The 8th Sky_A Psychological Novel With An Unforgettable Twist

by Leigh Lyn

  Dr. Wen’s probe skipped no one. First was my eldest aunt, whose entire class agreed to run away on a particular day in May 1955 and join Mao’s Red Brigade. My grandmother got wind of it and locked her up in a storage room, which changed her fate.

  While her classmates burnt books in the name of uprooting tradition and the bourgeoisie, she married—as tradition prescribed—at sixteen and had three kids within two years. My second aunt also married at sixteen. Her hubby was a medical student from Lowu, a village an hour or two away by foot, which had the misfortune of belonging to China. Fifty years later, Deng Xiao Ping designated Lowu and five of its sister villages as the first special economic zone in his plan for economic reform, renaming it Shenzen. The husband abandoned his studies and spent a few mysterious years as a young Communist. Years about which he never spoke after returning to Hong Kong and, convinced by my grandpa, he boarded a plane to Holland with my second aunt.

  My mother was the third daughter, and the first girl in the family to finish high school. It was she who took care of the younger siblings because she stuck around and held up half the sky, to use Mao’s phrase.

  “You think you have it bad?” she often said. “I had to get up at five in the morning to pump water from the village well, cook breakfast for the workers who tended the fields, and then walk three miles to get to school. After school, I had to take care of five younger siblings, cook them dinner and brew their medicine if they were ill.”

  My mother was referring to the herbal concoctions she was taught to make by my great-grandmother, a Chinese herbal doctor who gained regional fame during her lifetime. Niang brought home the first high-school certificate as a girl. This might not sound much in today’s terms, but she set an example for her three younger sisters, who also finished high school. One would marry, have two children—one autistic and the other a brainy university professor—while the other two sisters became reclusive spinsters.

  All this genealogy interested Dr. Wen a great deal. He drew an accurate diagram showcasing the mental health of my ancestors were it not that the history of my father’s family was a blank. Alas, all I knew was what my mother told me.

  “Don’t ask your dad about his past,” she said. “But when his second brother, the Kuomingtang soldier, fled to Taiwan with the Nationalists, they punished his family. His father couldn’t take it and bit off his own tongue to commit suicide.

  “Your father and his eldest brother walked for days crossing mountains. On the verge of crossing the border, the Communists discovered and shot the brother. Your dad ran, and the guard chasing him either missed or couldn’t make himself shoot a child, but your dad made it. Once in Hong Kong, your father roamed the street for days until a couple took him in. In exchange, he had to help them out with their vegetable stall. At dawn, they would wake him to go to the wholesale-market, stock up, and carry heavy boxes back to their stall to sell. This happened day in and day out until a missionary nun took pity on your dad. She offered him a place in the orphanage where he had a chance to go to school. And that was where we met. I helped him whenever I could and we fell in love.”

  Meanwhile, my grandpa had taken Uncle Hua to Holland and shown him the ropes of the restaurant business once it was apparent that studying was not his forte. Uncle Hua, in turn, helped my father when he wanted to leave. And that was how the fate of my brothers’ and I parted with the fate of Hong Kong.

  Gandhi famously said, one could imprison his body but never his mind. I daresay the reverse was true in my parents’ case. Physically, they might have escaped, but it did not set their minds free.

  Chapter 14

  Come Saturday, I was in the back of a cab and on my way to meet Ben for dinner. A short shower had cleansed the air and left mirrors of water on pavements reflecting swanky shops packed with white collar workers and executives. The excited anticipation of a long night of merriment filled the air. Traffic was slow in the ravine-like streets of Central. Waiting for a red light near Lan Kwai Fong, the popular clubbing district, I suddenly spotted Ben strolling along with a woman on his arm less than six feet away from me.

  Shocked, I watched the two of them. Laughing at something Ben said, the woman threw back her long wavy black hair, revealing charming dimples, bright-red lipstick, and almond eyes.

  I slid down in my seat and told the driver to drive slower.

  He gawked at me in the rearview mirror. “That’s against traffic rules.”

