The Valley of Amazement

by Amy Tan

  I then told her the more difficult truths. I said, “I gave birth to your mother out of wedlock, and your mother gave birth to you without being legally married. That was the reason the Ivorys were able to take you away from your mother.” Flora didn’t say anything. She showed nothing on her face. Finally she said to me, “I want to meet her. If I don’t like her, I won’t have to see her again. But I’m guessing that if she’s like you, she can’t be that bad.”

  March 1939

  Mother and Flora went to San Francisco first, where they would board the boat to Shanghai a week later. During the time they stayed in San Francisco, Flora slept in the bedroom that my mother once said would be mine. I could still picture it: the sunny yellow walls, the window with the large branches of an oak so close you could climb onto them. That bedroom had been a symbol of happiness. I imagined Flora climbing onto the branches of that tree.

  Mother said the house had become a ramshackle place in need of much work. It was too big for one person and held more sad memories than good. When she told Flora she would probably sell it, Flora said, “Don’t. Maybe I’ll fix it up and come live here. I want to move as far away from Minerva as I can, and I’ll need a place to stay.” She did not say that Mother could live with her as well. Then again, where else would Mother live?

  The moment came that Mother had been dreading. Flora wanted to meet “the Chinese part of her,” meaning Lu Shing, whom Mother had not seen since 1912. She had ignored Lu Shing’s entreaties to get together so he could apologize and had hoped he would vanish from her existence and memory. But she said she could not blame him for luring her back to San Francisco with promises she could finally see Teddy. She had let herself be lured and now did not want to be reminded of the many bad decisions she had made in the name of love. I suspected she also might have been afraid that love would be rekindled.

  I received a letter when Mother and Flora were already on the boat. It was dated the previous week, when they were still in San Francisco.

  I’ve been a jumble of nerves just thinking about this meeting. It’s been twenty-seven years since I last saw him. And I can still remember what a charmer he was. I fear that he’ll charm Flora, and she will want to keep this delightful Chinese grandfather in her life. She said she wanted to know the truth about everything, but I had to be careful to present the facts and not my emotional opinion of him. So I told her about his dual relationship to Mr. Ivory; her grandfather, the art collector; and my father, John Minturn, her great-grandfather, the art scholar. I was in the midst of telling her that Lu Shing had been Mr. Ivory’s protégé and had lived in his house for several years. Flora then said, “Wait a minute. I heard about him—I mean, I overheard what my grandfather said about a Chinese man who had lived in the house years ago. He called him ‘that double-crossing two-bit slit-eyed bogus bastard Chinese painter—seduced John’s daughter right under his nose!’I thought that what my grandfather had called the painter was hilarious. It was like a tongue twister. And I said it all the time, faster and faster. ‘Double-crossing two-bit slit-eyed bogus bastard Chinese painter—seduced John’s daughter right under his nose.’ Now I get why he said it. The daughter was you, and you gave birth to my mother, who my father then fell in love with, and she made a mess of the family tree by giving birth to me. I can’t wait to meet this double-crossing two-bit slit-eyed Chinese bastard painter, who seduced you.” I then told her more about Lu Shing, just the facts, like his taking my baby and disappearing for the next twelve years.

  I received another letter the next day.

  Flora has an unnerving way of saying things. Yesterday we were all set to see Lu Shing. I was agitated, as you can imagine, after not laying eyes on him for twenty-seven years. Back then, that man could peel my clothes off just looking at me. Before we stepped out the door, Flora told me I had on a very nice dress that went well with my green eyes. I thanked her. Then she said, “It’s new, isn’t it?” Before I could recover from being flustered, she said, “The beauty parlor did a good job on your hair. Frankly, the way it was before, it made you look kind of dotty. I bet the two-bit painter is going to regret the day he left you!” She gave me a wink. Can you believe it? To be honest, I did want to look my best when I told Lu Shing to beat it. “Beat it,” by the way, is a useful phrase Flora taught me. It’s a polite way to say, “Fuck off.”

