by Gale Sears
I stood supporting my father as he listened patiently to all of Secretary Zhang’s words. My father bowed several times and thanked him for the instruction. I could not look at the secretary. His face was scarred with smallpox and a welt ran across his jawline where, rumor had it, a Nationalist soldier tried unsuccessfully to slash his throat. I was angry that the soldier had not been successful.
My father limped to open the door for the demon. I watched until the evil man was out of the courtyard and down the street, then I took what little water we had and scrubbed the floor where he’d stood.
The food in Wen-shan’s stomach had soured and she felt sick. The look on her uncle’s face told a similar story. She rolled the scroll, tied the ribbon, and placed it back in the drawer.
“Are we sure we want to know all about them?”
Slowly her uncle nodded.
Wen-shan went off to bed, forcing her mind to remember the noodle story.
Notes
Chinese painting: Chinese painting falls into two large divisions—painting on walls and painting on the portable media of paper and silk. The greatest glory of the Chinese art of painting is landscape painting. According to Su Dongpo (1037–1101), the purpose of painting was not to depict the appearance of things but to express the painter’s own feelings, making it much more like poetry.
Chinese art during the time of Mao Tse-tung: Mao believed that art was a tool for leading the masses. In a quote he said, “There is in fact no such thing as art for art’s sake, art that stands above classes, or art that is detached from or independent of politics.”
Chapter 13
Rain. Wen-shan knew the rain was not real. She knew the shadows were only dark places in her nightmare and the small hands pushing on her back were phantoms, but her body accepted the terrifying suggestions without question, and so her heart pounded and sweat covered her skin. The qweilo came floating out of the darkness, reaching its cold, icy fingers for her, and catching her around the waist. The ghost whispered in her ear to be still and not to scream, but her mother’s face was fading and the rain became a curtain.
A bell rang, and Wen-shan sat up, slapping off her alarm clock. She blinked open her eyes to a dim morning. She lay back down and listened to her uncle opening a drawer, shutting a drawer, walking across the floor, and moving into the hallway. The familiar sounds were comforting. She heard the shower and jumped out of bed. She snuck into her uncle’s room and fished his transistor radio out of his dresser drawer. She hurried back, jumping into her bed, and pulling the comforter over her head. She quickly found the rock-and-roll station and prayed there would be a song and not a commercial or some dumb contest. The Beatles’ voices sang out, “She’s got a ticket to ride, and she don’t care.” Wen-shan quickly adjusted the volume so only she could hear. Blissfully she listened to two more songs then crept back into her uncle’s room before the shower was turned off.
The nightmare had faded with the upbeat music and secretive foray into her uncle’s room, so that by the time she went to the kitchen for her breakfast of cornflakes, she was almost cheerful. Her uncle came into the kitchen a few minutes later and fixed himself orange juice and an English muffin. It was the only exception he made to Western breakfast food. Of course, he never ate the muffin with butter and marmalade, but covered the little rounds with sardines out of a tin.
“Wei Jun-jai telephoned last night.”
Wen-shan nearly dropped her bowl. “He did?” She’d heard the telephone ring after she’d gone to her bedroom, but was sure it had nothing to do with her. “What did he want?”
“He’s going to Kowloon after school to pick up a suit for his father.”
“Oh?” Wen-shan was confused. What did she have to do with Jun-jai’s father’s suit?
“He asked if you could go with him.”
“To Kowloon?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him it would be fine, but that it depended on your homework.”
Wen-shan tempered her excitement. “I’ll make sure I finish my work at school.”
“That is acceptable.”
Wen-shan’s face clouded. “How will I let him know?”
“He said he would stop by the house to see if you could go, or couldn’t go.”
“Cool.”
Her uncle frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I mean good . . . good. That will give me the chance to come home from school and change my clothes.”
“Do you have money for the ferry ticket?”
Wen-shan shook her head. “I don’t think I have enough.”
“The yard needs raking. If you do that after school, I will leave money for the ferry.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” She finished her cereal and rinsed her bowl in the sink.
As she dressed for school, Wen-shan’s mind kept ranging through the different emotions she’d experienced since the letters in the jade dragon box had come into her life, and also the different feeling now shared between herself and her uncle. Her mother didn’t know what the letters meant to them. As she worked in the fields or looked to the misty mountains, did she think about the letters and wonder if they were being read by her daughter in Hong Kong? Wen-shan ran a brush through her hair and checked her image in the mirror. And what of her mother’s life? Was she still alive? Wen-shan did not let her mind stay long on that thought, but forced her heart to take over. Her heart always told her that her mother was alive. Of course she was. Master Quan had said both her mother and her grandfather were alive when he left Guilin, and that was only a year ago.
Wen-shan came out of her bedroom and found her uncle standing in the front room with a silk scroll in his hand.
“Oh! I’d love to see a painting before I leave for school.”
Her uncle nodded and untied the ribbon. “You looked a little tired this morning. I thought maybe this would chase away a nightmare.”
“Yes.” She put down her schoolbag and tried to look more awake. She moved to her uncle’s side as he unrolled the scroll.
