by Andrew Kwong
That evening, my parents asked me if I would apply to leave China by myself.
‘Yes, I want to go,’ I said.
I had no second thoughts about leaving home alone. Nearly thirteen, I was more than twice the age I’d been when I’d left home with Flea and Mrs Ng. Now it seemed to be the right thing to do. After all, Grandfather Young and his brothers had left home when they were young men; so had Grandfather Woon-duk when he lost his father at the age of twelve. I might become a sojourner one day. And for now, I might be living with Third Aunt in Macau, then Grandmother Young and Ping in Hong Kong.
‘No one knows what the future holds,’ Baba said to me that night, ‘but we must seize any opportunity to get us out of our lot in life. With some luck, I may see you in Macau soon.’
There was little time for further discussion. Baba pulled out his treasured fountain pen, a Hero brand he’d taken all the way to Heilongjiang and back. He looked unsure about the whole matter as he printed my name on one of the application forms. He paused to suck on his cigarette, glanced at me for a brief moment and shook his head, before filling in both forms.
Mama sat motionless, staring at a photo in front of her for what seemed to me a long time. In the photo she was sitting with Weng and me on either side. She took out the tailor’s scissors that she had refused to turn into steel. She looked at me. Her lips quivered as if she was going to say something but couldn’t. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her hands were shaking. Baba and I watched as she cut me out of the photo. The tears now rolled down her face. I sat close to Mama and held on to her. I don’t remember if I was crying. The uncertainty ahead was all too much for me to fathom; my mind went blank, and I felt numb.
Baba lit another cigarette. He went to sit in his dim corner and fell back into his thoughts.
‘I’ll save some rice tomorrow to glue the photos to the forms,’ said Mama.
I could feel the fragile hope, the timid longing, that sprang up in my parents and grew each time they filled in an application form. Seemingly from nowhere a burst of energy would come, enough for them to put forward another application, enough to carry us through to the next rejection.
I heard my parents consoling each other that night, as they often did while hanging on to every little shred of optimism until the next refusal slammed them down. ‘We have to be thankful even if only one of us makes it out,’ they said.
CHAPTER 18
On 15 May 1962, two days after Mama had handed in the application forms to the District Head, my friends and I were on our way home from school for our lunchbreak. My class had recently turned its attention from the black elements – landlords, capitalists, counter-revolutionaries, Americans, rightists and even the Russians – in order to concentrate on revitalising the fast-declining Great Leap Forward spirit and fending off starvation. We continued to salute Chairman Mao and wish for him to live ten thousand years and ten thousand more – as well as pledging our support to Liu Shaoqi, our new chairman, who had admitted the famine was a man-made disaster and promised a new deal to end starvation. To us at school, the Party was still the only way forward, our only hope, and we rallied to overcome hunger and bring prosperity to China.
When my friends and I got to the end of Come Happiness Street, we perched in the last bit of shade to gather our dissipated strength before our midday bridge challenge. This was always a formidable task in summer: without shoes we had to sprint as fast as we could over the bridge to save our feet from being fried on the hot planks. I clearly remember how the heat smouldered from the slats that day, blurring the view to the other side of the river where the country began, as did Come Happiness Road. I tried to imagine pleasant things on the country side to take my mind off the challenge: those juicy lychees that were ripe for stealing when the guards weren’t watching, then something to eat at home, followed by a swim in the cool river, and, of course, the chance to catch a glimpse of the dragon boats practising.
The granite slabs we sat on were rough but cool in front of the unappealing Come Happiness Bridge. Ah-dong slumped onto the shady footpath and was prepared to stay there until the sun dropped out of the sky. But the lychees were on the other side, ripening, enticing us. All of a sudden, Ah-dong got up and gave the signal to charge. A bunch of barefoot kids took to the simmering bridge. We ran as fast as we could, screaming and cursing as we leapt from hot plank to hot plank.
Suddenly my tall Eighth Uncle was there in the middle of the bridge, pulling me to an abrupt halt. The others ran past. Yiu-hoi called out to his father, and Eighth Uncle told him to go home.
