at the border, they could present themselves the next day at the police station for a Hong Kong identity card, thanks to the Hong Kong government’s ‘reach base’ policy, which stated that if the Chinese illegal immigrants were not caught at the border and managed to reach town, they were permitted to stay and begin a new life.