by Wendy Lee
“Are there a lot of Tibetans here?”
“Yes, and Uighur people—they are Muslim; so are the Hui people. You will recognize the Hui women by the white caps they wear.”
Michael thinks of the hotel clerk’s cryptic comment when he checked in. “Does everyone get along? The minorities, I mean?”
“They are happy here,” Ben replies. “They get preferential treatment in the schools and can have more than one child. There aren’t any difficulties like there is between the black people and the white people in America.”
Michael opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and closes his mouth.
Liao corrects his son. “I have heard before of some difficulties in the far northwest, in Xinjiang Province, where the Uighur people live. But it was not that serious.”
“Not like the problems you have with religion in your America,” Ben adds.
Michael doesn’t bother to clarify that, either.
Ben puts a cassette tape into the player on the dashboard, and some kind of Chinese pop music blares forth, stalling further conversation. Michael looks out the window to where the outskirts of the city give way to fields covered in delicate yellow flowers. The sky turns into a clear blue that has previously only peeked through the smog. However, the mountains look no closer; in fact, they appear to be getting farther away. The illusion makes it seem like they will be traveling forever.
Then the smooth landscape is broken by what appears to be a complex of concrete buildings with towers that rise above the barbed-wire fence at certain intervals. Michael thinks it’s funny how, no matter what country you’re in, an institution that looks like this is easily identifiable as only one thing. Still, he asks, “What is that?” and Ben turns the volume down.
“It is a labor camp,” Liao says matter-of-factly.
“You were in a labor camp once?” Michael says, thinking of the letter and not of the propriety of his question. But once he says it, it remains hanging there like a dark cloud.
Fortunately, Liao does not appear to be offended. “Yes,” he replies. “But it was not this camp. The one I was in was farther south, closer to the monastery. It was shut down because it was too small, and they built this new one in the 1980s. It was after I had been released, so I never got to see it. I am guessing that because it was more modern, it was more comfortable.” Liao laughs a little.
Of course, Michael wants to ask Liao why he was in the camp, and for so long—did he say something political, did he kill someone—but he can’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he just looks at the scenery passing by, thinking the fields have a tinge of desolation despite their bright blooms. He wonders if that is why Liao looks so aged, beyond what he imagines are the general harsh conditions of living in this part of the country.
They are traveling through a valley now, and then, in front of them, rises the monastery. It almost looks like something out of an amusement park; a group of buildings with high slanting walls and colorfully painted eaves. The roof of one appears to be made out of pure gold. Michael can’t help thinking that the curve of the roofs, curled up like the ends of a mustache, look unmistakably Chinese.
The car pulls into a square surrounded by souvenir shops. A bus is parked there, and a group of Chinese people in matching baseball caps stand around a guide who is holding aloft a flag. They appear to belong to the tourist category Ben mentioned before, those from the eastern cities. Michael wonders if they feel this place is as exotic as he does, despite not having traveled out of the country.
When Michael, Liao, and Ben get out of their car, a group of rosy-cheeked children run up to them. Michael can’t help but keep a hand on the wallet in his pocket, in case one of them decides to steal it. They seem to be repeating a word that sounds like English.
“What do they want?” Michael asks.
“Pens,” Ben says. “A lot of foreign tourists give them pens instead of money.” He shoos the children away with a few sharp words in Chinese. “You don’t have to worry about them,” he adds, noticing Michael’s apprehension.
When Michael explains that he was pickpocketed the day before, Liao sighs. “There is a lot more crime in this city now. People come in from the countryside to look for work, and when they cannot find it, they steal.”
“Can’t the government do something about it?”
Liao lifts his hands. “Mei banfa. There is no solution.”
In the monastery, they are able to wander around freely. Ben shows his credentials to anyone who comes up to them, and they are waved through halls hung with thangkas depicting the Buddha and what must be other holy figures. Michael never really paid attention in the one class he took in college on Eastern religions. He does recall the Free Tibet group; how once, a member—a white boy with ratty blond dreads—accosted him as he was walking across the lawn and demanded to know what he thought about China’s human rights violations there, as if he had an opinion simply because of his appearance.
Ben, like a good tour guide, explains the history of the place, how the Yellow Hat sect of Tibetan Buddhism was founded there, something about a legendary tree on the grounds that sprouted from someone’s blood, but Michael only half listens. He watches as the monks, with their gracefully draped maroon robes, walk on by. The older, graying ones wear spectacles; Michael thinks he sees the Dalai Lama everywhere. The younger ones, with their shaven heads, appear boyish and innocent. Some seem to be on their way to classes, with books tucked under their arms. Others are doing ordinary household chores, like sweeping the floor with twig brooms, dusting shrines upon which offerings of money and fruit have been laid. They are not chanting or meditating or doing anything monkish like that. They are behaving, Michael thinks, like ordinary human beings. He watches the monks as they carry on with their lives.
