by Isabelle Li
My mother was standing in front of her ward with a nurse by her side. She was dressed in a floral top and a long black skirt. Her face beamed at the sight of us. I ran forward and hugged her. She felt soft and unsteady.
‘Your mum’s been waiting the whole morning,’ the nurse said. ‘We couldn’t get her to sit.’
‘And I was instructed to go to the airport earlier in case the flight was ahead of schedule,’ my brother said.
We all laughed.
My mother caressed the back of my hand and looked into my face. ‘You must be exhausted, my child.’
‘Where’s the old man?’ my brother asked.
‘He went to sign your mother out,’ the nurse said.
I took out the box of chocolates my father had asked me to buy. ‘Thank you for looking after my mother. This is a small token of my gratitude for you and the others who have worked so hard.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ the nurse said, tucking the box under her armpit. ‘Your mum taught us a lot. Some of the girls with menstrual pain came to consult her and she was so patient.’
Just then my father came out from the lift, still sorting some papers in his bag. Then he saw us.
‘Little Xue has come home!’ He embraced me. He had shrunk and become shorter than me. ‘You came at the right time. Your mother can return home now.’
We bade farewell to the nurses and the doctors on duty.
Sitting next to me in my brother’s van, my father recounted my mother’s illness. She had a massive seizure, and my father discovered that she had forgotten to take her medication for some time. She restarted on her usual dose, but the sudden increase caused myopathy.
‘I lost control of all my muscles. Your brother carried me on his back and I could not even hold on to his neck. I might as well have been a dead person,’ my mother said. She was sitting next to my brother in front, looking out the window.
We drove by Zhongshan Square, where Chairman Mao’s statue was surrounded by a chrysanthemum garden. A group of retirees was dancing on the side.
A half-finished high-rise building, a new ruin, was the landmark opposite my parents’ compound. My brother steered the van through the entrance, managed to avoid the trishaw selling fruit and matches, but splashed up muddy water from a puddle on the dirt road.
The compound consisted of four low-rise blocks. The ground floor of the block facing the street was occupied by restaurants and a bathhouse. Outside the back door of one of the restaurants, three waitresses sat on stools in a line, kneading tablecloths on washboards in soapy water, their legs spread around the aluminium basins, sleeves rolled up. Two waiters were playing badminton in the shade next to the rubbish dump.
At a right angle to the first block were three other blocks. My parents’ unit was in the middle one. The security gate was constantly open because one of the families on the ground floor had opened a childcare centre. We walked up the stairs, passing by upside-down ‘Fortune’ posters* on the residents’ doors, remnants of the last Spring Festival. Advertising material pasted along the stairway gave out the telephone numbers of the same lines of business—plumbing, carpentry, removals, and cures for STIs and impotence—new ones over old ones, as if the walls were blistering and peeling.
My mother had put on a glove before holding on to the dusty railings. She climbed very slowly, her legs struggling under her body weight. She breathed audibly and rested on every landing.
We were greeted at the door by Tyson, still a puppy, according to my brother, but already weighing fifty kilograms. He sniffed my shoes and decided to love me, wagging his bushy tail.
The living room had only one cushion left, now torn to shreds, on the floor in front of the window. A pool of urine reflected the sunlight.
‘Isn’t Tyson too big for the apartment?’ I asked.
‘Look here.’ My father pointed to a corner of the iron railings enclosing the balcony. One bar was sawn open. ‘Had it not been for Tyson going berserk, someone could have broken in at night.’
‘It’s not safe for the elderly to live by themselves,’ my brother said. He then told me that the unit downstairs had been robbed in broad daylight, while the wife, a policewoman, was sleeping after a night shift. She woke up, fought with the intruders, grabbed the blade of one’s knife and injured her hand. ‘Always look through the peephole before you open the door, whether to go out or to let someone in.’
‘Don’t worry, my child,’ my father said. ‘I have an iron rod behind the door, a knife under my pillow and a taser in my pocket. You are safe here.’
After my brother had left, my father and I went down to the restaurant for lunch, while my mother rested at home.
The waitress looking after our table had a red face and a strong accent. The louder my father asked a question, the softer she answered. My father had lost one side of his hearing at a young age, and the other side seemed to have deteriorated. He had developed a peculiar jerk, as though his good ear was tugged by a string towards the source of the sound.
The waitress brought out some cold entrees and a bottle of beer.
‘Have you had your hearing tested?’ I asked.
‘I can make out what’s happening and what’s said. It’s not a big deal.’
‘How has it become so bad?’
‘I was walking on the street during the Spring Festival. A firecracker exploded right next to my ear. I had tinnitus after that, like a gong ringing. Then the tinnitus was gone, along with a good part of my hearing.’
‘I want to buy you a hearing aid.’
