I do have an idea why that story comes to mind just now.
Night gathers. The cicada song thickens. Dinner smells erupt from the kitchen. Ling, comfortable among the chickens and piglets, squats with a stick to draw in the dirt. Beer number three arrives, and I study the relaxed face of Farmer Yang, eyes sparkling as he holds court amid his boughs and crumbling walls. I note that the wooden table where we drink is large enough to accommodate a large family. The Chinese ideal is—or was, before Mao—four generations beneath one roof. Even now, the one-child policy is relaxed in the hinterlands where child labor is a necessity. I wonder why the Yangs’ table is not surrounded by family. Halfway through beer number four, I ask. After Phoebe’s timid translation, Yang replies at length.
“He say their son go work Harbin factory,” reports Phoebe. “Their daughter go Shenzhen with husband, look for job, just live in some boat and hide in the trees. So many Jiangxi farmer go Shenzhen like this. Police find his daughter, make her have the—how you say? Not have the children?”
“She was sterilized?”
Phoebe nods. “They do this.”
I gaze across the table at Yang, his face impassive.
The government uses the term floating population for the two hundred million out-of-pocket Chinese seeking something better. They aren’t valued. In the US the homeless are a nuisance, in China a threat. Two hundred million people can bring a government down.
Farmer Yang says something to Phoebe.
“Yang say he always member of Communist Party, but now tell them, ‘I am too old.’ Really he is not want.”
Mrs. Yang appears with course number one.
In very short order, I have demolished my serving of noodles and pork. A peppery chicken dish replaces it. I obliterate that, as well. Next is a fish-head soup, which I slurp down as noisily as possible. The Yangs seem quite pleased at my display. Finally we are served sliced and salted plums from the Yangs’ own orchard. I leave nothing but the chopsticks. In fact, one of them seems to be missing a small section. By the time I fall back in my chair, quite sated, the night is deep and an oil lantern is sputtering on the table. A chorus of crickets has overtaken the cicadas. Mrs. Yang, who has yet to take a seat at the table, let alone utter a word, now stands in the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a cloth and smiling. Her husband, drunk now, slams an empty bottle against the table and leans toward me.
“Yang say,” Phoebe translates, blanching slightly, “he very hate the Party, very hate Mao Zedong. Mao only care about Mao, tell all the people some lies, kill everybody with some bad lies.”
Yang, his eyes intense, seems to have waited quite some time to unload these sentiments. He speaks rapidly, and Phoebe struggles to keep up.
“Yang want tell you,” says Phoebe, “when he is young, go to army, go Korea help fight Americans. He is believe the Party then, think Americans so bad, want kill some Americans. He there for one year, so cold, just miss his family, not see any Americans. This make him very unhappy. He go somewhere alone, take his gun. After three or four days, he see some American soldier beside a river read a book. He kill this man. Nobody know he do this. Nobody is still know it. Only tell you.”
Yang’s face is flushed, but the two eyes remain soft and moist in the lantern light.
“Yang say he cannot sleep after do this,” Phoebe goes on, “cannot eat the food, only feel so bad, so ask Guan Yin make this go away, but nothing work, so he say to Guan Yin, ‘Give me chance help some American.’ He think this cannot happen, wait fifty years, look up and see you on the hill, look like some strange animal. He cannot believe. Still cannot believe.”
The farmer sits back in his chair with a sigh. His eyes close, and he massages them with the backs of his hands. Now he speaks to Phoebe.
“Yang say in the morning he take us to his brother. His brother have a truck, take us Anhui Province, see their uncle. The uncle help us go Beijing.”
Phoebe’s shoulders sag slightly in exhaustion.
Yang pops open a fresh bottle of homebrew and announces a toast.
“Yang say,” reports Phoebe, “no more kill some stranger because somebody is tell you those people so bad.”
Three bottles clink together in the glowing darkness. As I tip my head back, I take in the measureless and moonless sky. Or does it include me? Beloved friends, promise me, wrote Li Bai’s brush on a night something like this one, that we will forever dance, beyond all passion, and meet again far above the Milky Way.
