by Li, Veronica
Patrick was once very sick too. He was thirteen when he got his first asthma attack. To observe him at close range, I moved him to my bed. In the middle of the night the wheezing got so bad that the whole bed shook. I took him to Peter Fok and demanded a cure. Peter gave Patrick a shot a day until the wheezing disappeared.
In the course of the treatment, Patrick discovered a little protrusion on his chest. Worried that it was a tumor, I mentioned it to the doctor. Peter told me not to worry. The swelling was a sign of puberty. Girls aren’t the only ones who grow breasts, he said. Boys have their bit of development in that part of the body too. He then took out his medical books to illustrate his point. Page after page of nipples and mammary glands of all shapes and sizes appeared before me. I dared not look at them and yet I had to because the doctor was giving me the explanation I’d asked for. To him it was just science, but to me it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.
Chris, the baby, suffered from allergies of all sorts. Her skin was particularly sensitive and prone to rashes. The doctor recommended a variety of lotions and powder, which seemed to help some. I also made a pair of cotton mittens and tied them over Chris’s hands so she wouldn’t scratch herself raw.
As a result of her allergies, Chris was an irritable baby. We all tried to be considerate of her when she got upset. When she was tired, she would cry, "I want to go to bed!" Number Five would pick her up and carry her to the crib. The moment her feet touched the mattress she would cry, "I don’t want to go to bed!" Number Five would pick her up, and then it would start all over again. Back and forth, she would turn Number Five round and round.
While Mother was visiting in the summer, Chris threw her usual tantrum. "I want to go to bed!" "I don’t want to go to bed!" Mother, who had never allowed such nonsense from her own children, rolled up a newspaper and put a match to it. I tried to explain to her about Chris’s allergies, but a stinging glare from her shut me up. She approached Chris, who was thrashing in Number Five’s arms. Holding the fire close to Chris’s bare feet, she said, "If you don’t shut up, I’m going to burn your feet." Chris froze; her tears froze. Whatever allergies she had were cured at once.
How I wished my children would grow up quickly. But after they grew up and left home, how I wished they were small again.
3
Living in Hong Kong was similar to living in a disaster-prone area. We shared the same precarious existence as communities residing at the foot of an active volcano or on the banks of a flood-prone river. The risks were great, but greater still were the benefits that attracted people there in the first place. To snatch the handfuls of prosperity between the ruins of catastrophe was all we asked for.
The threat we faced was our history. The Crown Colony of Hong Kong hadn’t evolved in one day, but over half a century. It was a three-bite process, in which the British tore off more and more of the Chinese pork until they were satisfied. The first nibble was Hong KongIsland, which Britain annexed after trouncing the Chinese navy in the First Opium War in 1842. The second was KowloonPeninsula and StonecuttersIsland, acquired in 1860 after the Second Opium War. The third was the NewTerritories, which was no longer a nibble but a large morsel chewed off the mainland in 1898. Citing defense purposes, Britain forced China to lease to it the area north of Kowloon. The term was 99 years, making 1997 the year of expiration. When the NewTerritories went back to China, so would Hong Kong and Kowloon. The three parts formed a three-legged stool. One missing limb meant the collapse of the whole.
1997 was thirty-some years away, but for those of us who lived in Hong Kong, 1997 was only a day away. Politics is as unpredictable as a volcano. The subterranean pressure building in the Chinese Communist Party could erupt any time. We held little illusion that the British government could save us. Our only hope was in ourselves: that somehow we would live up to our reputation of being the most resilient people in the world.
In the meantime, we wrung every drop out of life. We pushed our children to expand their ability so that no disaster would daunt them. We worked long hours, days, and weeks. Whenever we had time off, we gathered to create so much noise and excitement that we forgot the inescapable upheaval that awaited us. Restaurants, theaters, marketplaces, and beaches were always bustling. We felt safe huddled together, talking, laughing, and turning our radios up to their highest volume. On Saturday nights, entire buildings shook from the thunderous clatter of mahjong. Scrambling the tiles, we also scrambled away our worries. Life between disasters was good.