‘A friend of mine spent twenty-four thousand yuan on hearing aids, American brand, and guess what, he only hears himself better.’ My father laughed heartily, while trying to hold back the shredded cucumber in his mouth. ‘If you have some money to spare, just give it to your brother.’
I nodded. The first time my brother asked me for money was twelve years ago. ‘It’s not easy for me to speak out, but you know how stingy our father is. I can’t get a cent out of him,’ he had said over the phone, his voice flat and dry.
‘I haven’t been able to find him a job in Australia. I don’t know where to start.’
The first hot dish arrived: stir-fried clams, steaming and glistening.
At a nearby table, a man was swearing his allegiance to one of his mates, his ruddy complexion exacerbated by alcohol, his eyes bloodshot. Others tried to calm him down by sharing around cigarettes. Smoke in one hand, a toothpick in the other, he was momentarily quiet and contemplative.
‘What’s the culture like in your part of the country?’
‘Our ancestors were nomads. The culture today is still very macho: an eye for an eye. People are hospitable, passionate, and wear their heart on their sleeve.’
‘Do you remember Uncle Wang, the psychologist? His daughter bought an apartment in Manhattan. They live with her half of the time,’ my father said, as though making a passing comment. His face, which had once been oily and taut, was now smooth and puffy, slightly feminine. He was regressing into a replica of my grandmother.
‘I’ve inquired about the prospect of you and Mum migrating to Australia. It’s only possible if at least half the children are Australian residents. In our case, it’s one third.’
The second dish arrived, ‘Three Spirits of the Earth’, stir-fried eggplant, potato and green pepper.
‘I’ve quit my job,’ I said.
He looked more concerned than surprised. He chewed with a loud clatter, a few crumbs on his lips. His false teeth did not fit very well. ‘You earned a good salary.’
‘My plan is to write and supplement writing with interpreting.’
‘I also wanted to write at your age, particularly film scripts.’
‘I have an idea for a novel based on our family history. Any photos, letters or old records would be helpful.’
‘I wrote hundreds of letters to your mother from the army. When the Cultural Revolution started, we burned them all.’ He put more stir-fried potato into his mouth.
‘I kept one of your mother’s letters, not to me but to someone else, although never sent. In it she said she never loved me. After we die, you can open it and you’ll know what your mother is really like.’
I had a nap and came downstairs to find my mother dozing in front of the television, her head securely nestled into her neck. My father had gone out to play mahjong. Tyson was lying in the afternoon sun, wagging his tail, waiting for the signal that someone might take an interest in him.
My mother opened her eyes. She looked at me and the surroundings, as though she had lost her bearings.
I sat next to her on the bare couch. ‘Mum, what are you watching?’
‘I’m waiting for the weather forecast,’ she said, then turned the television off.
‘Your brain is the closest to being asleep when you watch TV. It just receives information but doesn’t make any effort.’
‘I watch the science programs. Your grandfather was interested in archaeology.’ She emphasised the word ‘archaeology’ with a childlike conviction. After a while, she asked, ‘What’s the time difference between here and Australia?’
‘Two hours. Sydney is two hours ahead, and three hours during daylight saving.’
‘What season is it in Sydney now?’
‘Winter.’
‘Do you need to wear a woollen vest?’
‘I wear a skirt in winter because the weather is mild. Most of the native trees are evergreen.’
She smiled, as if she had pictured my life and was pleased with it. ‘Do you think in Chinese or English?’
‘It depends. I think in English in an English-speaking environment. Right now I think in Chinese.’
‘You’re like your grandfather. He used to recite Shakespeare.’ She emphasised ‘Shakespeare’. ‘Do you have a dog?’
‘No, I live in an apartment.’ I paused. ‘Do you remember visiting Australia?’
‘Not any more.’ She sighed.
I rested my head lightly on her shoulder. She still smelled of the hospital disinfectant.
‘How are you, Mum?’
‘I’m fine. Just worried about you—all alone, living so far away from home.’
I told her the new direction of my life, and my plan to write about our family history.
‘You are very talented, my child, like the hare, but with the persistence of the tortoise.’
She paused for a moment, her head shaking slightly.
‘Write about your brother. Let the world know what happened to him.’ She sat up and her voice became animated. ‘When he was in detention, I went to see him. He had a bruised eye and a broken lip. He was beaten up every day with belts and boots, until he couldn’t walk. He had scabies on his neck and between his fingers.’
‘I know all that, Mum. Don’t think about it.’
‘He was only seventeen. He happened to visit a primary school friend and joined them for a fight. “Severe punishment for organised crimes,” the government decreed. But it was not even prearranged.’
I put my hand on hers. She was trembling, building up to the story of the summer.
