A Map of Betrayal: A Novel

by Ha Jin

  Before the trip, Gary had thought about writing to his family and asking Bingwen to mail his letter in China, but now he quashed the notion, certain that such a letter would never be delivered. He was not allowed to communicate directly with his family back home. In addition, he’d feel uncomfortable letting others read what he wrote to his wife. Since his salary went to Yufeng every month, she and their children should be able to live decently.

  He hadn’t shown much emotion when Bingwen told him about his parents’ deaths, but once back in the hotel room alone, Gary felt the waves of grief surging in him, paralyzing his will to do anything. He lay on the bed and wept from time to time, immersed in the memories of his parents. As a teenager, his father had gone to Siberia with a gang of villagers to seek his fortune. They’d ended up in Vladivostok, where by luck he was hired by an old Chinese couple who owned a small emporium. Literate and quick, he soon could manage the business on his own, and the childless couple loved him so much that they adopted him as a son. Three years later they both caught typhoid and died after bequeathing to him everything they owned. He sold the shop, returned to his home village, and bought four acres of good cropland. The next year he built his house of five rooms, which boasted a ceramic-tiled roof, and he married a girl from a well-to-do family. The bride wasn’t pretty but had finished elementary school, which was rare among girls at the time. The young couple planned to raise a big family, but somehow they could have only one child.

  Gary would say that his parents had lived a decent life, though the old man had always toiled in the fields alongside his hired hands. His father and mother were so overjoyed when he had passed the entrance exams and enrolled at a top university in Beijing that they went to a lakeside temple to burn incense and donate twenty silver dollars to the local god, who had once been a chieftain of bandits but always protected the common people. It was in Gary’s junior year at Tsinghua University that his parents chose Yufeng for him. They believed that the girl, amiable and healthy, could bring good fortune to the household. Out of filial duty Gary went back to see his bride-to-be, who, to his delight, was lovely and well mannered, so he agreed to the engagement. Now, lying in the hotel bed and breathing the moldy air, he was tormented by grief and anger, seething at his superiors, who had kept him from his family. He was sure that his wife had been a conscientious daughter-in-law to his parents. If only he could have seen his mom and dad before they died. The sorrow yanked at his heart again and again, and for two days he didn’t step out of the hotel.

  Summer vacation at the teachers college would not begin until early July, but because my classes were over, the final exam and papers all graded, I could head home in mid-June. Knowing that my nephew, Benning, was in the States, I was eager to go back and see him. I also missed home and my husband.

  I found that Henry, though sixty-one, appeared younger than when I’d left half a year ago. I joked that he might live to be a hundred if I stayed away from him. He said, “That I don’t know, but for sure you’ll outlive me.” His was a family of longevity. His father had died at ninety-four, and two months prior to his death, the old man had still taken evening walks in the state forest south of his house. His mother, eighty-nine now, refused to go to a senior home and was able to care for herself. Most of their relatives, the Cohens, were in Europe, and some had migrated to Israel. Henry often said I sucked his energy, probably because he felt tired easily when I was around. In contrast, living with him, sharing the bed and the dining table, I always got refreshed. This may be a matter of chemistry. In my early thirties I’d had a brief but intense affair with a Chinese man, who I felt drained my energy whenever I spent time with him. He was a decent fellow and might have loved me. But because of the insurmountable obstacles—he’d have had to give up his career, his Party membership, his wife and son to marry me—we parted ways. I won’t say I loved him, but the affair left a deep wound in me. Yet bit by bit I managed to push him out of my mind, and I was healed. Even when I was last in Beijing, I hadn’t looked him up, but every once in a while my memory of him still crinkled the placid surface of my contentment.

  Henry was delighted to see me back, following me from room to room so we could talk without letup. Though half Jewish, he looked a bit Mongolian, with heavy eyelids on his oval face, and wore his hair in a mullet. He had on a T-shirt and jeans, which set off his long limbs and little paunch. He had attended Northwestern Law School but had quit after a year because by then he no longer wanted to be a lawyer. Unlike his two siblings, a financial planner and an editor at The Wall Street Journal, he enjoyed working with his hands and was good at fixing things. We rarely hired others for the landscaping and maintenance of the building. He was as capable as any professional. Moreover, maintaining the property helped keep him in shape. We were a good team for the work—I handled the bills and kept the books.

  We went to Seven Seas for dim sum the day after my return. Ironically, those Cantonese appetizers were what I had missed most in China, where food was more diverse and often better prepared, but ever since my student Minmin told me about the antibiotics and pesticides overused in food production there, I had grown more apprehensive and avoided dining out as much as possible. Whenever I saw giant pears for sale, each weighing over a pound, I’d feel uneasy. Later I discovered that many powerful and wealthy Chinese had their own food supplies that came direct from restricted gardens and farms. Some officials even had hills sealed off so that they could grow tea unaffected by insecticides and have it harvested manually. There were also organic grocery stores throughout the country serving only senior officers and officials. Henry and I sat in a booth, enjoying the meal at leisure. When I mentioned I had a nephew in Massachusetts, his eyes brightened.

  “Take it easy,” I told Henry. “Benning is not a kid, he’s twenty-six.”