But most of all, Michael watches Liao Weishu. Liao stands a little apart from Ben and Michael, letting the two younger men walk together. His impassive face behind its round glasses reminds Michael a little of a turtle. Liao does not add anything to what Ben says, doesn’t even indicate that he’s listening. He hasn’t asked Michael anything about his father or his family. It’s almost as if he isn’t interested. He nods occasionally to the monks as they pass him.
“Come,” Ben calls. “Here is something I think you’ll enjoy.”
The moment they step into the cool, dark hall, Michael is accosted with a pungent smell, as if milk has been left out in the sun for days. Then, when his eyes adjust to the dim light, he sees before him an intricately carved scene of temples, floating deities, trees and flowers, in all the colors of the rainbow.
“Yak butter,” Ben tells him. “The sculptures are made out of yak butter and then dyed. Do you like it?” He pauses expectantly.
“It’s amazing,” Michael says. “But it doesn’t smell so nice.”
“No,” Liao agrees, wrinkling his nose. “Let us get some fresh air.”
They have lunch at one of the outdoor restaurants in the square at the foot of the monastery. The main choice of meat appears to be mutton, which Liao orders in a dish of chewy but tasty noodles that are shaped like small squares. A man in the back is making them, tearing pieces from a length of dough and flicking them into a boiling pot of water with his thumb, as if he is dealing a deck of cards.
Ben also orders watery Chinese beer, and then, in what Michael secretly suspects is a diabolical move, Liao orders tea that comes with yak butter. The old man puts a hunk of the slimy yellow stuff in a bowl and pours the liquid over it, turning it into something the color of dishwater.
“Try it,” Ben suggests, and Michael thinks he’s in on the prank too. But when he does take a sip, he finds the tea to be salty and strangely satisfying.
“Do you visit the monastery often?” Michael asks Liao.
Liao shakes his head. “I first visited it about thirty years ago, after I was released from the labor camp. You see, a monk here was my good friend. Later, I used to take my wife and son here to visit him.”
Ben says, “I don’t remember him.”
“You were only a baby,” Liao tells him. “My friend is dead now, and I haven’t been back here since. This place looks very different compared to back then.”
“How so?” Michael asks.
“It was not in the renovated form you see today. Everything needed painting and repairs. You also did not have the buses or begging children. That all came with the tourists. But it is still a very holy place. You can feel it when you are here.”
Michael considers what he feels at the moment: the sunshine on his face, a soft breeze. Is that what Liao is talking about? Because otherwise, he feels nothing.
The look on his face must betray him, because Liao chuckles. “If your father had heard me say that, he would not believe me either.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we were growing up, your father was very practical. In school, he wanted to study science, the way things worked. I was more interested in the languages and arts. He used to tease me for being able to speak English, when it could not be of any possible use to me. I have to admit,” Liao continues, “for years your father was right. But things are different now. Look at my son.”
“Yes,” Ben interjects. “Now I depend on English for my job.”
“When did you start learning English?” Michael asks him.
“In small school. In your country, that’s what . . . ?”
“Elementary school?” Michael guesses.
Ben nods. “Of course, I also learned English from my father.” Liao Jr. and Liao Sr. grin at each other.
“Ah,” Liao finally says, waving his son’s praise away. “My English has much to be desired.”
Michael laughs at how archaic Liao’s words sound and stops when he realizes the elderly man is being serious.
“Even your laugh sounds like your father’s when he was young,” Liao remarks.
“What was my father like back then?” Michael tries.
Liao pauses. “He was a good man. He was always a good man. He was just led astray, as many of us were back then.”
Michael figures that if he doesn’t ask now, he never will. “Can you tell me more about my father’s childhood?”
After a long moment, Liao nods and sets down his tea bowl.
The part of Beijing that your father, Han, and I grew up in was called Houhai, meaning the back sea, near the Forbidden City. It was a series of siheyuans, or four-walled compounds; lakes bordered by willows; and winding streets. They said it was where the ancient scholars lived, where they got the inspiration for their poetry. Even when things got bad, during the worst of the famines and the unrest, it was as if time stood still there. In other parts of the city, people had to take apart their furniture, even tear down the frames of their doors, to use as kindling in the winter to stay warm. But not us. We were untouched.
My family lived next door to Han’s; maybe many years ago we were related. All the children played with one another and blended in, until you couldn’t tell which family they belonged to. Han and I were both the youngest sons in our families, he of four siblings and I of five. Together, we faced down our older brothers, who were always beating up on us, and our older sisters, who were always scolding us for something we had done by accident, like muddying up the floors they had just cleaned. Whenever that happened, they blamed both of us equally, and we received the same amount of scolding and the same number of smacks. They called us two jumping beans, both halves of the same chestnut.
We did not look the same, though. Han had an open, inviting face and a mobile mouth that easily laughed. I was quieter, spoke less, and had ears that stuck out. Han was also taller and bigger than I was, and when he outgrew a jacket or a pair of dungarees, his mother would give them to my mother for me to wear. We all did this, so that by the time the clothes were passed down from the oldest to the youngest child, they were in disrepair. Han always tried to outgrow his clothes faster, so that they would be in better condition for me to wear.