Chapter Fifty
As we hammer across the broad Yangtze River into Anhui Province, Phoebe tells me about the recent sting operation that caught three hundred thousand Anhui civil servants with their hands in the till. But what barrel is without its one or two bad apples?
Phoebe has to lean toward me and shout this news over the horrid blat-blat-blat of the truck engine. But there are worse things than having Phoebe Sternbaum’s face a few centimeters from my own. I lean a little farther into that closeness, luxuriating in the sudden openness of this woman as changeable as a puppy and with much better breath. Even better, we’re lying close beside one another on a bed of straw, Ling curled at our feet. Beneath our canvas tarp, we’re undetectable as we inch our way north, in tow behind what could almost pass for a very old pick-up.
We reach the other side of the antiquated one-lane bridge, and the road becomes an empty patchwork two-lane. Phoebe and I celebrate by throwing aside the tarp that has concealed us throughout the long morning, to revel in a springtime fantasy of pristine air, sky-reflecting rice paddies, and ranked terraces of new wheat and budding yellow-green corn. Our driver, the teenaged grandson of Yang’s brother, whistles to us through the glassless rear window of the truck and hands back snacks prepared for us in the chilly pre-dawn. Leftovers from last night’s feast, they are wrapped in this morning’s griddlecakes.
“Is so good,” sings Phoebe, “this food from countryside. No find this kind of food anywhere. Is like I take you to countryside wedding, you learn so much real Chinese people of countryside always live the hard life but have good life. Why you always so worry, Ju? You see we get Beijing now, everything just good.”
I try to smile. I’m not sure how to accomplish it. My mind is already in Beijing, where Lillian is going through God-knows-what.
Phoebe’s face comes a little closer. “Ju, this so special moment. Look, look everywhere. You see?”
“I see.”
I dreamed again of being back in Memphis. This time I was strolling naked on Beale Street. At least it was early morning. The only people around were street-sweepers, their heads down. I heard my sister’s voice behind me and turned to see her trotting toward me in a jogging suit, her hands closed in little fists. The red chiffon dress was draped across her arm.
“You remembered,” I said appreciatively.
I put on the dress. I’m starting to feel like one of the Chiffons.
“What seems to be the problem,” asked Lil, “with getting me out of that concentration camp? Not that you’ve ever functioned very well on your own. Every day somebody new questions me, and every day it’s someone creepier than before. Where’s Tree?”
“I’m still working on—”
“Find her. And lose that deer-in-the-headlights expression, okay? It doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“Thanks so much for the confidence boost,” I said, adjusting my shoulder strap. “That’s going to come in handy when I take on Beijing single-handed. And I do quite well on my own. You were in Italy for six months, you’ll remember, and I did perfectly fine.”
“Three months,” said Lil, “and you had to be institutionalized.”
“It counts.”
“You get your big ass up here and save me,” said my sister. “Remember me? The one on the right?”
“I remember, Lil.”
“And be careful. Something’s stalking you.”
“Exactly what is stalking me?”
“I don’t know. I think it has to do with that whole catastrop
he thing in Cetus. Find Tree. And get me out of that horrible place.”
“I’m on it.”
The last thing my sister said before jogging away toward First Street was that she and Adrian were taking a little break. “He wants some kind of commitment, and I’m like I don’t know, man. He used to have a Bush sticker on his car. You can see where he tried to get it off.”
Away jogged my sister, her white fists held high. I awoke with a renewed sense of responsibility and a yearning for something / anything slinky.
Now suddenly blat-blat-blat becomes whackle-churf-bluff-thonk, and the truck dies miserably at roadside. I watch Number One Grandson open the hood and stare at the engine as though he’s never seen one before. I try handing him one of my two flip-phones, and he gives it the same stupefied look.
“We could have a problem,” I mutter to Phoebe, returning the phone to my pocket.