  “That’s a kid to me. Why didn’t you tell me he’s in the States?”

  “He just told me, and I haven’t figured him out yet. Let’s try to get to know him step by step, okay?”

  “Sure, no need to rush.”

  “It’s so good to be back and make a pig of myself again.”

  Despite saying that, I hardly ever overate. In my childhood my mother would weigh me every week, saying that if a girl’s figure was gone, she’d lose her prospects. She allowed me to eat ice cream once a week, but I could have cookies more often, perhaps because she got them at a discount. I don’t know why she thought weight might be a problem for me; neither she nor my father was on the heavy side. At present I was five foot eight and 132 pounds. Of course, after a hearty meal of dim sum, that would be a different story—I’d be pushing 135.

  That evening I phoned Benning. He sounded cheerful, calling me Aunt time and again. That pleased me. His sister Juli must have assured him that I was not an impostor but a real aunt of theirs. Still, when I said I’d like to come and see him, he paused, his breathing audible. Then he said, “By all means, I’d love to meet you in person, Aunt Lilian.” He gave me his address and the directions, which were unnecessary because I knew Boston well.

  I loved riding the train between DC and Boston, especially when the ocean came into view in Connecticut and when I saw swans cruising in lakes, most times in pairs. Even Baltimore could appear beautiful after snow, like an abandoned battleground swathed in white serenity. In China, whenever people asked me what the biggest difference was between their country and the United States, I’d tell them that America had a different landscape—simply put, the land is more suitable for human habitation and more abundant in natural resources. They might not have believed me, but I said the truth. Chinese land by comparison seemed overused and exhausted. I suggested they take the Greyhound across North America if they came to visit this continent. Then they might see how much China could benefit from keeping a good relationship with the United States and Canada, considering both countries’ vast natural resources and plentiful agricultural products.

  Benning was standing outside when I emerged from the subway station at Q
uincy Center. He beamed, as if we’d met before (in a way we had—we’d exchanged photos via email). He came up and took over my small suitcase, saying, “Welcome, Aunt Lilian.” I was struck by his resemblance to my father, the same kind of elongated smiling eyes, wide nose, round cheeks, and strong jaw. His legs were slightly bandy too, making him walk with splayed feet like his grandfather. He looked five foot nine, a bit shorter than Gary. He must have come directly from work, a brown leather briefcase hanging over his shoulder from two hooked fingers of his other hand.

  He told me he had dropped “ning” in his first name, so I should call him just Ben. He lived by himself in an apartment building six or seven minutes’ walk from the train station. His unit had four rooms, and he insisted that I stay with him when I mentioned I wouldn’t mind spending the night in a motel. After I washed up and sat down in his living room, he said, “Aunt Lilian, for dinner, should we go out or eat in here? I can cook or order takeout.”

  “Let’s go out. I did graduate work at BU. I want to see what Quincy’s like now.”

  It was a cool day for late June, a steady breeze blowing from the northeast. My skin could feel the ocean as we ambled along Hancock Street toward downtown. The city had changed quite a bit—there were more Asian faces now. A few shop signs even displayed Chinese characters beside the English words. Small wonder I was told that Quincy was becoming Boston’s second Chinatown, but that seemed unlikely, because it was a city, sprawling in every direction and with four subway stations, and the Asian population was scattered everywhere, without a center. At most, some Chinese immigrants and expats might be settling in pockets of this big town. Ben and I decided to enter a restaurant that specialized in Taiwanese cuisine.

  While waiting for our order, he told me about his life here. He’d been in the Boston area for a year and a half and had just gotten a green card, but he traveled a lot, going to Asia and Europe eight or nine times a year. “I might not be able to live here for long,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked. “Don’t you like it here?”

  “Love it. But my business is a branch of a state-owned company. I might get transferred anytime.”

  He turned to speak Cantonese to a moonfaced waitress, who had greeted him in a friendly manner. I was impressed by his fluency in the dialect, and when the woman moved away, I asked him how he knew the language. “I lived in Guangzhou for a while” was his answer. I remembered that my father had complained in his diary that he couldn’t make head or tail of Cantonese when he visited Hong Kong. Once he observed, “They seem to call everyone a devil.”

  Ben wanted to know how his parents and siblings were doing. I assured him that they were well but anxious to know what he was up to. While talking, I couldn’t help wondering how much he knew about my father. I hadn’t mentioned Gary to him yet, unable to bring myself to give him too much all at once. Our order came—he had steamed chow mein and I fish congee. We shared two dishes, sautéed green beans and orange chicken. I enjoyed such a simple, good meal and was glad to see that Ben wasn’t eating like a glutton. He said what he disliked most in China were banquets, which tended to be too wasteful. Indeed, I had noticed that some Chinese, particularly the nouveaux riches, identified lavishness and swank luxury with a high-quality life. Many young women wouldn’t hesitate to blow a whole month’s wages for a brand-name bag, a Louis Vuitton or Gucci or Kate Spade. They cared too much about appearances and price tags. I was often bemused by the way my young colleagues in Beijing spent money—“like running a tap,” in their own words. Given the pragmatic nature of the Chinese, they should have been more practical.

