Cloud Mountain

by Aimee E. Liu

  They went out to sit in the rockery. Mulan was worrying her hands. “I have been a poor daughter to you and my father,” she said.

  I’ll grant you have not been particularly welcoming, Hope remarked to herself, but to Mulan she said, “You have been a very filial granddaughter.”

  “This is not how my father thinks.” Mulan spoke haltingly in excellent but unpracticed English. The care with which she formed her words heightened their undertone of urgency. “I have made a worthless life for myself. When I meet you, I believe that my father accept this doctrine of free love. I want to show him, I, too, am modern woman.”

  “You are a modern woman. You went to college. Aurora University! How many women in China could make such a claim?”

  “I want to punish him as well as to follow him.” Mulan lowered her eyes. “I tell myself I love this wealthy man. He takes me in his automobile. He has a Gramophone. He dines with me in restaurants. I think he is handsome, and when he says he will marry me, I do not refuse him.”

  “I see.” Hope recalled Paul’s comment when he first told her of Mulan’s marriage, that the family would lose face if he forbade it. She straightened her back, motioning Pearl, who was skipping toward them, to go back and check on her sister. “And so you got your way, and now it’s awful, and you don’t know how to get out of it.”

  Mulan looked up.

  “I understand better than you can imagine. Not that I know if I can help. But how bad—why are you unhappy with him?”

  Mulan answered by pushing up her long gauze sleeves.

  Hope stifled a cry. The scars rivaled Paul’s in violence, but were more erratic, as if a blade had been simultaneously dragged and twisted, plowing through almost to muscle.

  When she had regained her breath, Hope covered the girl’s arm with her own hands. Mulan did not pull away. She did not react at all. “You’ve shown your father this?”

  Mulan shook her head. “It is shameful.”

  “But if he is to understand—” Hope couldn’t help asking, “Are there more?”

  Mulan gestured toward her ankles, the collar of her gown.

  “But why?”

  Mulan’s eyes shivered. “I wear the foreign dress. These are exposed. Dalin is Muhammedan.”

  “Surely, even for a Muhammedan, that does not justify … this!”

  “Everything is different for the wife. Must stay inside. Must not read. Must have relations with him whenever… Because I bring him only one daughter, no son, he beats me.”

  “What of this have you told your father?”

  “Only I must leave Dalin.”

  “But Paul is a reasonable man. If you explain—”

  “He say whatever I suffer, I bring on myself. I join my husband’s family, my duty is to that family.”

  “Does he indeed?” Hope stiffened. “Let me talk to him.”

  “He has gone with Yen to the cable office.” Mulan hesitated. “I must leave today. I am to travel with Ling-yi.”

  “Why did you wait so long to come to me!”

  “I think Nainai will help me. Leave money to buy my freedom.”

  “What would that cost?”

  “I think many thousands.”

  Hope shook her head. “I’ve nothing like that much. You’ve told Jin and Ling-yi, then?”

  “Not Ling-yi. She could never understand … Jin knows. He will divide his money with me, but only if Father approves.”

  “Why would Jin, of all people, make such a condition?”

  Mulan frowned. “This is a family matter. And Jin is first son.”

  Hope threw up her hands. “Well, you can’t go back, Mulan!”

  But the girl was picking at the fabric of her gown, avoiding Hope’s gaze. “One of my husband’s guards will come at noon.”

  This brought Hope’s agitation to an abrupt stop. Mulan had sabotaged her own request!

  “I’m at a loss,” she said after a wary interval. “Of course, I’ll try to talk to Paul, but you must agree to show him these scars. Whatever your mistakes, they’re no worse than any of us have made in our turn. No one deserves such treatment.”

  But Paul and Yen still had not returned when Dalin’s guard arrived, early, with strict instructions to see the young women onto the two o’clock ferry. He was a broad, mustachioed Yunnanese wearing soldier’s uniform with a holstered Mauser. He ordered the bags loaded into one cart, then positioned himself impassively beside the second, in which Mulan and Ling-yi were to ride. Hope tried to stall by bringing the children out to say their goodbyes, but they were indifferent to Ling-yi, whose dialect they could not understand and whose position in the household had never been revealed to them; they were wary of Mulan, whom Pearl early on had nicknamed the Ghost Wife; and they were eager to return to their play. Jin’s farewell was hardly less perfunctory. He apparently had little patience for Mulan’s woes and showed benign contempt for Ling-yi’s old-school docility. Finally they could delay no longer.

