Cloud Mountain

by Aimee E. Liu

  How it is—now thinking of the previous day’s outing—to sit pinching one’s skirts for three hours in the outer room of a medical office where the secretary keeps telling you, “The Doctor has not yet returned from luncheon,” in spite of the fact that you have a confirmed appointment and other patients are admitted with the regularity of a metronome. And then, when you finally are shown in, the doctor is not the doctor at all but his half-baked son with gin on his breath and jagged ice in his eyes who asks, “So the father’s a Chink, eh?” and kicks at your skirt with the steel-tipped toe of a boot still muddy from his morning at the racetrack.

  Should she tell her father how it is to take your little girl to play in the park and hear women who would not be hired as scullery maids back in Yorkshire instruct their fat, pop-eyed preciouses not to play with your daughter because she’s a mongrel. Or how the men lean back on the polished brass railings outside their clubs and leer at you as you pass, saying to each other but loudly enough for you to hear, “They take it in their mouth, you know,” or “The concubines give ’em lessons, else they can’t stay in the game, and sometimes there’s three or four in the bed.” Or, simply, “Slut.”

  Nanking

  February 15, 1912

  My Hope,

  It is done. Three days ago the child Emperor abdicated his throne. Next day Sun submit his resignation. Today, like sheep, we bow and elect Yüan Shih-k’ai provisional President. This breaks my heart, to see Dr. Sun walk away from this moment. He walks erect but I can see that, inside, he trembles with anger and disappointment. He will say that Yüan favors him with this new post, Director of National Railroads, but he fools no one. Even Homer Lea has given up and returned to America. Yesterday I say to Dr. Sun, “I, too, will step down from my office to show support for you.” But Dr. Sun says no, I must contain my feelings, work within this government for sake of Republic.

  Do you remember that first day I come to you, our first lesson, when you take that moth out the window, and say, there is peaceful revolution? I think of this time every day now. I remember your eyes, so full of certainty, as if you have power to cast the future. It is I who disbelieved your idea of peaceful revolution. Then last October comes, and China rise up, Manchu armies fall. The boy Emperor now sits, like your moth, alive and well but stripped of his rule. And your powers are proven. Only Western nations do not share your respect for justice and honor. They have prospered by trading with Manchu tyrants and fear true democracy in China. So they circle their gunboats and whisper their bribes, knowing Yüan will do their bidding.

  We must now revise the constitution and decide some other matters. Yüan wants to move capital to Peking, where he can remain living in his palaces like a Manchu. Dr. Sun is opposed, but I suspect that Yüan will prevail. If yes, this can be better for us than Nanking, as Peking is treaty city with foreign legation, perhaps we can live together there. For now I do not know how long until I can return to Shanghai, but I have send to Yen’s care $200. These should pay your needs for this time.

  My Hope, I cannot say what is in my heart as I know you would wish. When we are together, there is no need. Only this distance gives words importance. I try to remember this day when you come to me across the ocean. I have enclosed my poor effort and hope that you will understand.

  My love and most tender kisses for you and our daughter,

  Your husband Paul

  Enclosed with the letter was a poem, written in brush-worked English on a slip of pearlescent rice paper.

  Across Ten Thousand Li

  The door to my humble home swings open,

  Winter’s frost melts to summer rain.

  The morning boat brings you back to me

  On a river that shines like silver mirror

  Reunited at last.

  6

  The first face Hope saw when she came out of the ether was Sarah Chou’s, with an angel looming behind her. “Are we dead?” she whispered.

  “Worse.” Sarah wagged a long, bony finger. “You’ve a little boy. Ah, you’ll be in for it now.”

  The angel lifted her wings, coasted back. Those ridiculous hats. Hope laughed at herself—with effort. “There’s a girl,” crooned Sarah, helping her to sit. “Sore? I don’t doubt it, such a little thing you are.”

  “Where is he?”

  But nurse angel had a way of reading mothers’ minds and was already swooping back down on them. “He looks just like Paul,” Hope breathed, opening her arms to the swaddled newborn.

