by Gale Sears
Her uncle came home from work late, and Wen-shan figured they wouldn’t be reading a letter that night, but after dinner and a short rest, her uncle called her to the front room. “Are you too tired to read a letter tonight?”
“No. Are you?”
“I am a little tired, but I want to hear your mother’s words.”
Wen-shan nodded and went to the coffee table drawer to retrieve another letter. There were very few letters left to read, and Wen-shan tried not to think about the last ribbon being untied.
She pushed the parchment open and read.
1962
I whisper to my daughter that Mao Tse-tung has been made to change his mind. She rubs her ear and giggles because my warm breath tickles. I can tell her these things because she is only two and will not report me to Secretary Zhang. I say the name of President Liu Shao-ch’i, and she smiles. Yes! We all smile! He helped us. He listened to our cries. At great risk, he stood up to Chairman Mao. The quota was much lower this year, and while some grain was sent away, more filled the people’s stomachs. There is cooking oil, eggs, and flour. And we have been given permission to plant our own gardens. Father and I bring in beans, peppers, corn, and eggplant. Wen-shan stumbles around the garden, looking at plants, and poking her fingers in the dirt. Han-lie watches her from a distance. He smiles. I think in his heart he would like to stand up like President Liu, but he is more comfortable being told what to do.
My father paints again—a secret painting of tiny sparrows bravely wearing winter’s coat.
Both Wen-shan and her uncle turned to stare at the painting. It was odd to have her mother speak about something that was hanging on their front room wall. It caused an ache in her heart, and with difficulty, Wen-shan went back to the letter.
He does not do a revolutionary painting. He paints the sparrows and smiles. It is his way of being on the other side of sorrow. We will hide it with the others.
Secretary Zhang was sent to Peking for a month of training, and we were all joyful. The assistant who took his place was lazy and did not care if we chanted Mao’s name or read the newspaper. We still had to work, but we felt lighter not having to carry around heavy words in our mouths. When Secretary Zhang returned, he brought a wife with him. Wu Ming-mei. She was a former actress in the opera like Mao Tse-tung’s wife, Jiang Qing. But Wu Ming-mei is pretty. We do not know her heart because she does not come to the reading of the newspapers or to the meetings. In the fields the women talk, and we wonder why a lotus flower would marry a scorpion. I think maybe she did not have a choice.
Father did an exquisite writing, and then he burned it for fear Secretary Zhang would call him a counterrevolutionary.
Wen-shan’s uncle moaned. “The world is mad, Wen-shan. For such beauty to be burned? It’s madness.”
“I agree, Uncle. Maybe that’s why Mr. and Mrs. Smythe work so hard to get treasures out of China.”
Her uncle nodded. “‘A gentle man holds three things in awe. He is in awe of Heaven’s dome; he is in awe of great men; he is awed by the speech of the holy. The vulgar are blind to the power of Heaven and hold it not in awe. They are saucy towards the great, and of the speech of the holy they make their game.’” He stared at the picture of the cypress and rubbed his hands across his face. “Perhaps I’m more tired than I thought. I think I will go to bed.”
“Wait, Uncle. There’s one more line.”
As the flames ate the writing, I saw what my father had written: We do not ask for much—only to work and to live.
Her uncle nodded, picked up his scriptures, and moved toward his bedroom.
• • •
“He told me the noodle story, Mr. Pierpont.”
“Did he now? Wonderful!” Mr. Pierpont quickly grabbed onto the delivery truck’s armrest as the driver maneuvered a sharp turn around a corner. “Patrick! Slow down!” Wen-shan squealed with delight. “Oh, you like that, do you? Well, his driving is going to give me apoplexy.” Mr. Pierpont leaned forward and looked around Wen-shan to the brawny British driver. “Truly, Patrick, slow down.”
“Right ya are, Mr. Pierpont.”
“There’s precious cargo in the back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And even more precious cargo sitting next to you.”
The driver gave Wen-shan a wink. She was shocked, but found it funny too.