Not that we were moving that much faster when we were moving. This truck has two forward gears, and they’re both grannies. We’re still a good three-hour hayride shy of Honorable Uncle, and here we are at roadside with the Barney Fife of emergency automotive repair.
As Barney and Phoebe discuss our options, which don’t appear to be many, Ling squats at the edge of a roadside ditch, singing to herself and stirring the water with a twig. Joining her there, I notice that the water is alive with tadpoles. Ling’s song seems to be for them. If I weren’t so uncomfortably sober, I’d swear the tadpoles were drawing close to her, all but boiling in the water at her little feet. Strange. Even stranger, this doesn’t surprise me.
Phoebe appears beside me. “We walk.”
“We walk where?”
“Just walk,” she says listlessly.
Moments later, Phoebe is leading the four of us toward whatever is next. I hope it turns out to be a Jacuzzi. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the view, meaning Phoebe Sternbaum. I’m already growing nostalgic for our little hayride across the Yangtze, that pouty mouth so close to mine.
Actually I managed to do a little thinking during those morning hours. Maybe it was the clear country air, but during that time a matter previously vague/troubling became troubling/troubling. Having to do with a certain Beijing tourist attraction. The energy surrounding the Temple of Heaven, said Tree, was so overpoweringly twisted that she had nearly succumbed. Curiously, neither Lil nor I had had any trace of trouble with the place. In fact, now that I’m en route to Beijing, I feel practically giddy at the possibility of revisiting that park. I see, in particular, the three ornamented gates leading to the Circular Mound Altar, at its center the Heaven’s Heart Stone.
There’s something very peculiar about that place.
First of all, I never feel giddy. Secondly, if we even need a secondly, recent personal observations point out a growing problem with a certain integer not easily given to tables, chairs, nor the requirements of convenient music, an integer built into the Circular Mound Altar with a zeal bordering on psychosis, an integer that has no place in the Fibonacci sequence yet which does insinuate itself quite nicely between two Fibonacci numbers that may, if Xu knows anything, very succinctly describe this moment in time.
Before I can press on to thirdly, my thoughts are interrupted by the extended hiss of bald tires sledding to a stop. I look up to see a heavy flatbed truck rocking to a halt. Crammed into the cab are four men, each of them staring at me in astonished revulsion.
I glance down to make sure I’m not wearing the dress.
Dozens of other men, until now seated on the flatbed, rise to their feet and scramble to the nearer side to gawk, and the truck tips a little toward us. All the men are wearing the same outfit—white canvas coveralls with bold blue stripes. Convict labor.
Phoebe begins shouting questions to the driver, who doesn’t seem to hear. Like all the others, he’s still staring at me, mouth agape.
“How is everyone?” I shout, flashing two peace signs.
No one answers.
Chapter Fifty-One
The truckload of felons decides they can’t quite go on without us. Seating assignments are reordered, three of the convicts inside the cab clambering onto the roof, leaving spaces for Phoebe, Ling, and myself. Number One Grandson is tossed into the back like a suitcase. The rooftop felons now smile upside-down at us through the windows as the truck barrels north, all the others crowding forward to listen as Phoebe explains our situation, or some version thereof. If these men are stupefied by me, they are slain, slaughtered, and skewered by our Mrs. Sternbaum, whose vanity is rising admirably to the occasion. Ling, seated between the two of us, seems at home. Meanwhile, I try to arrange myself around a steel spring protruding through the seat.
Two things of minor note. First, concerning Chinese convict-labor attire, the stripes run vertically as opposed to horizontally as in the States. Thus a Chinese convict cannot impersonate his American equivalent without lying down. Second, the driver is wearing the very same outfit, meaning these men have no actual supervision.
“They take us almost Xuan Cheng,” Phoebe informs me. “They not have permission ride somebody like us, so we get off outside Xuan Cheng.”
“Tell me something,” I reply. “Why isn’t anybody watching these guys? Couldn’t they all just run away?”