Eight years sailed by in this euphoric lull. My home at La Salle Rd. was the best I’d ever had. My children quickly put down roots and were growing up secure and happy. Their laughter echoed through the rambling apartment, mingled with a few tears now and then. My husband, despite his nasty temper, brought home a steady income. Eight years in one job was a record for him. In all his previous posts, he’d quit after a fight with his boss. In Southeast Asia Trading, he was the boss.
In the ninth year, however, Uncle Ben began to itch for changes. Love for risk and adventure ran in his entrepreneurial veins. The rice trade was too tame for him, and he wanted to diversify into shipping. When Hok-Ching heard about it, he got so anxious that he collapsed. He was in the bathroom when he cried out. I ran in to find him doubled over in pain. I called emergency at once. An ambulance came and carried him out in a stretcher. The children stood by, weeping and asking whether their father were dead. At the hospital the doctors diagnosed his illness as a bleeding ulcer. While he was recuperating, Uncle Ben came to babysit the company. The moment he stepped off the plane, he said to me, "Hok-Ching is going to be all right. I’ve decided not to go into shipping."
Hok-Ching recovered, and Uncle Ben returned to Thailand. I thought life was back to normal, but an urgent cable from Uncle Ben portended more rough weather ahead. He wanted Hok-Ching to transmit to Thailand the proceeds for the consignment of rice that had just arrived. It was an extraordinary request, for the auction wasn’t due for several days. Nonetheless, Hok-Ching felt obliged to comply, which he did by digging into the company’s reserves. He didn’t think much of it at first, as the money would soon be recouped. However, as soon as the rice was sold, Uncle Ben sent him another request for remittance. This happened not only once or twice, but routinely. Thus for each shipment of rice, the Hong Kong branch had to pay the mother company twice. Hok-Ching got so worried that he started popping antacids again.
I didn’t dare ask Uncle the reason for this new practice. But as I observed his comings and goings, I got some inkling. Uncle Ben was restless, and when a man is restless, he can either channel his energy into ambitious goals or decadent desires. He’d always been fond of women, but in recent years he’d allowed them to cloud his judgment. On one of his visits, he was reckless enough to bring a call girl to stay at my home. She was Shanghainese, quite pretty, and had a thick, wild mane of hair. Judging from her stylish cheongsams and the diamond rings on her fingers, Uncle Ben must have raided the company’s coffers for her. Number Five came out of cleaning their bedroom shaking her head with disgust. Instead of sleeping on the twin beds on each side of the guestroom, the two had crammed into one bed. The blankets and sheets were scrambled into a big bundle. It had taken Number Five some doing to disentangle the mess. In all her life she’d never witnessed such a shameful act. I thought it was funny that she should be so incensed, yet at the same time I too was offended that my uncle should entertain a woman of ill repute in my home.
For once Hok-Ching’s fear was well founded. Southeast Asia Trading was in the red and was relying on the Hong Kong branch to bail it out. Hok-Ching panicked. As always, whenever the sun got too hot for comfort, he ran to the shelter of the big tree: his father.
Baba had done very well since he returned to the Chiang Kai-Shek fold. After taking up various government posts, he’d once again ascended to the position of Deputy Prime Minister, the highest possible for a nonKuomintang person. As usual, he had a following of admirers. One of them was a wea
lthy businessman who worshipped him as if he were some kind of national treasure. This man was in the process of establishing a flour mill. When he heard that Hok-Ching was considering moving to Taiwan, he offered him a managerial position in the new company. All the plans for the mill had been completed. The only item missing was the government’s approval, and the owner didn’t foresee any problem. Well, of course he didn’t. He thought that the moment the Deputy Prime Minister’s son stepped on board, the permit would be issued the next day.
For three months I fought my husband. We were comfortably settled in Hong Kong. The children were enrolled in the finest schools, and even Patrick’s studies were chugging along on the track I’d laid for him. Even if Southeast Asia Trading were to fold, there had to be other solutions than uprooting the family. Both Hok-Ching and I were educated and experienced, and we already had a financial base on which to build. Many people with fewer advantages could make it on their own. Why couldn’t we?