  We arrived at 10:00 A.M. at the art gallery in Nob Hill where Lu Shing sells his paintings. It’s no bigger than a bread box, but he apparently owns the place. Who else would sell those paintings? Flora was polite and wore her usual quiet blank expression. She looked carefully at Lu Shing’s face as she shook his hand. I wondered what she saw. To me, he looked so worn out, so lacking in spirit, although I confess, he was still handsome, and his voice—so melodious and British. He’s always had an imperial Chinese quality to him that makes you think there’s more to him than there actually is. At one point, I caught him smiling at me, and I wondered if he was thinking, “Poor Lulu, she’s turned into a dotty old hag. At least her hair looks nice.” He came over and thanked me for coming. His eyes were sad. “It shouldn’t have been this way,” he said. “I’m sorry.” All my resolve to curse him vanished. I felt wistful.

  “How’s your wife?” I said in a cheery voice. He said in a respectful tone, “She died.” A bit of hope came back—not real hope but a memory of it—that he would one day be free to marry me. You’ll be glad to know that my senses came back two seconds later. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “And I’m sorry to say none of my husbands died. I had to divorce them. I’m on my fourth.” I’m sure he knew I wasn’t telling the truth, but what could he say?

  Flora was walking around the little gallery and seemed to be studying the art—or rather, the products. There were scenes of boats on the bay, some with calm waves, some thrashing dark ones worthy of Mutiny on the Bounty. He had painted cable cars going up the hill and into the stars. He had many of the new Golden Gate Bridge, which he painted gold, even though it’s red. There were a few sea lions on rocky islands. My eyes caught one painting in particular. You know it. The Valley of Amazement. There were a dozen of them, some depicting a sunset, another a sunrise, one before a storm, another after a storm. One had a carpet of purple flowers covering the valley floor. Another had them in blue. A few showed miniature cities of gold lying beyond the opening between the mountains, illuminated by the beams of heaven.

  You’ll be pleased to know your daughter is an astute art critic. She remarked to Lu Shing that he seemed to specialize in happy scenes. She pointed to one of the Valley of Amazement paintings and asked if he could paint a larger one and add birds in the sky. He said he could do that quite easily and often customized paintings to what his customers wanted. Our sly girl said, “I thought so.” He asked if she would like one, and she declined, telling him, “I was just curious to know how you make a living.” I could tell that he knew what she was saying, and I felt sorry for him because I was remembering that he once admitted to me in a letter that he was a mediocre painter with no depth of spirit, and he knew enough about himself to be disappointed with his life. At that moment, I could not be angry with him anymore. I pitied him.

  After we left the gallery, Flora told me that Lu Shing was a phony artist. Everything he did was a copy of what someone else had done, she said, and it was not even well done. “It felt like all the truth got whitewashed with fake happiness,” she said, “only it was not happy and it was worse than fake. It was dangerous.”

  LOYALTY, MAGIC GOURD, and I were at the dock to greet Flora and Mother. I was light-headed, hardly able to breathe. I told Loyalty and Magic Gourd once again to be careful about what they said. I wanted no mention of Perpetual, Fairweather, or courtesan houses.

  “You’ve told us ten times,” Loyalty said, and squeezed my hand. “I’m nervous, too.”

  “She’ll know who you are the minute she sees you,” Magic Gourd said to me, which made me even more nervous. “In the photos, she looks like you.”

&
nbsp; I saw Mother first, and a moment later, Flora came into sight. They were standing on the dock amid the hustle-bustle of hundreds of passengers and coolies sorting through baggage. I could not see the details of Flora’s face, just the green cloche she wore. She was tall compared to Mother and those around her. She had Edward’s height. I watched her move toward me, gliding through chaos. As she drew closer, I saw more of Edward’s face, his serious expression. She had his complexion, his hair color. She stopped before she reached me and pointed to a trunk and nodded to a coolie, spotted another and pointed. I had seen photos of her when she was seven, ten, thirteen, seventeen, and the most recent one, taken six months ago, in which she looked more sophisticated. But in my heart and mind I still kept two strong memories of her: the laughing gurgling baby and the screaming little girl being taken from me. I had lived with those two memories, and they had equally torn my heart. I had imagined feeling the weight of her as she slept in my arms. Little Flora was not this tall stylish woman with red lipstick and bobbed hair.