In tones of gray, white, black, and cream, two sparrows sat snuggled together on a dark, leafless branch. Snow was falling and the bird’s feathers were puffed out to keep them warm.
Wen-shan let out an audible sigh. “How sweet! Aren’t they sweet?”
“They are beautifully painted.”
“Yes, they are.” Wen-shan sighed again. “And they are so sweet.” She touched one of the birds’ round tummies expecting to feel soft fluff. “Please, read the characters, Uncle.”
“‘Wearing winter’s coat.’”
“Ah, look, that’s exactly what they’re doing.” Wen-shan touched a snowflake that was just about to land on one of the sparrows’ heads. “Thank you, Uncle.”
He nodded. “Now off to school.”
Wen-shan picked up her bag and impulsively left a kiss on her uncle’s cheek before going out the door.
Because she did not turn back, she missed his look of astonishment.
• • •
Wei Jun-jai came to the gate while she was still raking. Wen-shan had hoped to have the job done before he arrived and hurriedly wiped the sweat from her face.
When she approached the gate, she thought Jun-jai looked a little embarrassed.
“Did your uncle forget to tell you I’d called?”
“Oh, no. No. I was just doing a little work for . . . ah . . . before we left. I was just finishing.” She opened the gate and Jun-jai stepped in.
“I’ll put the leaves in the bin for you, if you’d like,” he said.
“That would be nice, Jun-jai. Thank you. The bin is there by the side of the shed.” She headed for the house. “I’ll just go wash my face.” And change my shirt, she thought. Why does Jun-jai always look so . . . so . . . well, not like me?
Wen-shan quickly washed her face, changed into a pale yellow button-up shirt, and grabbed her cloth purse with the long straps. She went to the coffee table, got out her mother’s letter abo
ut the famine, and placed it in the bag. When she turned around, she saw Jun-jai standing at the open door, staring at the painting of the plum blossoms. He snapped his gaze away when he realized she was looking at him.
“Oh! Wen-shan, sorry. I was just . . .”
“It’s all right, Jun-jai. Please, come in and see my grandfather’s paintings.”
“May I?”
“Yes, of course.”
He walked to the painting of the rooster and started chuckling. “It’s wonderful.”
Wen-shan smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”
Jun-jai looked carefully at each painting, finishing with the baby sparrows.
“We just opened this one today.”
Jun-jai shook his head. “They are so full of life.” He scanned all the pictures, his eyes resting on the heavenly mountains of Guilin. “Your grandfather has such a gift.” He stared again at the sparrows, and then back to the plum blossoms.
“Jun-jai?”
“Yes?”
“Should we be going to Kowloon?”
His body became animated and he checked his watch. “Yes, we should!” He put his hand on her back and moved her out the door, shutting it behind them. “Oh! Sorry! It’s your house.”
Wen-shan laughed. “That’s all right, Jun-jai.” Though she was glad that Mrs. Tuan wasn’t home to see a young man escorting her out of her house.
The two walked to the Star Ferry talking about rock and roll, television shows, movies, cars, and school. Jun-jai was very smart. He went to a private school and was going to be an international businessman. His father was a successful businessman and that’s what he wanted for his son.
Jun-jai looked over at her. “What do you want to be, Wen-shan?”
She swallowed. She had no idea. She’d never even had a job. She didn’t think he’d be impressed if she said she’d be happy dusting the furniture at Pierpont and Pierpont Limited. “I’d love to travel to other countries. Maybe I’ll be a stewardess.”
He looked at her. “Well, you have the personality for it. You may have to grow a few inches.”
She gave him a haughty look. “I still have several years to grow before I apply, Jun-jai.”
He laughed. “I know, I’m just teasing. We both have plenty of time. These are our crazy, carefree years, as Auntie Ting says.”
“I like her.”
“Me too.” They reached the ferry station. “Wait here and I’ll go buy the tickets.” He started off.
“But, I have money!”
He waved. “My treat!”
She smiled. Now what will I do with all my extra money?
• • •
The heat of the afternoon had given way to a refreshing breeze, the ferry crossing was smooth, and the man who had tailored Jun-jai’s father’s suit was a toothless comedian. They left the shop with their sides aching from laughter.
On their way back to the ferry, they stopped at a small eatery to buy braised spare ribs in black vinegar sauce. Jun-jai again insisted on paying, so Wen-shan insisted on buying them both a soda. They sat outside at a table overlooking the harbor. Wen-shan felt happy. It had turned out to be an excellent day. She looked at Jun-jai and thought again of the Confucius teaching on good friends. She knew Jun-jai was a good friend to her.
They boarded the ferry as the sun was setting and found seats on the upper deck. After the noise of the initial launch subsided and people settled into their own areas, Wen-shan brought out her mother’s letter.
“I brought another letter, Jun-jai. Would you like to read it?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He carefully took the scroll.
It was the letter about the famine and the cruelty to her grandfather. Wen-shan stood. “I’m going out to the deck.”
Jun-jai nodded, already caught up in the first words of the letter.