As I danced up and down to ease the rising pain in my feet, my uncle bent over and whispered to me, ‘Ah-mun, you are going to Macau!’ His voice trembled with obvious joy, along with some strange, mingled emotions. He looked at me closely and muttered the same words a little louder. His eyes glinted.
I was confused. How does my uncle know our plan? I stood still on the hot planks with my feet burning, not knowing what to do. My feet still sizzle every time I recall that remarkable moment.
I ran back towards the shady footpath while my tall uncle marched behind me. By that time Yiu-hoi and my friends had reached the other side and plunged their burning feet into the cool stream. They couldn’t be bothered with what Eighth Uncle was telling me.
‘The authorities approved your application,’ he said, his voice still distorted with joy.
‘But what about Mama and Weng?’ I asked, unsure if Ying was included in the plan. I sensed that her patriotism worried my parents.
‘That may take a few more days.’
‘Oh, does that mean we can all go together?’
‘Not sure. But you must leave as soon as you can.’
‘Why?’
‘Your parents asked me to get a bus ticket for you so as not to arouse the neighbours’ attention. An ex-student of mine works at the bus station.’ My uncle’s hushed voice was just loud enough for me to hear. Any neighbour’s objection could mean suspension or cancellation of the approval: people power in a totalitarian society, Baba often said. Eighth Uncle was on his monthly weekend off work and had gladly taken on the job of securing a bus ticket to the border. ‘You mustn’t tell any of your friends, not even your cousins at home,’ he made me promise.
Without delay, we headed towards the bus station, located on the west side of town. We kept our voices low as we walked on, even though by then hardly anyone was around in the narrow, humid streets. Eighth Uncle walked triumphantly on his lanky legs a little ahead of me. It was obvious that he was very excited, as if he was the one leaving. The truth was that he wouldn’t even dare contemplate applying for an exit visa and thereby risk persecution as an admirer of the capitalist West. But I could feel his happiness for me, palpable and vibrant, carrying me along like a chariot. If it wasn’t for the fear that the authorities might change their minds, I was sure he’d have loudly sung the great news to let the whole of Shiqi know. As for me, many feelings rushed about in my head like a flight of lost sparrows, noisy and directionless.
The bus terminal was deserted except for a few comrades sound asleep and snoring on the only two benches against the wall. My uncle headed swiftly to the little window and called out for somebody, who respectfully addressed him as Teacher Kwong. Only one bus went to the border each day, at six in the morning; the next day’s was already full. Eighth Uncle settled for the following day. A young face popped through the window. ‘Be here early to get a good seat,’ she advised, staring at me with envy.
On our way home, my uncle offered me a lot of advice. ‘Seize the opportunity. Work hard for whatever you do. Never stop learning. Never be complacent or take things for granted. Be respectful to others and they’ll respect you . . . And one day, you’ll make a glorious return . . .’
A glorious return like that of the sojourners? My mind was still circling in confusion. In less than two days, I might never be hungry again. I tried to count the hours until I left for Macau, where, in my memory, food was in abundan
ce. My mouth watered, and I swallowed the saliva to ease my hunger pangs. I was happy to leave the starvation behind, but I was already starting to miss home, my parents and sisters and friends. How I wished they could leave with me. I didn’t hear much of what my uncle was saying. Incoherent thoughts kept ringing in my head until the hunger cramps took over. Usually this didn’t bother me, as I was used to hunger; however, it was different that day when I became so tangled with excitement, relief, worry, anxiety and, now, fear – that I might fail as I had seven years earlier. I hoped it would be different this time. In silence I walked on behind my uncle, who kept reminding me to keep my trip a secret from all my friends, including his sons, Yiu-hoi and Ah-ki.