  Mother was suddenly before me and gave me a quick embrace. She had aged over the last ten years. Her hair had gone completely gray and she was now shorter than I was. Her hair looked freshly done, and she wore a dress that complemented her eyes. Lu Shing must have seen her looking like this when they met at the gallery. She was still vivacious, still in charge. She waved back at Flora and pointed to me, and Flora looked my way and nodded. Her expression did not change. She showed no surprise or happiness.

  Magic Gourd put her hand on my shoulder. “Eh, see? She has that same expression you have when you’re trying to pretend you don’t want what you want. See her mouth? That’s what you look like right now.” She rubbed my chin. “It’s pinched tight.”

  I forced myself to smile, and my mind flooded as I went through a repertoire of introductions I might use. “I’m glad to meet you.” “I’m Violet Fang.” “I’m so glad finally to see you again, Flora. I’m your mother.” “I’m your mother, Flora.” “I’m Violet Fang, your mother.” “Do you remember me, Flora?”

  But all those practiced phrases flew out of my head, and when I reached her, I said, “How was your voyage? You must be tired. Are you hungry?”

  She said the trip was all right. And she was neither tired nor hungry. I searched for her baby face and found it in her eyes. When tears welled up, I turned away. I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard her say, “Here you go.” She handed me a handkerchief. After daubing my eyes, I looked up at her to thank her, expecting she, too, would be teary-eyed. Her eyes were dry. I was scared. She felt nothing for me.

  Mother was speaking in Chinese to a coolie and told him to be careful. Her Chinese was even rustier than the last time she was here. I instructed the coolie to take the trunks to the other side of the road, where our car was waiting.

  “It’s kind of strange hearing you talk in Chinese,” Flora said. “I know you’re half, but you don’t look it until you speak. I’ll get used to it, I suppose.”

  “You spoke Chinese when you were a little girl,” I said. “Your Auntie Chen and you spoke nothing else.” I pointed to Magic Gourd, who nodded excitedly.

  “I spoke Chinese? That’s a hoot.”

  I brought Magic Gourd to Flora and said: “This is Mrs. Chen. She’s my dearest friend who took care of me for many years. She’s like a sister to me.”

  Magic Gourd nodded and said in practiced English. “You call me Auntie Happy-Happy.”

  Mother sidled up to me and gave me a quick hug. “I told you she looks like you. You wait and see what else she does that’s like you.”

  Loyalty was waiting patiently to be introduced. Flora went up to him and shook his hand. “You must be Uncle Loyalty.”

  He beamed. “Yes, yes, that is true. And you are my—I forgotten the word—my English is so bad—my daughter.”

  Flora smiled. “I suppose.”

  Grandmother, mother, and daughter sat in the backseat of the car. Mother had placed me in the middle, on purpose, I knew, so that Flora was next to me, on my left. It was a torment that I could not stare openly at Flora’s face, so I kept my eyes trained ahead and told the driver to take us along a route without Japanese checkpoints on the border of the International Settlement. I did not want to scare Flora. The car was silent. Distress welled in my stomach. I felt I was going to burst into tears. This was not how it was supposed to be. It did not feel right. All those years of waiting, and I could not release any of the pain or joy. Flora did not know me. To her, I was a stranger who looked white and spoke Chinese. The baby who had clung to me was now indifferent to the mother who sat next to her. Minerva had made her incapable of feeling. I tightened my throat. Mother had already warned me that Flora would come across as cool. “After days, she’s lukewarm,” she wrote.

  After a month, I would say she is warmer. But she has never called me “Grandmother.” I am Mrs. Danner to her. Don’t be too hurt, Violet, if you find she’s not the cuddly child you’ve held in your memory all these years. Remember how odd we felt seeing each other after our long separation.

  I was about to ask Flora if she wanted to see anything special in Shanghai when I saw the heart-shaped gold locket around her neck. She had kept it. Minerva had not taken it away. Had she ever pulled it apart to see what was inside? “You’re wearing the locket I gave you,” I said. “Do you remember it from when you were little?”

