“She’s real. He can touch her,” Hai said. Jian looked relieved to discover someone on his side. “How did you meet her?” Hai asked.
Jian looked at the floor. “Wei Bong insists I go for character-building instruction. He thinks I take too much medicine. Chien Ru is in my class.”
“Why was she sent to the class?”
Jian shrugged. He probably knew, but didn’t want to give Yo Wen new ideas for criticism. Hai guessed it was alcohol, or perhaps prostitution.
“You cannot do this!” Yo Wen persisted. “What about your disability pension?” She was talking in front of Lin as if Lin were a television picture, not a young wife. The illusion was breaking down.
“It’s not certain yet that we’ll marry,” Jian said.
“You’re already married.”
No one said anything.
When Ch’an came home, Hai asked him to go for a walk, and told him what was happening. He was old enough to know.
* * *
Wei Bong was at the door early the next morning, requesting a private counseling session with the couple. Hai didn’t know if Yo Wen had called him, or if it was true what people whispered, that the counselors could watch through New Wives’ eyes to see if anyone broke the New Wives are Persons law. Hai and Yo Wen went to their room so they could listen.
Wei Bong began as usual, asking each in turn if they were happy. Lin responded with an enthusiastic yes. Jian grunted noncommittally. Wei Bong pressed Jian, asking if Lin was ever disrespectful, or denied him his conjugal privileges, or failed to keep herself clean and attractive. Each time, Jian answered that she had not.
“Then let me remind you that are a married man,” Wei Bong said pointedly, “and under the law you may not divorce a New Wife unless she is disrespectful, slovenly, or unfaithful.”
Which, of course, could never happen. The government always got their way. They claimed no one had died in the Wife Riots, but Hai’s brother Cheuk, who lived downstream from Chongjing, said the river flowed pink for thirty minutes after the riots. Just once, Hai would like to see them eat bitterness.
“A New Wife cannot be dishonored through infidelity,” Wei Bong continued. “She is a glorious shining emerald that cannot be dropped in a muddy gutter. A spouse who dishonors a New Wife through disgraceful behavior disgraces China, and will be punished.”
The threat sent a chill through Hai. They would do it, too; they would toss Jian in jail for cheating on their chimera.
“In any case, you’re ruining your chances for children.” Beside Hai, Yo Wen gasped.
There had been whispers of children for New Wife couples. Hai prayed the government was not thinking of unleashing little child video pictures on them as well. More likely they would steal second babies away from parents who broke the one child law, adding a new abomination to their sack of tricks.
When Wei Bong, with his big nose and bigger glasses, finally left, Yo Wen insisted the whole family go to the park—even Ch’an. No doubt an attempt to tighten the family knots that were loosening.
It was a beautiful afternoon; the park was filled with throngs of people bargaining and talking, eating noodles and drinking Coca-Cola on blankets spread in the grass. Vendors grilling meat on spits, sending smoke wafting into the trees; the smoke danced with the blue light from the video screens.
Hai took Yo Wen for a walk. It was time to lay his tiles on the board.
“I admit it, the wedding made sense. Jian had no choices.” They stepped around a fake panda sprawled against a stone lantern like a drunken sailor. Whoever controlled the images was already getting sloppy. “But why do you insist on taking part in this charade? Folding your own eyes, and speaking lies, pretending that you don’t know the truth?”
He half expected Yo Wen to shush him, but after fifty-three years of marriage she knew when it was time to shush and when it was time to talk.
Yo Wen wrapped her arm into his and sighed. “You care about the truth when you have hope that things will change. In China, there is no hope, so it’s best to accept the lies. It allows me peace. A thousand years of meditation won’t bring you peace if you insist on only the truth.”
Hai looked at Yo Wen’s deeply wrinkled face and smiled. Perhaps the last wise man died when he was a boy, but there was still one wise woman.
They walked in silence, arm in arm, enjoying the warm sunlight, the comforting cacophony of the park. Yo Wen stopped at a table to look at hand-painted fans. The woman, who had fat cheeks as red as autumn apples, also sold bootleg movies and Avon products.