My biggest objection was over the children’s education. They’d been going to missionary schools where the instruction was mainly in English, whereas in Taiwan instruction was completely in Chinese—Mandarin, at that. Raised in Hong Kong, my children spoke Cantonese. How were they going to adapt? The worst headache was Patrick. He was fifteen going on sixteen, the draft age in Taiwan. Immediately upon arrival, he would be thrown in the army for a year. From what I’d heard, the teenage sons of affluent families had all gone overseas to study. Yet here we were, thinking of delivering our son like a lamb into the tiger’s mouth.
But nothing deterred Hok-Ching. He flew by himself to Taiwan. While there, he sent a letter of resignation to Uncle Ben. I was still holding out, reporting to work at Southeast Asia Trading every day. If need be, we would keep separate homes, and we wouldn’t be the first couple to do so. Then a letter came from Baba. This was the first time he’d written solely to me. His flowery opening about the prosperity of the motherland and the privilege of returning to her embrace left me dry-eyed, but when he appealed to my loyalty to my husband, I was moved. His insight cut straight to my core: without my support, Hok-Ching would destroy himself. Baba didn’t have to say much to convince me. Ever since I married this man, I’d acted as his personal firefighter. He lights a fire, I put it out. He lights another, I put it out again. If I didn’t run to him once more, he would surely burn. My efforts of the last sixteen years would be for nothing.
The decision was the toughest I’d ever faced. The choice was between my husband and my son. If I moved to Taiwan, I could save one but ruin the other. The quandary consumed me for days. At a lunch with friends, one of them came up with a suggestion. This was Dr. Huang, a physician and a gregarious man whom I’d known since Chengtu. "Why don’t you go with your children except Patrick?" he said. "He can stay with us in Hong Kong. I have three girls around his age. They’ll be good company for each other." His wife nodded, her small, rounded features exuding kindness and tolerance. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never seen her frown.
I went home and thought about it. Patrick would be entering Form Four, just one year before the standardized tests. If he passed that hurdle, he would be eligible to compete for a place in university. This was a crucial time for him. I had shed blood and tears to get him to where he was. Over my dead body would I let the army or anyone disrupt his education. After mulling it over many times, each time erupting in tears over the thought of abandoning my child, I accepted Dr. Huang’s offer. My only consolation was that I was abandoning him to a good home. Thus, with a heavy heart I left Patrick behind and flew with my four other children to Taipei. It was the summer of 1963.
TAPE TEN
JOURNEYING ACROSS THE FOURSEAS
1
Baba, Hok-Ching, and an entourage of uniformed personnel were standing by on the tarmac. I descended the plane, waving like a head of state visiting a foreign country. After we finished bowing to each other politely, a stewardess guided us into the VIP lounge. While the children and I sat down to refreshments, others ran around stamping our passports and claiming our luggage. Living in Hong Kong all these years as a nonentity, I’d forgotten the fanfare of officialdom. The special treatment is like opium. It makes you feel wonderful at the moment, but in the long term it’s bad for your health.
Sitting upright on his chair, Baba said to me, "I’m very happy that you’ve come. It’s time that the children return to the motherland. Hong Kong schools are good, but they don’t teach the children to love their country. From now on, they will learn to be true and proper Chinese."
I nodded obediently, but inside every part of me was bristling. I was born and bred in Hong Kong, yet I considered myself as Chinese as Sun Yat-Sen. The patriot who overthrew the Manchus grew up in Hawaii. Being Chinese was a state of the heart and mind. My children could be living anywhere in the four seas and still be Chinese.
I glanced over at Hok-Ching. His lips curled in a smug smile. It was a smile that I hadn’t seen since Shanghai and Nanking. He’d been gone for only two months, and yet I could see a significant change in him. He no longer twitched and jerked like a frightened chicken. He sat contentedly next to Baba, his face glowing in the borrowed light.