  “He doesn’t!” said Sarah, leaning closer. “Look, his hair’s wavy, and his eyes are nearly blue, like yours—”

  “All babies have blue eyes,” retorted Hope. “Look at the gorgeous long lashes.”

  “Well! You should be glad enough for the distinction.”

  Hope lifted the baby to her breast. There was the forgotten awkwardness of latching on. The tiny blind mouth rooting. The small desperate gasps and grunts, impossible fingers like anemone wands pulling toward her flesh, the nipple huge—too huge for that mouth, and the spasm of panic that nature would fail at this critical juncture. Then magic. Like some organic puzzle, the pieces all fit and her milk let down, a warm tide of pleasure and sadness rushing through her as her child took hold and began to suckle. She remembered when this baby was conceived. Sprays of night-blooming jasmine by the bed. Rain purring on the roof. She and Paul had kicked off their covers and lain naked and shivering, clinging as if to take refuge inside each other’s skin. Another world. An eternity ago. Yet here was the living proof.

  “No wet nurse for you, either,” Sarah said archly, and when Hope did not respond, she continued, “As I always say, you can marry a Chinese man, but that won’t make you a Chinese wife.”

  “Paul has never made the slightest effort to direct my instincts as a mother.”

  “I see.” Sarah plucked at her skirt. “Well. And what will you call this baby, then?”

  “We haven’t decided.”

  “We?” Sarah turned her head to the right, to the left. “I don’t see any we, dear. Only you.”

  Hope held her tongue. She had asked Sarah to come, had leaned on her far more than she should have these past weeks. With Yüan Shih-k’ai’s transfer of the government to Peking at the beginning of April, it became clear that Paul would not be present for the birth, and in any case, he knew nothing about Shanghai’s foreign doctors and hospitals. It was Sarah who referred Hope to Ste. Marie’s, a large austere missionary hospital in the French Concession with hard mattresses, an overwhelming odor of ether, and religious icons above each bed, but also a reputation for professional and impartial medical treatment for both Chinese and foreigners. It was Sarah who kept her company during the final days of her confinement, Sarah who brought her son, Gerry, to play with Pearl, Sarah who, for all her broad and unabashed ways, was Hope’s only friend in Shanghai. Yet Paul was one topic Hope refused to discuss with her.

  “He is coming back in two weeks,” she said evenly. “Right after the Senate’s inauguration.”

  “Ladies?” The voice, low and polite, came from outside the curtain that ringed the bed. Sarah put a finger to her lips and shook her head for Hope to play mum. The speaker’s shadow turned to a trim profile, raised the shape of a clipboard, and merged with the fanned silhouette of a passing nurse. Sarah squeezed Hope’s fingers, suppressing laughter, but the baby, pulled loose from his nipple, gave them away with a gas-filled squall.

  The curtain opened. “I’m Dr. Mann.”

  Hope shifted awkwardly to cover herself and pat the baby quiet. The doctor, a lean, youthful sandy-haired American, gave a cursory nod and reached for the chart at the end of the bed. “Mrs.—mm—” He glanced not at the mother but the child. That mop of glistening black hair and eyes—two dark dashes over high moon cheeks. He checked the chart again. “Mrs. Leon?”

  “Yes.” Hope’s voice pinched. She had thought there was something familiar about the doctor’s appearance but now decided it was just that patina of efficiency that so of
ten camouflages prejudice.

  “You’ve a fine boy there. May I?” He took the squirming bundle with a peremptory nod.

  As he checked the baby’s pulse and heartbeat, Sarah eyed him curiously. “Are you new to Shanghai, Doctor?”

  “Few weeks,” he mumbled.

  “Where’re you from?”

  He inspected an ear. “Seattle.”

  Sarah tossed a conspiratorial grin. “My last stop in the States was New York, but I’ve been here three years now. Practically an old hand. How are you liking it?”

  “There’s plenty of work.” Dr. Mann tidied the swaddling, returned the newborn to Hope. “Any other children?”