“Look,” Yo Wen said, pointing. “Another New Wife.”
She was sitting on a bench with an older woman, her legs crossed, long hair in flowing braids. She was, of course, very beautiful.
Yo Wen introduced herself, and invited the wife and her mother to meet Lin and Jian.
The four of them crossed the grass, Hai lagging slightly behind. Ch’an had gone off, leaving Jian and Lin alone. Lin sat cross legged, the edges of her long white skirt spilling into the grass. Jian had finished almost the entire bottle of wine they’d brought. He was scowling, and swaying slightly.
Hai watched the two New Wives laugh and compliment each other as he would watch a bloody bicycle accident: sickened, and from a distance. They discovered they had both grown up in Shanghai, and perhaps Hai should have known what was coming next.
“My father was an aid to the Ambassador of New Zealand,” the other New Wife said. “But he always dreamed of one thing: returning to his ancestral home of Gui Ling and reopening the traditional family business, an old hotel!”
Yo Wen’s face went white, but she held her smile, although it trembled at the edges. The other mother beamed, obviously proud of her daughter.
“...so when I was eight, my father left the Consulate, packed our whole family in the car and moved us to Gui Ling,” the New Wife continued. Suddenly Yo Wen was clutching Hai’s elbow much too hard. “The hotel was a shambles! None of the plumbing worked...”
Lin clapped delightedly. “What a coincidence! My father was also an aid to the Ambassador of New Zealand! And his family also had a hotel.”
Jian burst out laughing. The other mother gasped, her hand over her mouth. Yo Wen excused herself and hurried away. Hai followed her, struggling to keep up. She stopped behind a copse of trees and burst into tears.
“What have I done?” she sobbed as Hai patted her hand.
“It’s not your fault. We all went along.”
Yo Wen cried harder. Hai wrapped his arms around her shoulders, shushing her gently.
“They must have developed a catalogue of memories that they use over and over to keep costs down,” Hai said, as much to himself as Yo Wen, who seemed beyond listening.
She cried in Hai’s arms for a few moments, then, in true Yo Wen fashion, began to pull herself together. “She’s so stupid. How could she think it was a coincidence?”
“She’s not stupid, she’s a program. A machine. There is no she.”
Yo Wen nodded. Hai was glad they were back on the same side. He led her toward the blanket.
The other New Wife and her mother were nowhere in sight. Ch’an was back, sitting a dozen feet from Jian and Lin. Lin said something sweet and devoted to Jian, who stared at Lin with contempt. She reached out and gestured a tickle under his chin.
“Why don’t you turn yourself off!” Jian shouted, jerking his head away as if she could really touch him. He hurled his cup of wine at her face. It passed through her and splashed in the grass, spraying a blood red stain across the blades.
A woman with a baby on her shoulder gasped, and whispered to her husband.
“Let’s go,” Hai said to Yo Wen. He hurried over to Ch’an and told him to pack everything up. Without a word Ch’an sprung into action.
* * *
Inhale.
What would grandfather think of this beautiful, deadly cancer I’ve let into our family? I should have tried harder to stop the marriage.
Exhale.
Ch’an tapped on his phone. Once this might have angered Hai, but now it didn’t. Ch’an was wearing the pants Hai had bought him, and the shirt, and the tennis shoes with the built-in sound-effects. He even kept Hai updated on his pop rating. It was going lower, despite the new clothes. His classmates referred to Lin as his Video Mother.
Inhale.
We were so close to healing our wounds.
A truck rattled by outside. Through the open window Hai caught a whiff of diesel.
I would kill her if I could. Why not? A chicken on the chopping block suffers more pain than she would. Or a Beetle under a shoe. But she’s indestructible. Bullets, poison, fire, none would harm—
Hai’s eyes snapped open. His heart, slowed to a whisper through meditation, began to thump.
Exhale.