Baba turned his attention to the children. One by one, he asked them about their schoolwork. I proudly watched the exchange. They were all top students. Baba’s little eyes were twinkling. He was never one to hide his likes and dislikes. Already I could hear him tell everyone that these were his brightest grandchildren and I his most virtuous daughter-in-law. He would heap praises on us, and the other relatives would be sick with jealousy. I caught the smug smile on my lips and realized that I was once again caught in Baba’s web.
"Now I know about everyone," he said in his booming voice. Addressing my children with the Chinese names he’d given them, he pointed at each one in the order of their age. "Man-Kuk is good at languages, Tai-Loi likes math, Tai-Ying likes every subject equally, and Cum-Lun doesn’t like any subject except recess. Ha ha ha!" His paunch rose and fell. He was wearing a dark blue western suit, and it hung on him with as much aplomb as a traditional robe.
In spite of his flaws, I couldn’t help admiring my father-in-law. He was seventy-five years old, yet his energy level wasn’t much different from the first time I met him. He was still working as the deputy prime minister, as well as writing and lecturing in his spare time. His voice was as robust as before, his laughter like a cannon that could be heard far down the street. He claimed that all his teeth were his. I believed him because they were too yellow to be dentures. He also claimed that he’d never seen a doctor. I also believed him because his ego would never allow him to admit weakness, which was how he viewed any kind of illness.
Baba was indeed a most unusual man. His character was as strong as the sun, and the rest of us were planets spinning around him. I’d spent most of my marriage struggling to get out of his orbit, and now I was back in the sphere of his influence. As he walked out of the building, a swarm of people revolved around him, some running ahead to open the door, others standing back, bowing, and saluting. Swirling and being swirled, I was swept into the car.
The ride from the airport confirmed my earlier impressions of the city. I’d visited Taipei before and had always thought of it as a backwater compared to Hong Kong. The streets were quiet, the pling pling of pedicabs heard more often than the honking of motorcars. The buildings were boring and had the dull, earthen patina of bomb shelters. Posters loomed overhead, exhorting people to get ready to invade the mainland. So many years after the loss to the communists, the Kuomintang was still holding on to the belief that they were the rightful owners of China. War and sacrifice, not peace and prosperity, dominated their minds. As a visitor, I’d taken in the scenery with curiosity, but now seeing it through the eyes of a resident, the country seemed outlandish, out of place and out of time.
After stopping briefly at Baba’s, we were driven to our new home. The house that Hok-Ching had rented was in a sleepy neighborhood. It was a ty
pical Taiwanese house, heavily influenced by Japan, the former colonial master. As I’d been here before, I knew what to expect. The children, however, eyed uncertainly the shelf full of plastic slippers at the foyer. I told them to pretend that they were at a Japanese restaurant. They were to pick out a pair that fit them and change out of their shoes.
Shuffling in my oversize slippers, I stepped into an already furnished house. Hok-Ching had also hired a local farm girl to cook and clean and a retired soldier to pedal us around town. Hok-Ching explained that we would have to make do with a pedicab for the time being. The flour mill was currently paying him a small nominal income, but once operations started in a month or so, he would be getting his fair share. We would be able to afford a car then.
He went on to show us the rest of the house. We followed him around, listening to him point out the Japanese-style sliding doors, the tatami floor in one room, and the courtyard in the back that would allow us to keep a dog. At the mention of a pet, the children loosened up and started discussing how to divide the bedrooms among themselves. I was delighted that they were delighted, but for some reason I couldn’t shed the weight in my heart. Something was bothering me, but I didn’t know what it was.
After a while, the children reported their decision. The three girls had staked out two of the bedrooms, and Joe would have one to himself. What about Patrick? I caught myself before the words flew out. A wrench twisted my heart. I fled to my room.
Hok-Ching came after me. "You don’t like the house?" he said.
"It’s not that. I just thought of Patrick. My home can’t be complete without all my children."
Hok-Ching grimaced. His eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them, they were swimming in tears. It was entirely his fault, and he knew it.