  She fingered it. “I remember playing with it in a room with yellow walls. I also remember a woman trying to take it away. I think it was my mother. I mean, Minerva. I can’t ever call that woman my mother again. Anyway, Minerva kept trying to take it, and I bit her and she yelled and that made me think I should bite her again. I wore it all the time. But I didn’t know you had given it to me. Minerva claimed it was from her side of the family. Everything about her was a big lie.”

  “Did you open it?” I asked.

  “I never tried until I read the letters from my father. And then I got this feeling there might be something in that locket. I had to work hard to pry it open, and then I finally got it apart. I saw the photos, you and my father, the two of you together. If you hadn’t soldered the damn thing shut, I might have known the truth a lot sooner.”

  “I didn’t want the photos to accidentally fall out. You chewed on the locket all the time. Did you see those teeth marks?”

  “So that’s what those dents are.” She put her palm over the necklace. “It’s always been special to me, even before I knew where it came from. It was like a little magic heart, and I could touch it and it could make me strong or invisible or able to read people’s minds. I sort of believed that when I was younger. I wasn’t crazy, though. It was just something I needed to believe.”

  My eyes welled up yet again and I turned away, toward my mother.

  “Did you lose the handkerchief I gave you?” I heard Flora say. I nodded. She put her hand on my arm. “It’s okay. You can cry if you want.”

  In between my daughter and my mother, I sobbed.

  On the way to our house, Loyalty pointed out a few sights. When he indicated we should look to the left, I took that opportunity to study Flora’s face. She glanced my way every now and then and smiled slightly.

  “I can’t get over the fact that you speak Chinese,” she said, “and that I look like you.”

  “Actually, you resemble your father more,” I said. She looked at me straight on, puzzled. “The shape of your eyes, the color of your irises, your eyebrows, your nose, and ears …”

  Flora leaned over and looked at Mother. “Is she blind?”

  Mother said to her: “I told you, Flora. You look like your mother.”

  FOR THE FIRST two days, I said nothing about the past. The four of us took Flora on a tour of Shanghai—as much as we could see within the International Settlement. She was interested in the architecture, especially in the roofs with their curved eaves. “There’s something about a roof that’s like a head and a face tilted at the sky.” She practiced speaking simple Chinese words
with Magic Gourd: “tree,” “flower,” “house,” “man,” “woman.” She could recall them an hour later.

  On the third day, she said over breakfast: “I’m ready to hear about you and my father. Just tell me and don’t try to make it proper and all that. Don’t leave out the good stuff.”

  “I met your father,” I said, “because Uncle Loyalty introduced him to me as someone he could have conversations with in English. Your father also thought I was a common prostitute in a cheap brothel. We did not get along at first.” She enjoyed hearing about the misunderstanding, and Loyalty’s role in that. When I described Edward, she listened, sitting perfectly still. I found it difficult to put into words all who Edward had been to me and who he was to her. I told her how beautiful his voice was, and I sang the morning song he made up. I told her he was serious, sometimes sad, gentle, and funny. I told her briefly about his despair over the death of a boy named Tom who fell because of a prank he committed. She was interested in knowing what her grandfather and grandmother thought about it. When I said they said he was not to blame, she sniffed and said, “I knew it.” As I related what more I remembered, I found Edward coming back in more detail, released from the photograph, the immobile memory, and back to life.

  I went to a table where I had laid Edward’s journal. I put it in her hands, and she ran her fingers over the soft brown cover. She opened it and read aloud the title that Edward had declared grandiose.

  To THE FARTHEST OF THE FAR EAST

  By B. Edward Ivory III

  A Happy Wanderer in China

  I showed her the passage Edward had written when we went to the countryside and he taught me to drive. As she read to herself, I was with him again. He urged me to go faster, to feel the speed of life, as we raced away from death spreading over the land, when he wanted to feel only happiness because he was with me, the woman he loved. I turned to him, and he saw that I loved him, too.