He stood, walked to the back window, stared out at the narrow cobbled street, empty now except for a lone pigeon pecking at pebbles. Sheets and clothes hung drying on lines overhead, waving in the wind like the flags of very strange nations. He thought it through carefully. It could work. And there would be no better time than today, right now. Yo Wen was out, so was Jian. Should he wait, consult with Yo Wen?
In his mind’s eye he saw his grandfather, his jaw pushed forward, his long, narrow eyes cloudless. Hai was the grandfather now. It was up to him to mend what was broken. He should not risk implicating Yo Wen or Jian. But Ch’an...Hai thought Ch’an had something to gain from playing a part.
“Ch’an? Is your phone’s eye on?”
“No. Why?”
“Turn it on, please.”
“Why? Is there an old woman who needs to be helped up some stairs?”
Hai smiled, belying his pounding heart. “Trust me. Turn it on, and get some of your friends watching.”
Ch’an shrugged, tapped faster. Hai wiped his sweating palms across his pants.
He waited a few minutes, then called Lin.
She appeared out of Jian’s room, her hand hovering just above the knob of the open door. “Yes?”
He turned to Ch’an. “Go wait outside. Right outside.” He raised his eyebrows. Ch’an looked confused, but he went outside.
Hai stepped over to the kitchen table. With two fingers he gently tipped the kerosene lamp. Kerosene spilled across table, soaking the edge of the newspaper. A stream dribbled onto the wood floor.
“Oh!” Lin said. “There are rags under the sink. Be careful, the fumes might make you dizzy.”
The stream slowed to a drip-drip-drip. The kerosene puddled around one leg of the table.
“Yes, I must be careful. One spark could start a terrible fire.” He pulled open the kitchen drawer, fished around until he found a box of matches. “My grandfather was burned in a fire. A gasoline fire.”
“Oh, that’s terrible!” Lin never thought of herself, always concerned about others.
He struck the match; a flame popped to life, blue on the bottom, orange at the tip. Hai stared at it, felt its warmth on his thumb.
“Why don’t you sit on the couch?” he said. Lin hesitated, then she sat, smoothed her skirt, put her hands in her lap.
“Stay right here. Do you understand?”
She nodded, eyeing the match clutched in his fingers.
He dropped the match onto the table. The tablecloth exploded in flame; the flame climbed down the table leg, burst across the floor.
* * *
“Father, why did you do that?” Lin asked. She sounded almost hurt.
“It was an accident.” He avoided looking at her.
“Shouldn’t you call the fire department?”
“Yes, I’ll go do that,” Hai said. “You stay right there.”
He slipped on his shoes and calmly walked out of the house, the door snicking closed behind him. He pounded on the door of the Tengs’ apartment, but no one was home in the middle of the afternoon, as he’d expected. He joined Ch’an, who was leaned up against a lightpost on the sidewalk.
“What?” Ch’an said, trying to read his expression. Hai held up a finger. There was already a hint of smoke in the air.
The front window burst outward with a loud pop.
“Oh my,” Hai said. “Our apartment is on fire!” He turned to watch the orange flames dance in and out of the window.
“Oh!” He shouted, holding his palms to his cheeks. “Your mother! She’s trapped in the apartment!” He nudged Ch’an in the arm. “Your mother!”
Ch’an looked at Hai as if he’d lost his mind. Then his eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. You didn’t.” He smiled. Hai nudged him again.
“Mom!” Ch’an shouted. He feigned running toward the door, but not so fast that Hai couldn’t snare the back of his shirt and tug him back.
“Too dangerous!” Hai looked around. People were hurrying from up and down the street, chattering. “Somebody call the police!” he shouted. “My daughter-in-law is trapped inside!”
There were shouts of alarm, and people fumbled in pockets for phones.
“I have a phone,” Ch’an said. He called the police. Hai trusted he’d leave the eye on, so his friends would be able to attest to having a continuous feed of the tragedy, to the fact that Lin was in the house just before the fire started.