  Hope kissed her baby, ignoring the question. She distrusted this man’s offhand manner and was embarrassed by Sarah’s forwardness. She wished they both would leave.

  “She has a daughter,” Sarah answered for her. “Three years old and already a heartbreaker.”

  “I imagine you’re eager to get back to her.”

  “I wouldn’t be if they’d let her stay with me,” Hope flung back.

  He shook his head. “I know. We have patients going home days, even weeks too early because they’re worried about their families. But the chief here is manic about young children and germs.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It’s a bit late for this now, but if you have need again, you might consider Shanghai Native Hospital. There you may have your children and even your amah stay with you. It’s much more humane.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Hope said coldly. She laid the baby, now fast asleep, in the wicker bassinet by her side. “You won’t mind approving my release for this afternoon, then.”

  He had strange eyes, she noticed, meeting them for the first time. Hazel shot through with strands of pale blue and green. They clouded over. “As I say, in my opinion, you and this child would be safer here.”

  “But,” Hope said firmly.

  He hesitated. “But I understand.”

  “You know, Doctor,” said Sarah, “there’s more goes on in Shanghai than work.”

  His ringless hands rested on the collar of his stethoscope. “Good day, ladies.”

  “Cretin,” muttered Hope as the curtain dropped.

  “Adonis!”

  “Hand me that chart.”

  “You can’t tell me that’s not one handsome man.” Sarah gave her the clipboard from the end of the bed.

  “There.” Hope stabbed the sheet with her index finger. “Mother’s race: white. Father’s race: Chinese. That’s all they care about! Shanghai Native Hospital, indeed!”

  “None of it’s untrue,” said Sarah.

  “None of it matters”

  Sarah dropped onto the end of the bed. “Now there you’re wrong, dear. In this town, it matters more than anywhere.”

  She was dressed in jade-colored taffeta, her flaming hair piled beneath a round hat draped in matching ribbon, yet for all her jauntiness, there was a darkness about Sarah. While Hope would never permit herself to fully trust this woman, she was beyond—far beyond—ignoring her.

  Hope laid a hand on the baby’s forehead, felt the tiny muscles already knotted with dreams. “How do you stand it, Sarah?”

  She didn’t get an answer right away, but when she did, the glibness was gone. “My father kicked me out when I was twelve,” said Sarah. “He was drunk and I was a handful. I still am, and I think that’s what’s saved me. I’m sure no romantic. Had the wind knocked out of me too many times to be ruffled by insults or misunderstandings. But I’m not entirely cynical, either. I don’t think that doctor meant to slight you, Hope.”

  Hope sighed, shaking her head and reluctantly smiling. “I don’t know whether to give you a hug or turn the other cheek.”

  Sarah laughed. “I’ll settle for a chance to hold that baby.”

  Two weeks later Hope was coming up out of a nap when she heard Paul bellowing in the courtyard. “Where is my son! Where is my wife!” The usual commotion of servants, then a burst of giggles. “And my big, big daughter, Precious Pearl.” Minutes later the door flew open.

  Grinning and rumpled, hat askew, tan wool coat thrown carelessly over his shoulders, he looked as though he could swallow her whole, but first donned his spectacles and reached for his son.

  “Are your hands clean?” Hope demanded, as if it were hours instead of weeks since she’d last seen him.

  “My hands.”

  “You’ve been traveling. They’re probably cold, too.”

  Paul let out an exasperated grunt. “Millions of babies born in fields and mud huts, no one washes hands.”

  “And millions of them die. Now do as I say.”

  He inhaled sharply, but did as she said, returning scrubbed and combed, relieved of his coat and chafing his hands, the look of a chastened schoolboy in his eye—but a schoolboy fond of his teacher withal.

  “That’s better.” She lifted an eyebrow and passed him the baby, who in his turn regarded his father with a solemn gaze.

  Paul studied the child’s face only a moment before flipping him across his lap. He peeled away the layers of swaddling, undid the diaper, and bent squinting over the infant’s backside.

  “What is it?” Hope asked, alarmed. “What are you looking for?”