  Ben went on to say about banquets, “After three or four dishes you can hardly taste any difference in what follows. What’s the point of eating course after course? It’s just wasteful. I knew people who were nicknamed different types of gluttons, like Great Eater, Expert Eater, and Indiscriminate Eater. Without exception they were proud of their nicknames. A genuine Chinese reform must start with the dining table.” Ben laughed, and so did I.

  “The eating culture there bothered me too,” I admitted. “At some sumptuous dinners in Beijing I couldn’t stop wondering whose money we were spending. I once spoke with an official seated next to me at a table, and he said he would dine out five or six evenings a week. It was his job to accompany his bureau’s guests.”

  “And the taxpayers would foot the bills, of course,” Ben said.

  “So dining reform is a serious business, like political reform?”

  “Number one priority to me, because most people, regardless of their ideologies, will support such a concrete change.”

  When we were done with dinner, I waved for the check, but Ben was adamant about picking up the tab, saying I was his guest. I let him. He also asked for a doggie bag, which I appreciated. (Many Chinese, ostentatiously lavish, wouldn’t bother about leftovers at restaurants. The truth is that poverty and extravagance often go hand in hand.) Together Ben and I headed back to his apartment.

  Over tea, I shared with him some photos of my father. One of them showed Gary hosing down his Buick Century. “So he had a luxury car,” Ben said, the corners of his mouth tilting up a little.

  “He always drove a Buick.”

  “I love American cars too, roomy, sturdy, and powerful. I have a Mustang.”

  “A gas guzzler, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Most Chinese expats and immigrants would have a Toyota Corolla or Hyundai Elantra for a first car; Ben seemed to have unusual taste. In another photo Gary was blowing at the conical flames of candles planted on a cake, the smile on his face crinkling the corners of his eyes. Nellie and I were standing by, clapping our hands while singing “Happy Birthday.” Ben put down the picture and breathed a small sigh.

  I took a sip of high mountain tea (one of my favorite Taiwanese teas), amused that we were still using handleless cups like those in a Chinese restaurant. “You look sad,” I told Ben.

  “Your mother had blond hair and blue eyes.”

  “Her eyes were gray actually.”

  “She was blond.”

  “She and your grandfather made a handsome couple, in some people’s opinion. His American name is Gary, by the way.”

  “I used to think he had lived a miserable life here, if not in destitution, and he sacrificed himself for our country.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, unable to grasp what Ben meant. I managed to say, “He loved China of course.”

  “Like him, I’ve been working hard for my country.”

  “I hope you’re not a spy, though,” I said. He laughed.

  Gradually our conversation shifted to patriotism, which seemed to have possessed some young Chinese, who often claimed they wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice themselves for their motherland. They insisted that their love for the country was unconditional, and many of them were proud of being nationalists. Ben and I couldn’t see eye to eye on this issue. I told him that I loved America, but not more than I loved my husband. I believe that a country is not a temple but a mansion built by the citizens so they can have shelter and protection in it. Such a construction can be repaired, renovated, altered, and even overhauled if necessary. If the house isn’t suitable for you, you should be entitled to look for shelter elsewhere. Such freedom of migration will make the government responsible for keeping the house safe and more habitable for its citizens. I went on to say, “It’s unreasonable to deify a country and it’s insane to let it lord over you. We must ask this question: On what basis should a country be raised above the citizens who created it? History has proved that a country can get crazier and more vicious than an average person.”

  My argument caught Ben by surprise. He muttered, “Still, I love China unconditionally.”

  “What if you have joined the church?” I asked. “A good Christian must never place his country above God. According to Christianity, God created humans first, so a human being is more sacred and must come before a country.”

  Ben
stared at me. I went on, “See, patriotism has become a religion to you. That’s dangerous. Now, come to think of it—what if your country has betrayed you or violated some basic principles of humanity? Will you still love it unconditionally?” Seeing him wordless, I added, “Loyalty must be sustained by mutual trust. It’s a two-way street. To be honest, many Chinese are ardent patriots because their existence depends on the state. As a result, they cannot envision an existence outside their country, and to them, nothing can be bigger and higher than China, which is actually a historical construct. Two centuries ago if you asked the ordinary Chinese about their nationality, they’d go blank, because they didn’t even have the concept of citizenship. China has never been a fixed entity, and its borders have changed constantly. So have its ethnic groups.”

  “You’re American while I’m Chinese,” Ben said, his upper lip curled a little as if my remarks irritated him.

  “Don’t let nationality stand between us. We are family,” I responded, flinging up my hand and then scratching my temple.

  He grinned. “Sure we are. I’ll always have you as my aunt.”

  I realized Ben might be ignorant of China’s treatment of his grandfather. Reluctant to share the whole story with him at the moment, I said, “Ben, I want you to remember this caveat: ‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’ ”

  “Is that from a philosopher or a sage?”

  “Socrates. Please be aware of the forces around you and assess yourself constantly. Your grandfather was an intelligent man, but he didn’t examine his life carefully and lived blind as a result.”

  “Okay, I will remember,” Ben said offhandedly.