A young boy walked up clutching a giant mug, staring wide-eyed at the flames spitting out of the broken windows, the smoke pouring from vents in the roof. His head was a yellow moon capped with thin tufts of black hair. He wore baggy little pants, and a soiled tan vest embroidered with Tweety Bird. Hai brushed the hair on the back of his head, against the grain. The boy looked up at him, smiled, letting his mug tilt. Hai reached down to right the boy’s mug.
The flames leaped up the concrete facing—which was already blackened—toward the sloped roof. The apartment was government-owned, but they would likely lose most of their few possessions. It was a small price. Hai was certain his family would agree.
Wei Bong came running down the sidewalk, still wearing his house shoes.
“Jian’s wife was in the house! His wife is dead!” Hai said, doing his best to look distraught.
“What?” Wei Bong glared at Hai, his eyes narrowed.
“Lin is dead.”
Wei Bong dragged his hand across his mouth, stunned. “No, I think you must be mistaken, I saw her at the market—”
“That’s not possible. My grandson,” Hai waved to Ch’an, who hurried over, “and all of the friends in his phone saw Lin in the house a moment before the fire started. We heard screams...”
Ch’an nodded agreement.
Mrs. Ling from across the street wailed and swooned; Mr. Ling caught her, helped her to a seat on the curb. “Poor girl!” Mrs. Ling said. She was crying. People were always looking for an opportunity to practice New Wife etiquette. A few of the other women squatted to help console her. Here and there in the crowd, people obediently expressed grief, extolled the virtues of poor Lin, tisked at how young she’d been.
* * *
Chien Ru was old, yes, and not very attractive, but she was a good cook, and she had begun to straighten out Jian even though they were not yet married. His back had improved considerably, and Hai was teaching him how to cut hair.
Hai spent his mornings winding through the poorest neighborhoods on his segway, hauling a swivel chair, mirror, and shears, calling “Cut your hair! Cut your hair!” and rubbing the blades of his scissors together with his free hand.
He was cutting another old man’s hair on a sidewalk outside an electronics factory, beside four men playing Ma Jong on an old school desk, when Wei Bong and a plainclothed police detective pulled up in an electric car. He knew the other man was a police detective because he was wearing interrogation glasses—thick-rimmed steel spectacles that could tell if you were lying.
Hai went on cutting; his customer went on staring into the mirror that Hai had hung on the trunk of a tree whose knotted roots were pushing up sidewalk tiles.
“Mr. Hai You?” the detective said.
“That’s right,” Hai said, k
nowing from a television show he’d watched that the interrogation glasses were now calibrating his voice from those words, for comparison purposes. What would they invent next?
“Your apartment burned in a fire two weeks ago, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“My name is inspector Lee. I’m charged with investigating the cause of the fire.”
“I started the fire. I burned down my apartment.”
His customer stared at him in the mirror as if he had just learned he was having his hair cut by a mental patient. Wei Bong grunted, shaking his head and turning to watch the game, but stayed within earshot.
“I respect your honesty in this matter.” Lee bowed his head slightly. “I’m afraid I will have to arrest you as soon as you are finished.”
“You’re arresting me for arson.”
“No, I’m arresting you for murder.”
Hai’s customer stood, reached behind his neck, fumbling with the clip on the orange barber smock.
Hai helped him unclasp it. “No charge,” he said as the man hurried away with half a haircut.
“Murder?” Hai sighed. He looked at inspector Lee. “They never lose, do they?”
Lee shrugged apologetically. “No. I don’t think they do.” He leaned close to Hai, put a hand on his shoulder. “They have to send a message, so others don’t copy you. But you’re an old man. A year at most, I’d say.”
It started to rain; the men playing Ma Jong hurried to put the game away.
“Are you ready?”
“Can I take my belongings home first?”
“Yes, of course, let me help you.” Inspector Lee lifted the chair, set it into the little cart. Quietly, and without looking at Hai, he said “In the break room we laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks.”
Hai smiled. “Thank you. Sometimes a desperate situation requires a desperate solution.”
As Hai pulled away from the curb, he realized that he’d just said something wise. Something simple and true. He was pleased.
Futures Near and Far Page 8