The lunchtime crowds had abandoned the lethargic town for their much-needed food, meagre though it was, and a siesta to replenish their fast-dissipating stamina. The few surviving sparrows hid in the shade and were quiet. My uncle and I stopped outside the noodle shop, the only eatery that was still open. It too was deserted. It catered mainly for the town’s Party officials and comrades. ‘It’s bourgeois and extravagant to eat out,’ my father often said. The shop operated every day until they sold out of the only item on the menu: plain noodles in watery prawn-shell broth, garnished with a small pinch of finely chopped shallots. Each bowl cost ten fen plus a 250-gram food voucher. That day, the scent of boiling prawn shells made my mouth water. I couldn’t resist my uncle’s invitation. We sat down, and – not caring who would be the lucky ones to eat the prawn meat, which, like many foods China produced, was probably exported for foreign currencies – I enjoyed the most delicious bowl of noodles I’d ever eaten.
*
When I got home, Mama immediately took me to the black market and bought a live young carp with her last yuan. We headed to the banks of the Wonder River and released it into the water. The carp lingered in the shallows, confused, disorientated and not knowing what to do. It flapped its fins and swam in circles on its side. Mama bent over, caressed it and calmed it, just as she did to us when we suffered from hunger pains. ‘Now go; far away you must go,’ she said. Before long, the young carp recovered and swam into the deep of the river, to safety. We stayed on to make sure no one would recapture it for food.
That evening my family celebrated behind closed doors, without making too much noise. Ying was excited that I would soon be eating many baguettes with butter. It was hard to keep our elation to whispers. We laughed. We cried. We huddled together and made lots of promises. Even Baba shed tears for the great news.
‘You now have a bright future ahead of you,’ he said to me.
I’ll never forget the sparkle in my parents’ eyes as they held me long and hard, and told me what to do and what not to do after leaving home. They made me promise to keep quiet to protect our good fortune until I had finally crossed the border – the District Head could change his mind at the last minute.
Mama kept flapping a dried palm leaf in the shape of a fan at us to drive away the mosquitoes and keep us cool. There were no cakes, not even a biscuit – no food at all. There were no soft drinks, only lychee tea. Yet, we were glowing with radiant joy under the fifteen-watt globe that repeatedly blinked and dimmed.
*
The next morning I went to school as usual. My parents had reminded me a few more times not to say goodbye to any of my friends and schoolmates, just in case. We were still at the mercy of the District Head.
At lunchtime I took my last bridge challenge. ‘I’ll wear a pair of shiny leather shoes to walk over this bridge next time,’ I boasted to my friends as we paused to rest in the shade of Come Happiness Street. I wasn’t sure why I’d made such an audacious prediction when everything around us was so gloomy – maybe to stop the burning under my feet I already felt in anticipation of running. Perhaps I was thinking of the sojourner from the Gold Mountain with his shiny leather shoes. Or perhaps I was delirious as a result of the most unexpected opportunity that had been handed to me by the District Head.
The boys burst out laughing. Ah-dong’s big head swung so much, I was sure it would drop off that day. Then I realised I’d blundered, unable to contain my excitement.
‘That’ll be the day,’ Ah-dong said, straightening himself up, patting his stretched tummy. ‘A shirt and tie would look good on you too. Ha, ha, ha . . .’ He must have been remembering that same sojourner, and those yummy biscuits.
I looked at our soiled feet. Grime and dirt mixed with sweat had coated our skin from our toes to halfway up our shins. Hardly anyone in Shiqi could afford proper shoes, even the comrades, though at least they had khaki cloth sandals issued to them by the Party. The few families like ours who had regular across-the-border visitors might get a new pair of sandshoes very occasionally; but when that happened to me I would refuse to wear them because they looked too new and therefore not revolutionary – I didn’t want to stand out in the crowd for fear of being called a bourgeois or even a capitalist. Even fewer people, only the likes of the good Mrs Lee, had proper shoes.
With my new eyes I saw that our clothes, our patched T-shirts and torn shorts, were in need of a good wash. Yes, I’ll be wearing neat clothes and shoes after tomorrow, but I’ll be missing all of you, I thought as I stood on Come Happiness Bridge watching my friends soak their feet in the running water while ignoring the rising heat in my own feet.