  Ling-yi was already in the cart when Hope drew Mulan back and pressed a small paper packet into her hands. It contained the star sapphire that Daisy Tan had bought for her in Peking … and the aquamarine and pearl necklace that Paul had given her when she first arrived in China. “Maybe Ling-yi can sell these for you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry there’s nothing more I can do.”

  Mulan’s protests were interrupted by the clatter of arriving rickshaws. Paul descended red-faced and perspiring heavily under his straw boater. He seemed not to know why the women were gathered at the gate. Both Ling-yi and Mulan had told him the schedule, but he was preoccupied with news that Sun had yet again dissolved the Canton government. Hope tried to get his attention, said he should call Mulan back inside, but the guard clicked his heels and respectfully informed Paul that the party must leave at once. Mulan drew her hands—and the packet—up inside her long sleeves, and climbed into the cart.

  “You heard him,” Paul said when Hope again protested. “The ferry will not wait.”

  Then his eyes went to Ling-yi. He studied her with a finality that chilled Hope, for it told her that he would never give this woman—this wife—another thought. He waved with equal finality to his daughter, and she bowed her head and was gone.

  Hope followed Paul to his study.

  “You should not have forced Mulan to go.”

  “I did not force her!”

  “You did not intervene. It is the same thing.”

  “I did try once to intervene.” Paul pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Eight years ago I did everything in my power to persuade her not to marry this man.”

  “Did you?” The words turned up with an ugly curl, and Paul looked at her sharply. He pushed back the door to the adjoining room, where Pearl and Morris were studying, and told them to take their sister to the old Children’s Court and wade in the sand pool there.

  When they were gone he said, “Why this sudden interest in Mulan’s marriage?”

  Hope considered her words, the various approaches. Mulan had laid a minefield through territory that was, even on its face, treacherous.

  “Her sleeve happened to pull back this morning,” she lied. “I saw those ghastly scars and asked how she got them. She didn’t want to tell me, but I insisted, and then it all came out. You must help her get a divorce, Paul!”

  She expected him to ask what scars she was talking about. Instead he tapped the pad of one thumb against his lips and stared at the latticed window. A mosquito buzzed Hope’s ear, and she slapped, crushing it against her cheek, then, sickened, whisked it with the back of her hand. What was it about this country, these people—Paul!—that made honest compassion seem shameful?

  “You will stop at nothing,” she said, changing tack. “You’d fight to the death to achieve Sun’s ideal of a free and unified China. Why won’t you do the same for your daughter?”

  Paul lowered his hands to the arms of his chair and articulated slowly, as if to a dim-witted child or foreign speaker. “Mulan was given every ad
vantage. She was pampered, educated. I gave instruction, she and Jin were to follow my example, have all liberty of modern men and women. On this my mother followed my instruction exactly. This is what my daughter chooses with her liberty.”

  He was looking past her now, his face contracting with such emotion that Hope knew she should leave the matter here. But she kept seeing that butchered flesh, kept imagining the horror of intimacy with a man who could do such a thing. “You speak as though she volunteered for crucifixion just to spite you.”

  “And you mistake her for a victim.”

  “She was a child. Children make mistakes. They should not be made to carry those mistakes like millstones around their necks for the rest of their lives.”

  “When mistakes change the course of fate they cannot be undone.”

  A chill ran down Hope’s spine, though she did not at first know why. Then she realized she was no longer thinking of Mulan. She had in her mind’s eye her own children. Herself. “We’ve made our bed,” she said under her breath. “Now we must lie in it.”

  “What is that?”

  “Mei fatse,” she said bitterly. “American translation.”

  Beads of perspiration broke across Paul’s forehead. “You think I am cruel and uncaring.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get over it.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Help her.” She watched him light a cigarette. His hands were trembling. “At least offer to help her.”