  My eyes were glued to the pair as they strolled along amidst an upbeat crowd. My heart jumped when the car behind us honked. The taxi driver swore as he moved the cab up the road, and I slid further down my seat.

  We had almost caught up with Ben and the woman when the traffic light at the top of the hill changed and cars came to a stop once again. Everything around me faded as I watched him put her into a cab. He gave her a peck on the cheek before handing her the shopping bags he’d been carrying. He waved goodbye before walking up the stepped street. Meanwhile, the light turned green, the traffic started moving, my cab passed Ben and pulled up in front of the gaudy gold façade of the restaurant where we were to meet. I gave the growling cab driver a big tip, put on a nonchalant face, and stepped out onto the pavement.

  “Hi gorgeous,” Ben said. “You’re right on time.”

  “So are you.” I smiled weakly without looking him in the eye. Ben gave me a peck on the cheek. The idea he had kissed another woman minutes earlier did not sit well with me.

  “Are you alright?” He frowned.

  “Yeah.”

  “You seem a little weird.”

  I shrugged.

  “Something’s wrong,” he mumbled, while holding the door open for me.

  I took a deep breath and just said it. “Okay, I saw you.”

  Still frowning, Ben asked the Maître D’ behind the wooden stand for a table for four. She gestured toward the queue which ended at the bottom of a thickly-carpeted staircase.

  “Who?” Ben asked, after we joined the line behind a couple with huge backpacks.

  “You, I saw the two of you.”

  Leaning back, he stared at me. Then his eyes widened. “You saw Cherry.”

  Ben scrambled to explain she’s the wife of a Chinese client, who called him this afternoon to say she was shopping here and ask if he could help. “Are you jealous?” He scrutinized my face, looking amused.

  “Should I be?” I asked, with my chin held high.

  “Don’t be mad, darling, I have to keep good relations with my clients and not rub them the wrong way. I can’t give their wives or mistresses the cold shoulder, you know what I mean?” Ben put his arm around my shoulders.

  “Sure you do.” I shrugged even more nonchalantly than the first time.

  “Don’t you have to put up with these things too in your job?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t have to kiss them.”

  Ben’s narrowed his azure eyes and said with a solemn voice, “That was not a kiss.” He swept me backward and, a hearty smooch later, he let go. “This was a kiss.”

  I couldn’t help being charmed. “Next time, call me and I’ll shop with her. Which business connection is it?”

  “Oh, you know Lao Bo. Remember the project with the sculpture of the twirling giants? It’s the owner of that building.”

  Wide-eyed, I gazed at Ben. “You mean Lao Bo, the CEO of G.Y.?”

  “That’s right. Your client too, isn’t he?”

  “Definitely,” I muttered, still somewhat thrown.

  If Cherry was Lao Bo’s wife, shopping with her might be interesting.

  Ben frowned at my change of mood. “No more questions?”

  “Is she his mistress or his wife?”

  “She’s practically his wife.”

  “I see. Why is she not having dinner with us?”

  “Huh?” Ben raised his brows at the speed with which I’d come around. “She’s busy. I told you we are having dinner with the artists I went to see in Chongqing, didn’t I?”

  “N
ope.”

  “Yes, I did.” Ben gazed at me. “Sam and Yuki. Lao Bo thinks Yuki has it.”

  “Does he?”

  Ben nodded. “I believe so, yes. His installations are fantastic. His friend, Sam—whom Lao Bo discovered a few years earlier—has the winning personality though. Anyway, both have works that are perfect for a show we’re having in New York soon.”

  “Hey, Ben!”

  We both turned. Behind us stood a clean-shaven, young man with a square chin, broad smile, a man bun, and small but bright, sparkling eyes.

  “Hello, Sam, you’ve made it.” A wide smile spread across Ben’s face as he gave him a hug.

  “I wouldn’t want to miss a feast.” Sam laughed a loud contagious belly laugh that filled the air. “So, we’re queuing for a table?”

  He spoke fast, rolling his tongue like a Beijinger.

  “Sign of high demand,” Ben replied. “Where’s Yuxi?”

  “He went back to the hotel a few hours ago. I told him the sludge around those fish balls was off, but he didn’t listen.’”