Phoebe is baffled by the question. “Run where? Have no papers, can’t get the apartment, can’t get the job, can’t get nothing. Only somebody catch them, make them so sorry they do this.”
I recognize the logic. Once government has made their ID mandatory for every action and transaction in life, you’re utterly dependent on the pleasure of the state. The next step, as we all know, is to chip everyone. They push a button, your chip goes dead, and so do you.
This program is already underway in the States. Your passport has a chip in it.
I ask Phoebe what she told the driver about us.
“I just say we go visit somebody Hubei, have trouble with the truck. “
I lean closer. “You know, it’s possible these men could help us. Think about it. They may have valuable contacts in Beijing.”
“This whole truck,” replies Phoebe, “is full of people get catch.”
Valid point.
“Excuse me,” says a voice from outside the passenger window.
I turn to see the smiling—sideways—face of a graying bespectacled man. His is one of four faces in that particular window.
“I’m sorry. I overheard your conversation,” he says. “Please be careful what you say to the driver. He will tell the authorities anything he believes they may find useful.”
I stare into the sideways face, struck by the intelligent eyes behind the cracked and scratched horn-rims.
“I am the only one here who speaks English,” continues the convict, “so we can talk privately if you have some kind of problem. Some of these men have relatives nearby.”
The driver barks some Mandarin at the bespectacled man, who answers briefly before telling us, “You should come to the point quickly.”
Phoebe and I exchange a glance, and I turn back to the man. “We need to get to Beijing in a hurry without being noticed.”
“Give me a minute,” he says, disappearing.
The driver makes a sneering comment, and I ask for a translation.
“He say this man is always tell some kind of lie, just make the trouble,” replies Phoebe.
I take a closer look at the driver. He looks like someone who’d have sex with your Chihuahua while you’re in the bathroom brushing your teeth. When he turns to gawk at me, I give him a big grin and a wink. He is delighted. We laugh together like two old drinking buddies, and all the men around us cheer.
I survey the bright, eager faces filling every window of the cab. Aside from the driver, all these men seem quite innocent. Beijing doesn’t divulge their numbers of incarcerated, but estimates run into the millions, probably a third of them political prisoners. All are forced to work. Mortality is high. The US complains about this regularly, to which the Chinese reply quite accu
rately that America leads the world in incarceration, specializing in the dark-skinned and poor.
The bespectacled face reappears. “In Xuan Cheng, look for Taxi 117. It is usually parked outside the museum. Tell the driver that his brother sent you.”
“What museum?” I ask.
“You will see it on this highway.”
Phoebe asks, “And what we can do for you?”
The man laughs in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Don’t waste the time,” she tells him.
The smile vanishes. “Perhaps it would be helpful if my family could hear some word from me. You could tell them that my health is good. You might also tell them”—he laughs to cover his embarrassment—”that I think of them very often.”
“They don’t let you talk to your family?” I ask.
“I am a special category of re-education,” comes the reply. “In thirteen years, I have not been allowed to contact my family or a lawyer.”
Thirteen years, I reflect, is a long time in modern Chinese politics. If he could get the attention of a lawyer, his case might well be reviewed.
The driver speaks sharply.
“I cannot give you my family’s phone number,” he tells us hurriedly, “or it will be overheard. Maybe if you have a pencil or—”
“Why were you arrested?” I interrupt, reaching into my pocket.
He blinks. “Someone gave my name. One of my students, I think. I was a professor at the time of the Tian—the big demonstration. You had to name someone, you see. You are beaten until you do. I named someone also.”
I say to Phoebe, “Turn around and smile at the men.”
She gives me a stare.
“Just do it,” I tell her. “Turn around, knock on the glass, and wave.”
Sighing, Phoebe turns in her seat.
“The other way,” I correct her. “Toward the driver.”
After chilling me with another stare, Phoebe turns toward the driver, brushing slightly against him. The truck almost leaves the road. Now she smiles and waves through the rear glass. All the men cheer wildly.
The Year of the Hydra Page 48