“Go left on Queen’s Road West.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah, see there? He knows who pays his salary.” Mr. Pierpont focused his attention on Wen-shan. “Now, tell me how you liked the story.”
“It was wonderful. I didn’t know you could make good money selling noodles.”
“Well, your uncle is a hard worker.”
Mr. Pierpont stopped talking to point dramatically down the street which the driver should be turning. The truck swung precariously around the corner and the passengers bumped against one another.
“Sorry, Mr. Pierpont.”
“Patrick, I think this girl or I could drive better than you.”
“Well, the girl anyway.”
Wen-shan giggled as Mr. Pierpont gave Patrick a warning look. “That’s enough of that. Just watch the road signs and slow down.” He puffed out a big breath of air. “Now, where were we?”
“Making money selling noodles.”
“Ah, yes. As I said, your uncle is a hard worker, and so was your aunt. Besides which, they paid their tithing.” He turned to look at her. “Did he tell you about the tithing noodles?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked puzzled. “But why would that make a difference?”
“Well, it’s all part of the glorious gospel package, isn’t it?”
“What does that mean?”
Mr. Pierpont paused. “Hmm. Well, it’s rather difficult to explain if you’re not in the thick of things.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Let’s just say the Lord promises us certain things if we’re obedient. If we follow the Word of Wisdom, we have better health. If we serve others, we have a better outlook on life. If we pay our ten percent tithing, our lives are more stable. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so. If you pay your tithing, your noodle business will be successful.”
Mr. Pierpont laughed. “Something like that. You still have to put in your effort and work hard, but since you’ve been obedient, the Lord will bless you.”
“It doesn’t mean you’ll be rich or anything, right?”
“Well, sometimes amazing things do happen. Don’t you think your uncle’s done very well, considering where he came from?”
Wen-shan thought of the refugee camp, her uncle’s bungalows on the slopes of Victoria Peak, and his job with Pierpont and Pierpont Limited. “He has done well.” She held onto Mr. Pierpont’s arm as they made another turn. “And you met my great-aunt and great-uncle at church?”
Mr. Pierpont beamed. “And liked them from the very beginning.”
“But how did they get interested in the Church?”
Mr. Pierpont gave her a knowing look. “Ah, you’re trying to wriggle information out of me, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “He’s been talking to me much more lately about Guilin, and his escape to Hong Kong, and the noodle story, but he still won’t tell me much about the war, or the refugee camp, or why he joined the Mormon Church.”
“Some stories are more difficult to tell, dear girl. Give him time.”
Patrick grunted. “I think I missed the street, Mr. Pierpont.”
Mr. Pierpont shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Well, repent, man, and go back!”
By the time they reached the delivery point, poor Patrick had gotten a proper British taking down, and Wen-shan hadn’t laughed so much in ages.
• • •
As Mr. Pierpont supervised the delivery and spoke with Mrs. Scott, Patrick took in the large items, and Wen-shan took in the more delicate pieces. She entered the elegant house with care and took her time removing the protective wrapping
from the gilt mirror, the small table, and the Ming vase. She knew it wasn’t an actual Ming vase because that would have cost thousands and thousands of pounds, but this was a very good copy and probably very expensive.
She breathed a sigh of relief when Mrs. Scott had inspected everything and signed the account form. It turned out that Patrick was a better moving man than a driver.
Mr. Pierpont shook Patrick’s hand and patted Wen-shan’s shoulder. “Well done. Well done, you two.” He turned to Wen-shan. “Thank you very much, Miss Chen, for coming along and keeping us on our toes. I’m glad your uncle could spare you.”
She mimicked his British accent. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Pierpont.”
“So, a ride back to the store?”
Wen-shan gave Patrick a terrified look. “I don’t think so, Mr. Pierpont. I actually live near here. I think I’ll walk.”
Mr. Pierpont laughed. “Very wise choice. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll walk with you.”
“Hey now,” Patrick protested. “I don’t drive that badly. Besides, Mr. Pierpont, you don’t live anywhere near here.”