  “Oh, is he alright?” Ben asked.

  “He’s got a stomach thing. Said he’ll meet us here.”

  Ben pointed at me and was about to introduce me when someone slapped his shoulder from behind.

  “Hello, Yuxi!” Ben exclaimed.

  I turned to see a slight man with long floppy hair, small slanting eyes, and a hesitant smile. He was around the same age as Sam—twenty-five, thirty—but seemed more worn as if he’d been on a long journey and hadn’t had time to have a haircut and buy new clothes. His over-sized jacket, t-shirt, and drawstring trousers were a weathered gray, which could have been white or black in its heyday.

  “This is Lin, Wo-de-nu-ben-you!” Ben pulled me closer and put his arm around me. He’d been learning Putonghua for years and had picked up the habit of amplifying it with body language.

  “We met,” Sam said. “Lemon, right?”

  The hair on my arms perked up. “How do you know my nickname?”

  “You told me. We met at the cocktail party,” he said, with one brow raised. “Don’t you remember?”

  “I have my gaffes, I’m afraid,” I said, as we shuffled up a few steps.

  “My perfect date,” Ben joked, and they laughed.

  Twenty minutes later, we were seated at a corner table in a brightly-lit, low-key dining area. Ben ordered a bottle of Mao-Tai, a Chinese spirit approximating seventy percent alcohol. After pouring everyone a glass, he raised his. “To a good show in New York, guys.”

  We clinked our glasses.

  “What is the title of the show?” I asked.

  “Art and enlightenment,” Yuxi said, “which is a misnomer in my case because my art is about un-lived lives.”

  “What Yuxi means to say is that he’s a little cranky.” Sam laughed. “Tell me, my friend, whose life isn’t subject to the limits society put on it?”

  “Pardon me.” Yuxi’s English wasn’t bad but was notably less confident than Sam’s. “But as a kid, I was not only left to my own devices. I was a cranky non-entity.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “I was too, remember?”

  “Where were your parents?” I asked.

  “My parents were migrant workers without city residency permits.” A distant gaze clouded Yuxi’s eyes. “I couldn’t go to school, so I wandered around. One day, I found a digital video camera in a plastic bag. Brand new and still in its box. That’s how I started making movies.”

  “I think we’re damn lucky we weren’t born earlier.” Sam slouched back and put his hand on his heart. “And that we met Ben.”

  “Oh, I am grateful we met Ben.” Sam’s soft eyes returned from a distant spot to rest on him.

  Ben guffawed. “It is a blessing in disguise, guys. Art—when generated by life’s heart-wrenching experiences—is infused with a humanity that’s hard to come by otherwise. It resonates with all the stuff critics love.”

  “So, what’s the life of an artist in China like these days?” I asked.

  “It’s legit and cool now,” Sam said. “But fifteen years ago, art was a dangerous territory, while fifty years ago artists were severely persecuted.”

  “Not in my case.” Yuxi chuckled. “I’m still expecting a knock on my door in the middle of the night and being led away in cuffs for stealing the camera.”

  Sam chuckled. “Times have changed. Chinese art is in demand everywhere. I suppose the cadres in some villages are decades behind in their thinking, and one has to be careful. But Ben is right about that paper-thin margin within which we are forced to create our art. It’s hard to make it as an artist with integrity in China, but I wouldn’t be the artist I am without my experience.”

  “Wait, about the officials and the stolen camera?” I asked. “Were they really onto you?”

  The three men looked at one another.

  “Well, I told you Lao Bo is a fan of both Sam and Yuxi’s, right?” Ben replied. “So, their big brother pulled strings. Not a lot of people in this part of China dare to say no to Lao Bo.”

  “We’re lucky brother Bo likes us,” Yuxi said. “But underneath the charm and charisma, he’s not a guy to mess with.”

  “He’s helping us, isn’t he?” Sam exclaimed.

  “He is, but it’s not like I have any options. I can’t afford to say no to the prices he’s willing to pay.”

  “We’re going to New York, man! What more do you want?”

  “I am grateful,” Yuxi raised both his hands in the air. “There’s no need to bite my head off.”