  The baby gurgled and kicked, enjoying his freedom as Paul’s finger described a circle at the base of the spine. A chill went through Hope as she leaned to see the small flat brown mark. But Pearl had one there, too, when she was born. Hope had thought nothing of it, Paul never mentioned it, and in time it had disappeared.

  “He is Chinese!” Paul declared, triumphant. He kissed the mark. Then he leaned across and kissed his startled wife. “You give me a Chinese son, Hsin-hsin. This Mongol spot is our proof. First son of Liang born into the new Republic!”

  Hope’s throat tightened. She reclaimed the child and began methodically to rewrap him. Paul stretched his arms and took a turn around the room, drumming his fingers on the bureau as he passed. He paused to look out the window, called encouragement to Pearl, whose tricycle answered with a metallic clatter. At length he turned.

  “You are well,” he said quietly.

  Hope looked up. Her mouth twitched, but before she could frame a reply there was a rap at the door, and a young, polished brown face peered in. Yen had hired Ah-nie while Hope was still in the hospital. She was from Shantung, strikingly handsome and with excellent references but also smileless and taciturn. She frightened Pearl and intimidated Joy and was, in Hope’s opinion, efficient to a fault. Yet when Hope demanded why Yen had failed even to consult her on this selection, he showed the wire from Paul, dated three days before the baby’s birth and accompanied by a money order made out to Yen’s care, giving explicit instructions to have a new amah in place before mother and child returned home from the hospital.

  “You might at least have trusted me to hire the amah myself,” Hope said when Ah-nie had taken the baby out.

  “Are you displeased?”

  “Displeased.” Hope chewed at the edges of his word as he approached the bed. “No, really, Paul, I’m pleased as punch. I’m living among total strangers, have just given birth at a Catholic hospital because it’s the only one in town where the doctors won’t assault me. I have a servant who acts as if he’s my keeper, because my husband trusts him with his money and his business and even the most basic knowledge of his whereabouts more than he does me. Why ever should I be displeased?”

  He sighed, lowering himself to the bed, and took her hand. It was the old ploy, substituting touch for reason, but it was as effective as it was transparent. She hated to quarrel, and now that he was finally here, the last thing she wanted was to spoil it. Yet she heard herself persisting. “We had a home. If it weren’t for a fluke of history you wouldn’t have been able to come back at all.”

  “You wish this.”

  “If it meant we could be together.” She gripped his stiffened fingers. “Can you really blame me?”

  The compressed lips, the hard bli
nking down and shake of his head—she struggled to read her own will into these gestures. No, he did not blame her, he was wrong to abandon her, wrong to undermine her authority, even—perhaps especially—wrong to believe in Sun Yat-sen’s idyllic vision of a democratic China. But the more she sought to exonerate herself, the more she recognized in his dejected pose the falseness and arrogance of her demands. Here they sat, in a chamber thick with the sweet-sour smells of breast milk and talcum and newborn flesh, the soft fragrance of lilies and freshly starched sheets. Lace curtains stirred on a sun-drenched breeze, and their daughter’s high reedy voice came floating in a counting song through the open window. Here in this room, at this instant, she had everything she was asking for, and yet if this were all she had, whether here or in Berkeley or anywhere, it could never be enough. What she wanted was not for Paul to sacrifice his dreams but to incorporate her into them.

  “Well, I blame myself.”

  He lifted his eyes warily. She touched his cheek. “It’s just that I’ve missed you so,” she whispered. “You can’t imagine.”

  Paul cocked his head. He brought a finger to the tip of her nose, then traced it down over her lips and chin, down to the hollow at the base of her throat just above the eyelet of her nursing gown. He stared for several seconds at the point where he’d come to rest, then inched forward and kissed her lightly there, and again on her lips. He pulled back with a quizzical expression, then kissed her yet again, thoughtfully. When he came up this time his smile was softer, more relaxed. He threaded his fingers through hers.

  “I think we must name our son Morris,” he said.

  Hope fell back against the pillow. “Have you heard a word I’ve said!”