‘Come join us and stop dreaming, Ah-mun,’ Ah-dong sang out. ‘You think too much. You worry too much, and you dream too much. When you become rich one day and wear leather shoes and a tie, I’ll come visit you.’ He looked at me and laughed again. ‘Will you still remember me?’
‘Of course,’ I said, kicking gravel at my friends on the riverbank. ‘I promise.’
More laughter broke out. But Ah-dong stopped his giggling, and his stare was unusually pensive. He seemed to know I was serious.
CHAPTER 19
The night before I left for Macau, my parents invited me to sleep in their bed. We talked and cuddled and made promises and didn’t sleep much. We got up at four the next morning. The universe was at peace; nothing made a sound in the stillness outside, not even a dog barking.
Mama checked the small grey leather case a final time. It had once belonged to Grandfather Young, and he’d given it to Mama on one of his two visits back to China after his departure for Hawaii in 1921. The letters GY embossed on one corner in gold gleamed under the dim globe in our room that day. Mama had stored her tailor’s scissors in it. She gave it to me for the journey, packed with a few clothes Ping had brought back from Hong Kong – clothes I’d refused to wear because they were new and not revolutionary enough.
My parents could offer me nothing more. Mama had already carefully prepared my grey cotton pants by leaving them pressed overnight under a heavy rosewood Mandarin stool turned upside down on another. With her charcoal-heated iron, she pressed the white shirt Ping had brought home on one of her trips.
‘The shirt looks smart on you,’ Baba said as he fixed up the collar the way it should be: buttoned all the way to the top, even without a tie. Mama looked on with a sad smile.
Dawn arrived, splashing a warm glow on the terracotta tiles in the front hall. Ying and Weng were up, as were Eighth Uncle and Sixth Aunt. My aunt said what good fortune it was for the family to have a young child leaving starvation and hardship.
Baba had lit three incense sticks in front of the ancestors’ plaques in the third lounge room. Three small cups of tea stood in a neat row on the large rosewood table. They looked lonely to me, although three of everything was the custom in paying respect to our ancestors. ‘“Three” sounds like the word “life”,’ Baba would explain, even though I doubted he believed it. He also often said these things were superstitions, nothing more. But that morning, I think he believed in them. As the most senior male at home, he took the lead, standing solemnly in front of the table as he offered respect and gratitude to the ancestors and other deities. He requested forgiveness for the lean offering, which was all that we could afford. He then asked for
their blessings for me as I left home for good. My uncle followed, then my aunt and Mama. Then I too offered my sincere respect and thanks to the ancestors. A strange feeling rushed through me as I stood in front of the rosewood table. I was now ready to become a man, ready to take what fate would bring, with blessings from my ancestors and my family. The doubt and fear of being away from home began to dissipate.
‘Oh, Ah-mun, don’t forget to pay respect to Guan Gong, our guardian angel,’ Mama reminded me. I wasn’t sure exactly when Mama had become so superstitious.
I went into Yiu-hoi and Ah-ki’s room to say goodbye. They were sound asleep, so I woke Yiu-hoi. Still half-asleep, he realised I was going to Macau, where a thousand toys and many games were available, and plenty of food. Envious, he wished he too could go there so he wouldn’t have to make his own toys anymore. I promised him I’d come home one day and bring him toys, fishhooks, chewing gum, biscuits and sweets. I gave him my precious bamboo sword, which I used for fending off aggressive geese. I gave all my toys, including my favourite kites and fishing gear, to him and Ah-ki. I then made Yiu-hoi promise to help Weng care for the new chickens and my goldfish. And he was to take charge of our little gang, with Ah-dong. I told him the pocketknife I had received from my father after his return from prison was to go to Ah-dong.
Yiu-hoi got out of bed, now fully awake and upset by the realisation that he would miss me. He insisted on seeing me off at the bus station, and we decided to let Ah-ki sleep.