On deck, Wen-shan watched the passing boats. She loved the large wooden Chinese boats with their red sails. One of the boats sailed close to the ferry and Wen-shan saw a bridal party, the happy celebrators dancing and drinking champagne. A lobster boat slid behind the party boat, and Wen-shan watched the captain with his tattered clothing and weathered face as he maneuvered the boat with ease.
She looked over to see Jun-jai standing beside her. “Oh, Jun-jai, I didn’t hear you.” He gave her the letter without speaking. He put his hands on the rail and looked out over the water.
Wen-shan busied herself with putting away the letter, and then she quietly joined him at the rail.
Finally Jun-jai spoke. His voice was husky with emotion. “I am so angry about the grief men cause because they want power. They want to rule things and people when they cannot even rule themselves.” His voice broke. “I’m sorry, Wen-shan. Sorry for what your family has had to suffer.”
She looked away from him. His anger and sadness were so intense, and she had no words but agreement.
Jun-jai looked back toward Kowloon, the New Territories, and mainland China. “The Master says, ‘He who exercises government by means of his virtue may be compared to the North Polar Star, which keeps its place and all the stars turn toward it.’”
Wen-shan looked straight at his face. “Most men don’t rule with virtue, do they?”
Jun-jai put his hand tenderly on her hand. “No.”
• • •
Her uncle had come home early from the store and fixed congee with pork for dinner. Wen-shan thanked him sincerely but was only able to eat a little, partly because she had eaten late in Kowloon, and partly because her stomach was unsettled by all the conflicting emotions she was feeling.
“It’s not good?”
“It’s delicious, Uncle, really. It’s just . . .”
“Is your stomach upset? The porridge will settle your stomach.”
She didn’t want him to worry about her. “No, Uncle. It’s just that Jun-jai and I ate something in Kowloon.”
“Oh, I see.” He put another slice of pork into his porridge. “Did he pay?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I knew I liked him.”
“He paid for the ferry tickets too.”
“Oh? Hmm. Maybe he likes you.”
Wen-shan felt heat on her face. “We’re friends.”
She didn’t see the slight smile that played at the corner of her uncle’s mouth. “Oh, I see. Friends. . . . Well, that’s good. Maybe just being friends is better because he seems very Western to me.”
Wen-shan was immediately defensive. “Well, he is Western in some things, but he’s very traditional in others. You know him; he’s a student of Confucianism.”
Her uncle kept his detached demeanor. “Yes, that is one plus in his favor.”
“He’s very smart too. He’s going into business like his father.”
“Well, he will make some woman a fine husband someday.” He stood and took his dishes to the sink, leaving Wen-shan to close her open fish mouth.
Is he teasing me? She turned to watch her uncle at the sink. I’m not going to play his game. She decided to change the subject. There was a question that had been bothering her for weeks and she wanted to know her uncle’s thoughts.
“Uncle?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think they’re still alive?”
The clattering of dishes stopped. He was quiet for so long Wen-shan wondered if he’d heard the question correctly.
“Do you think—”
“I heard you.” Another pause. He turned to look at her. “I don’t know. I think they are both very wise and will figure out a way to survive, but I think it is hard to survive against evil.”
Wen-shan stood. It was not the response she wanted. “Well, I think they’re alive. Master Quan said they were alive when he left Guilin.” She moved to help him with the dishes. “I think they’re alive.”
“Good. We will have faith.”
“Yes. And I will have faith that I’ll see them again.”
He looked at her for a long moment and then nodded. “Good. Now, you go and get anoth
er letter ready, and I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
He came to his chair a few minutes later, and Wen-shan began reading.
1960
The yellow leaves have fallen from the Ginkgo tree and the barefoot doctor has placed a daughter in my arms. This baby has a round moon face and a spirit like the mountains surrounding the Li River. She cries loudly and defies death and starvation. Chen Han-lie is concerned for her fierce nature. He will not hold her for fear she will conquer some of his strength.
Wen-shan looked up. “That was me.”
Her uncle gave her an encouraging smile. “Yes. I’ve heard that cry.”
Wen-shan did not react to that, but went back to reading her mother’s words.
I walked from the field to the hospital, and as soon as I stepped in the door, the water poured from my body.
There were two know-nothing student doctors in the room with me but neither one had ever delivered a baby. Dr. Han, the regular doctor, had been sent to the detention center for refusing to place a picture of Chairman Mao in the operating room. One of the doctors fainted when she saw blood, and the other ran out of the room when I started screaming from the pain. Twenty minutes later, Dr. Han’s nurse came in and helped me. My little daughter was born ten minutes later. I will name her “bright kindness” for that is what she is to me.
To protect my daughter’s strength, I will be grateful for my husband’s place. There is so little food that people are eating the corn husks and wild grasses. Coming home from the field several days ago, I saw a man and two children crouching around a pile of rags. As I passed by, I looked closer. It was not a pile of rags, but a dead woman. It was probably the man’s wife and the mother of the children. They were guarding the body until the wagon could come to take it to the grave. We have heard of unspeakable things. People are hungry.