  Like a stroke of lightning, I recalled how I had met Sam and Yuxi before. It was on the opening night of some building project. I hadn’t been introduced to Lao Bo at the time but I remembered him. His hair was gelled back, his forehead rippled like a pug’s, a boyish smile and he was surrounded by bodyguards and assistants. I recalled how an elegantly-dressed woman from his group had come over and “borrowed” Ben.

  “Hon!”

  I looked up. “What?”

  The three men were staring at me.

  “Sam just asked you a question,” Ben said.

  Embarrassed, I stuttered, “Sorry, but I just remembered the cocktail party.”

  The men burst out laughing.

  “Cherry was there too, wasn’t she?”

  Ben’s face froze, but a smile entered his eyes. “C’mon, babe, let it go already.”

  Sam put a hand on my arm. “You should come to New York with us. It’ll be fun.”

  Waiters surrounded us, putting dishes on our table the restaurant was famous for: preserved duck eggs, stewed goose in soy, duck tongue in sesame sauce, chicken legs’ tendon in mustard and more. The dining area was bustling. Laughter and excited voices came from a screened-off area.

  “Yes, babe, why don’t you come?” Ben rested his hand on my knee.

  “It’s tempting, but I have work.”

  “I’ll give my pal Peter a call.” Ben shushed my concern with a single wave of his hand. “I’m sure he’s fine with you gone for a day or two.”

  “Don’t ask Peter. I’ll think about it.” I laughed.

  Turning to the two young men, I asked, “Tell me, Yuxi, don’t you get into trouble? I mean, how does one put the five-headed monsters outside the cage to sleep and sneak out to air one’s views?”

  “We don’t air our political views,” Sam answered in Yuxi’s stead, supporting his chin with one hand while the other traced the edge of his wine glass. “Our art is informed by life, and life happens to us. Politics is not something that happens on a remote stage for us to criticize. It happens to us as part of life.”

  “It’s like sleeping on a bed of thorns that will keep you awake till the little hours of the night, every night,” Yuxi added. “Until your skin becomes so calloused and you’re so numb you don’t feel anything anymore. The ones who say ‘fuck it’, get up and turn the mattress into an exhibit are the artists.”

  Ben re-filled Yuxi’s empty glass.

  �
��Drink up, bro, you’ll be more jolly if you drink faster and babble less,” Sam said. “Bottom’s up!”

  Ben too raised his glass. “To good company and New York.”

  Chapter 15

  After dinner, Ben took Sam and Yuxi up a stepped gobbled lane to LinQ, a little club I had visited with colleagues on more than one occasion. The place was crowded when we arrived. The DJ was playing hip-hop, and people were dancing on the small dancefloor. We found a table at the front overlooking the glistening lane onto which the drinking crowd had spilled out.

  While Ben and Sam laughed about some joke a tipsy Yuxi made, I excused myself to go to the ladies. Standing in its long queue, I leaned against a black velvet wall doused in a fuzzy sleepiness and stared at a red plastic Buddha head above a black leather console when a young man came out of the male toilet on the other side of the tiny vestibule, wearing a tie around his head, guerrilla style. My mouth fell open, and I shouted at the top of my voice, “Matt!”

  The beat was too pervasive, and the music too loud for Matt to have heard me, but there was no way I’d let him walk out on me. I grabbed his arm. Startled, he gazed at me, wondering who the forward bird was while I held my breath. His brows rose and his mouth dropped. He said something, but the deafening noise swallowed his words.

  “Come!” I shouted, and I dragged him through the smoky passage bundled with sweaty bodies, past the packed small dancefloor to the front of the bustling club.

  He bent down and bellowed into my ear, “How come you’re here, Lin?”

  I grinned. “Why shouldn’t I be? This is our hangout place, isn’t it?”

  “They said you were ill. I thought you’d disappeared too.”

  “I was ill but I’m back. What about you? Where did you go?”

  “It was getting a little weird. With you gone, the cross rested on me. You know what Roger was like, he kept serving me these...” Matt’s eyes tightened as he searched for the right word “...curveballs.”