“That speaks to your driving skills then, doesn’t it? Easy does it back to the store and tell Mr. Zhao that his great-niece is being well looked after.”
“Yes, sir. But how will you get home?”
“There are these wonderful things called taxis, Patrick.”
Wen-shan waved to Patrick as he pulled away. She let out a chirp of surprise when he didn’t stop at the end of the driveway before pulling out into traffic. There was a car horn, but no crash. Sheepishly she looked over at Mr. Pierpont and found him shaking his head.
“If I wasn’t so fond of the man . . .” He looked at Wen-shan. “Well, should we be on our way? A brisk walk sounds wonderful.”
“And safe.”
Mr. Pierpont nodded in agreement, and they started off. After a block or two of comfortable silence, a question came to Wen-shan’s mind.
“Mr. Pierpont?”
“Yes?”
“Has my uncle told you about the jade dragon box?”
“Yes, my dear. He has mentioned it. What a significant treasure.”
“And about the paintings and letters?”
“Well, those are the most significant treasures of all, aren’t they?”
“Has he told you what any of the letters said?”
“Oh, no. I’m very sure those sentiments are much too precious for the two of you to share them with everyone.”
Wen-shan nodded. “But I’m sure he would like you to see his brother’s paintings.”
“Really?”
Wen-shan could tell by the tone in Mr. Pierpont’s voice that he was excited by the idea. “And I just thought, since you’re walking me home, that you’d like to see them when we get there.”
“How thoughtful, Wen-shan. I would love to see them.”
The two walked on, chatting about Chinese painting in general, Guilin, and Master Quan. Mr. Pierpont was fascinated by Master Quan’s escape from China, and Wen-shan wished she had more information to share. She figured it might be time to have Master Quan to dinner. Wen-shan did share bits and pieces from her mother’s letters, and Mr. Pierpont was appropriately sad, angry, and in awe.
They reached the house and Wen-shan opened the front door. Mr. Pierpont removed his shoes and stepped reverently into the house. The room was dim, and Wen-shan went to the front window and drew back the drapes. Her grandfather’s pictures were revealed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.
“Ah!” Mr. Pierpont turned slowly from side to side trying to take in all the paintings and calligraphy at once.
“I’m thirsty after our walk, Mr. Pierpont. Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes . . . yes, Wen-shan, that would be nice.” His eyes never left the paintings as he walked slowly toward the silk scroll of the brilliant plum blossoms.
When she returned with the water, he was still staring at the same painting. She handed him the glass of water and he took a drink. “Would you like me to read to you what it says?”
He shook his head. “‘Falling petals—fragrant rain,’” he said in Cantonese.
Wen-shan nearly dropped her glass. “You read Chinese?” He grinned. “And speak it?”
“I have lived here all my life, Wen-shan. What kind of a businessman would I be if I did not speak the major language of my home? Besides, you heard me ordering dinner at the restaurant.”
“That’s different. That was ordering food.”
“I see.”
“But you never speak to me in Cantonese.”
He grinned again. “You need to practice your English.”
He went back to admiring the picture, leaving Wen-shan speechless. He moved to the picture of the rooster, and Wen-shan knew what his reaction would be. Sure enough, he let go a hearty laugh.
“How delightful!” He handed Wen-shan his now-empty glass, and they shared a look of delight. “Your grandfather’s paintings are so full of life, Wen-shan. How in the world did he get that expression on the face of a rooster?” He laughed again. “I wish I could meet him.”
“I wish you could too.”
Mr. Pierpont turned to her. “Yes, indeed.” He looked back to the painting. “Well, we shall pray for a grand meeting someday.”
Wen-shan took the glasses to the kitchen. If Mr. Pierpont thought praying to his Christian God would really help bring her grandfather and mother to Hong Kong, then she would ask him to teach her how to do it, and she would pray too. When she returned to the front room, she found Mr. Pierpont studying her grandfather’s calligraphy.
“Truth,” he said in Cantonese. Then in English he said, “What is truth?”
“That’s what my uncle said. What does it mean, Mr. Pierpont?”