We were the same age and in the same class at school, with me always sitting in the seat behind Han. I have to admit that Han was better at his schoolwork. He was quicker witted and always seemed to know what the teachers wanted to hear. At the same time, he could mock the teachers behind their backs, and they would never catch him. When we were ten years old, I made a special enemy of our history teacher, Teacher Mu. She was a spinster and looked about fifty years old, even though we all knew she must’ve been around thirty. But although she seemed ancient, she was strong. She would beat students with a paddle if they did not answer questions correctly or spoke out of turn. Other teachers used corporal punishment as well, but they were usually men. Somehow, being beaten by a female teacher was more of an insult.
One day, Teacher Mu was giving a lesson on the history of sanitation. According to the textbook, in 1952, Mao Zedong launched a patriotic sanitary campaign against the bacteriological warfare of the United States. People’s homes were checked by a special sanitation committee to make sure they were adequately clean. Patriotic citizens had good hygiene, and they learned to brush their teeth twice a day and to wash their hands before meals and after using the toilet. Teacher Mu made it sound like before the 1950s, no one did this.
To show the importance of sanitation, Liu Shaoqi, who later became chairman and then was denounced as a traitor, paid a visit to a city in the interior of the country. He greeted people from all walks of life, from the mayor to the night soil collector. You know what night soil is, right? It’s what’s taken from the outhouses after people are done doing their business. The night soil collector puts it in a cart and dumps it outside of the city in the fields, where it is used as fertilizer. Then the vegetables that are grown in the fields are taken back into the city to be sold. That’s why it’s important to wash your vegetables carefully before you cook them. Collecting night soil is still done all over China today.
Anyhow, as the story goes, Liu Shaoqi walks up to the night soil collector and commends him for doing such an important job. He says that the lower and dirtier the work, the more patriotic a citizen is for doing it. Then he shakes the night soil collector’s hand.
“I hope the night soil collector washed his hands first,” Han whispered to me.
Without thinking, I laughed out loud. It might as well have been a clap of thunder for the way it rang out in the classroom.
Teacher Mu fixed her stern gaze on me. “Master Liao, what is so funny?” she demanded.
“N-nothing,” I said.
“If you don’t tell me what you were laughing at, you will stay after class.”
I nodded, my head hanging down in defeat. We all knew what staying after class meant. With other teachers, you had to wash the blackboard or clap erasers. With Teacher Mu, it meant that she would get out her paddle, tell you to bend over, and let you have it.
When I looked over my shoulder, I saw that Han’s face had gone pale. He had not meant to get me in trouble. But it was my fault—I didn’t have to laugh at what he said. If I had told Teacher Mu what I was laughing at, she would have made him stay after class too. If he had spoken up and taken the blame for what had happened, she would have still punished me for being the one who laughed. There was no point in both of us being punished.
After class, Han hung around until Teacher Mu told him to leave unless he wanted a beating, too. I knew he would stand just outside the door, waiting until the ordeal was over. Knowing he was so close made me feel that I could better endure what was going to happen. Teacher Mu told me to pull down my pants and lean over my desk. Then she thwacked me twenty-five times with her paddle. At least Han told me it was twenty-five; after the first few I stopped counting. Those blows stung, but then it seemed that I got used to it and didn’t feel anything. I knew the real pain would come later.
Han told me that when he was hiding outside the classroom door, every time he heard the paddle come down, he pinched himself on his arm. That’s how he knew how many times I had been struck. In
deed, he later showed me the red welts that ran down his left arm, from his shoulder to his wrist. They were like miniatures of the welts that had now started to rise on my own skin. That was also the only apology he ever gave me for the part he had played in my punishment. He never said he was sorry. Maybe he didn’t think words would be strong enough.
After I came out of the classroom, Han helped me walk home from school.
“Is it that bad?” he asked.
“No,” I said, but I had to clench my teeth not to cry. It wasn’t because my bottom hurt, but because, infinitely more shameful, I had wet myself.
When we got home, Han helped me change and snuck my soiled pants to his house. Perhaps he just threw the pants away, as they were likely ones I had inherited from him, anyway. After that, our relationship went back to the way it had been before, usually me getting into trouble for something that Han had instigated. But we were children then, and children do not think about the consequences of their actions. Besides, I had my chance to get revenge on Teacher Mu six years later, when our positions of power had changed. Until then, all I had thought was that someday, when I became a teacher, I would be much better and more understanding than that miserable Teacher Mu.
Even though our families lived next door to one another, Han’s father and my father couldn’t be more different. My father worked at an iron-smelting factory on the outskirts of Beijing, leaving home early in the morning and coming back late at night, his face blackened by the end of the day. He wanted something better for me and hoped that I would become a teacher, even though I was not particularly good at my schoolwork. Han’s father owned a shop that traded some foreign goods, like cigarettes and face powder and even some books in English. There was also something that set him apart from the other fathers in the neighborhood: religion. I didn’t understand what that meant until I was a teenager.