  “How do you think Mulan’s husband knew that her duty here was fulfilled? After three months, knew to send his guard today?”

  Hope got up and moved to the open doorway, fixing her gaze on the rockery. Given the morning’s confusion, she had not thought to question such logistics. The obvious answer was that Paul had notified him, but she held her tongue.

  “I tried to describe for you once the powers of this man,” Paul said. “There is no greater source of wealth than the traffic of arms and ammunition in a country at war. There are no more sinister friends than those of the man who runs such traffic. In your country such men are called gangsters. When I first learned of Mulan’s fascination for this man, I told her what life he would give to her. Do you know, she laughed like a monkey, mocking me.”

  “But she had no choice—”

  “Ah. She tells you a great deal, this daughter of mine. But I learned of her flirtation with Dalin when I first return from America. I confront her then. Two more years pass before her daughter was born. So you are wrong. She had choice. Now not I but her husband and child hold her to it. And she would dare to leave them both.”

  The damp heat pressed against her face. She had not considered the fate of Mulan’s child. “But if she and her daughter came to visit us in Shanghai, we could arrange to get them out of the country—”

  Paul threw his cigarette into the bronze spittoon beside the chair. “Did he allow the child to come to her nainai’s funeral? This man is not stupid.”

  “She’s your grandchild.” Hope stared at him. “You’ve never even seen her, have you?”

  “For eight years you do not speak of Mulan. Her child does not exist. Now you are filled with pity and concern, and you do not take time to think. No, I do not see the child. She belongs to his family, Hope, not mine. There is no crossing a man such as Dalin.”

  “But men like that surely respond to money?”

  He tore at his thumbnail. “Would you give up your house in Kuling?”

  Hope hesitated, thinking of the necklaces. “If that bought their freedom…”

  “It would not even begin.”

  “How do you know, if you’ve never spoken to him—”

  Paul opened a small cedar box on his desk and pulled out a folded paper. “Your Chinese should be good enough to read this. He is practically illiterate.”

  Hope bit her lip at this condescension, but took the note and returned to her chair. Though the brushwork was crude, the characters uneven, the basic message was clear: “In return for your daughter, I will accept your house in Wuchang—with your most admirable library. In return for my daughter, I will accept your house in Shanghai plus an order from your friend Sun Yat-sen for one million dollars in artillery and ammunition.”

  She frowned, her brain scrambling still for resolution. “Would Sun put up the money? He needs the weapons.”

  “Hope.” He rose with a sigh and came around the desk. “You try my patience. Remember when Yüan Shih-kai accepted a loan from the Japanese with condition that it buy Japanese guns? And do you remember that the guns they sent were old and rusted? They exploded in the Chinese soldier faces. For three years Dalin has supplied the warlords in Peking. They have promised to make him governor of Szechwan. This is no deal he is proposing. It is an offer to ruin me and bring down the revolution around me.” Paul reclaimed the note from her stiffened fingers. “You must believe, there is no way other than war with Dalin. And if such war is declared, he will stop at nothing. Not Mulan or her daughter. Not me. Not our children. Not even you, Hope.”

  He uttered these words softly, clearly regretting them. They might have been razor blades applied the same way. Hope turned on him. “No,” she said brutally. “Not even me. Because I belong to you.”

  But he would not be baited. “She was wrong to speak to you.”

  “She was helpless,” she said. There was a long silence and then, without realizing it was happening, she began to cry.

  3

  July 4, 1920

  My dear Hope,

  Happy Independence Day! The American clubs are giving quite a show here in old S-town, with red, white, and blue streamers, sparklers, watermelon picnics, and the Grand Old Flag dangling limp from every Marine warship and Standard Oil tanker in the port. Tonight we’re to be treated to a show of fireworks off the Bund—those of us who wish to drag out into the evening bog to stand wilting as we watch. I don’t think there’s been a breeze through these streets in a month, and the bodies of cholera victims are piling up at an alarming rate in Nantao. I do envy you going to Kuling!