“What is truth? It’s a question humankind has been asking for thousands and thousands of years.” He moved to look at the painting of the heavenly mountains. “Here is an example, Wen-shan. Through the ages, prophets and philosophers have been searching for truth, and many have given us beautiful words and thoughts, but I look at your grandfather’s painting and I see truth in every brushstroke.”
She didn’t understand, but nodded in agreement anyway.
Mr. Pierpont considered each painting carefully, and Wen-shan wondered what truths he was learning. After a time, he turned to her and asked to borrow the telephone. As he dialed the number for the taxi company, Wen-shan studied the painting of Guilin. She wanted to see the truth in her grandfather’s painting. She saw his great ability, and the beauty of the heavenly mountains, but what truth did that teach her about life?
Mr. Pierpont came back to her side and together they chatted about the unique strengths in each painting. The taxi horn sounded, and with a sigh, Mr. Pierpont gathered his raincoat and hat.
“Thank you, Wen-shan, for inviting me to view your grandfather’s work.”
She moved with him to the outside. “You’re welcome, Mr. Pierpont.” She went to tell the taxi driver that his customer would be there in a minute as Mr. Pierpont sat on the porch and put on his shoes.
He joined her at the gate and tipped his hat. “You are welcome to join me on a delivery anytime, Miss Chen.”
Wen-shan opened the gate for him and he stepped out. “As long as Patrick isn’t driving,” she answered.
Mr. Pierpont chuckled and got into the taxi. He waved to her as the vehicle pulled away.
Wen-shan stood at the gate for a long time, watching the shadows of evening creep across the sidewalks. A warm breeze tousled her hair, and she tried to imagine that it was her mother whispering in her ear.
Notes
The end of the Great Leap Forward: Mao’s miscalculations for the Great Leap Forward caused the deaths of 38 to 40 million people, engendered economic catastrophe, and precipitated agricultural devastation. Years after Mao’s death, Chinese people, still cautious about voicing any criticism of the Chairman, would say, “Mao was a great revolutionary, but not a very g
ood leader.”
Liu Shao-ch’i: As president of the government, President Liu saw the devastation caused by the flawed programs of the Great Leap. He led the top echelon of the CCCP to force Mao to abandon his plans.
Chapter 16
1964
It is winter and very cold. Ice forms on the windows. This morning at the neighborhood meeting we stood and chanted “Mother and Father are dear, but Mao Tse-tung is dearer.” My husband, Chen Han-lie, led the chant as Secretary Zhang looked on. We chanted until our legs ached from standing and our throats were rough from shouting. Chen Han-lie chanted loudest of all though tears ran down his face. He is being sent away to the North Country. There was a charge that he cared more for his family than he did for our great leader, Chairman Mao. At the struggle meeting, people accused him of taking extra eggs from the people’s store and of standing up for his wife, who was the daughter of a dirty landowner. Secretary Zhang made him stand barefoot on the frozen ground.
Wen-shan dropped the letter on the couch and went to look out the window. A light morning rain was falling and she watched as it gently tapped the leaves of the Chinese Pepper Tree. What is truth? Her father was a Communist, but he didn’t love Chairman Mao more than he loved her mother . . . or more than he loved her. That was a truth she was sure of. She tried to picture her father in his green uniform. Did he ever hold her, or feed her, or tell her stories? Maybe her father was the one who told her the ghost story that gave her nightmares. Did he hate the words the Communists made him chant? Was he a coward because he did not stand up when people were starving to death, or was he saving his family?
“Wen-shan?”
Her uncle’s voice was gentle. She turned away from the window. “Yes?”
“Do you want to read any more this morning?”
“Yes.” She came back to the couch and picked up the letter. “Uncle, why do you think my father became a Communist?”
“I don’t know, but like many, he may have been caught up in the words.”
“What does that mean?”
“The people of China have lived with chaos and hunger for a long time, Wen-shan. Chiang Kai-shek was trying to change things, but it wasn’t fast enough for most people. The words of the Communists sounded good: everyone is the same; no rich or poor; the government will take care of you.”