  Now, as to this business about your stepdaughter. I really am surprised your Paul puts up with you, you goose! He must either have the patience of a saint or this must honest-to-Pete be true love that you’ve managed to steal. Will you not come to your senses and understand, once and for all, that you’re in China? This girl has gotten herself into a desperate trap, it’s true, but Paul’s right, she has done it to herself. Think of all the poor women who are sold off like slaves, or your maid back in Berkeley you’ve told me about, being sent by her own father to the Frisco brothels! You mustn’t blame Paul for his reluctance, nor must you box your own ears for being unable to help. Something about this story does not ring true to me. Maybe it’s my cynical nature, or maybe I’ve been around certain tracks more often than you, but your Mulan may have done more than wear a short dress to earn those scars. Mind, I’m not excusing her husband, he sounds a proper cousin to this “Dogmeat General” up north—the one they say favors braised beagle and has fifty concubines from different countries, each with her “conquered” flag on her washbowl! Be that as it may, you must realize, my dear innocent, that some of these wives are up to quite as much mischief as their husbands. Oh, I can see you holding your nose and tossing your head, but it’s true. I advise you to think long and hard before you wade in any deeper.

  As for my happy family, Eugene is off with his new Number Three to the cool of Tsingtao, where he is doubtless cranking up some scheme to borrow money from the Japanese to loan to Old Man Sun. If he’s taught me one thing, this man of mine, it’s that everything—honor, business, duty, and affection—revolves around an axis. And that axis is survival. Call us Godless if you must, but on this my Chinese “lord” and I understand each other perfectly… and I’ll bet your Mulan would agree.

  Anyway, I imagine you have your hands full with your own children and Paul and your work and now, your dream house in the hills. By the way, I do think your rendering of old Nainai�
�s funeral should sit very well with Mr. Cadlow, and Jed says he’s a truckload of funeral shots to contribute if your own don’t turn out.

  So see you in September, dear heart, and build fast! Gene says, if you (and Paul!?) invite us, the boys and I may come up for a stay with you next summer.

  Boodles of love,

  Sarah

  August 23, 1920

  Kuling

  Dearest Sarah,

  We have returned at last to Paradise. The same house Paul secured for us before, the same clear, shimmering cool air, the scents of pine and moss and altitude that are like the purest elixir after the sludge and stink and death and drama we have endured below. I feel healed and energized, almost as if this place had cast a spell on me. I think we all feel it. The children run like Banchees, stripped down to the bare necessities. Pearl gloats at the authority I give her over Morris and Jasmine, but she takes it seriously as a Scout leader and has made energetic hikers of them both. Yen, too, poor soul, as he’s the one who generally trudges along to make sure no harm befalls them. But, in a way, it’s just as well, since he loves them more than Ah-nie does, and he tells them all sorts of mythic stories about the old shrines and temples they discover. Even way up here, it seems the very earth is alive with history. Part of me wants to go with them, but another part is so enjoying this time with Paul, all our excited preparations for our home, that I rarely leave his side.

  We have found the loveliest site for the house, directly above a running brook, surrounded by hillsides of pink and white azaleas, rhododendron, and mountain laurel. There is a gently rising slope for a path and a wide pad that will serve perfectly for the foundation. Back a bit and up, the pines begin, and in the evening there starts the most beautiful soughing, like some sweet, sad string instrument, though it’s only the wind. We are in the upper valley, happily apart from the pious scorn of the lower valley residents. That said, many of the American Y people seem to be genuinely friendly and supportive, inviting our children down to play and Paul and me to tea, and offering many sound construction suggestions. One Randolph James, who built his own lodge in the Adirondacks before being assigned to China, has agreed to draw up some architectural plans, which we can noodle with over the winter and begin building next spring, as soon as the snows melt off. He and Paul seem to get on famously—you should see the two of them standing with the local carpenters and bricklayers arguing ad nauseum over measurements and window placement and materials. We have hit on a stylistic compromise of East and West, which we are calling “mountain style.” Fieldstone and timber beams, gently peaked roof, glass-paned windows but with Chinese proportions, and everything low-slung in the shape of an ell except for a small upstairs sitting room/guest room, which will perch rather like a tower overlooking the whole valley.