‘There were three young men taken into custody around the same time. They pulled off a girl’s bra on the street, and because there were three of them, it was considered an organised crime. When they were executed by the firing squad, a thunderstorm gathered and the sky went totally dark. Heaven sympathises with the unjustly punished. One of the mothers went psychotic; she refused to pay for the bullets.’
Slowly, she stopped trembling. ‘I’ll tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else. This was many years ago, when we were at the red villa. Once I came home early from the hospital residence, and all the doors were open. I walked up the stairs and heard them, your father and Grandma Chen’s grand-niece from the country.
‘I didn’t want to startle them, so I left. After that I told her she was no longer welcome in our home. We chose not to divorce. I love all of you too much, and so does your father.’
Tyson came over and placed his enormous head on my lap. I wiped away the mucus from the corners of his eyes and smoothed his hair. His face looked wise beyond his years.
My apartment is on a slope facing a golf course and Middle Harbour. From its balcony I witness the ever-changing beauty of the sky, the water and the rolling green. At night, silver mist rises from the valley, and in the morning, wisps of it linger on the loose branches of eucalyptus and dissipate only after the sun is up.
I go to an early yoga class, walking on the quiet footpaths, careful with the stone stairs still wet from the night drizzle or the morning dew.
‘Inhale, imagine waves flowing back to the ocean. Exhale, imagine waves washing over the sand.’
I concentrate on the breathing and the postures, my joints loosen up, my muscles flex and extend, and thoughts fade from my mind. At the end of the class, I lie on my back, close my eyes and let my body relax. I feel sad sometimes, tears stream from my eyes and trickle down my ears. There is a well at the bottom of my heart, which becomes visible when the debris is removed.
It was balmy outside. Mid-afternoon lethargy drifted in the air. It clung to the exposed stomachs of the men with their nylon shirts rolled up to their chest, squatting and standing by the roadside, smoking and hurling abuse at each other. It hung from the high heels that dangled off the slender feet of the young women sitting outside the bathhouses, gossiping, spitting the shells of sunflower seeds all around them into the dust.
A crowd was gathering to watch the opening ceremony of a restaurant. Crimson fabric was draped over the entrance, above which hung a black wooden signboard inscribed with four golden characters: ‘Active Dragon, Lively Tiger.’ People emerged from the neighbouring shops. Cars and bicycles stopped in the middle of the road.
Deafening music blasted from the speakers. A stocky woman with heavy make-up bounded up the red carpet along the stairs. She clapped her hands and started singing a Northwest folk song, her hips gyrating rhythmically inside an invisible hula hoop.
The music was pounding my eardrums. I blocked my ears. People around me seemed indifferent and they started to look me up and down. I made my way out of the crowd.
I read the paper and watch the news, learn new English words every day to enlarge my vocabulary, go to movies and the theatre, make friends and keep in touch.
At dinner parties I participate in conversations about current affairs and the cultural scene, make witty comments. Sometimes I feel lost, listening to my friends debating the definition of a perfect cup of coffee and lamenting the hardship of finding one. Looking at the fine food on the table, artwork on the walls, the mood lighting, I wonder who I am, why I am here.
‘Be of service to the people.’ Chairman Mao’s command was once printed on posters, the front covers of journals, the flaps of school satchels, and I grew up believing that was to be my mission. But who are my people? Have I been of service to anyone?
As if walking in a snowstorm, I look back to find that my footprints have been erased. I do not know where I am and can no longer find my way back.
I stopped at a salon called ‘Weird Cut’. Two boys and a girl in their twenties were sitting outside.
One of the boys stood up. He lifted the back of my hair and shouted, ‘Hey, Sister, where did you get that cut?’ He was very small, dressed in a clean white shirt. With a slightly receding chin and a round face, his head looked like a hazelnut.
‘Is it not good?’ I unblocked my ears and shouted back.
He shook his head and sucked his teeth, as though viewing vandalised artwork. ‘Was it done with a single cut? There are no layers in it.’ His two friends concurred, nodding vigorously.
‘You think you can do a better job?’
‘Of course. Come on in.’
We walked into the dimly lit shop. Large posters of Hong Kong movie stars covered the walls.
I sat in a chair that had lost all its springs. The hazelnut boy draped two sheets over my shoulders and led me to the sink. He washed my hair g
ently and pressed the focal points on my skull.
When we came back to the chair, the singing outside had stopped. Two rounds of firecrackers concluded the ceremony.
‘Sister, you don’t look like a local. Are you from Beijing or Shanghai?’
‘I grew up here. But I live in Sydney, Australia.’
‘Kangaroos! The Opera House! You’re a white-collar belle, Sister, I can tell. How much do you earn?’
‘Quite a lot if converted to RMB.’
While talking, he cut my hair one strand at a time, using a razor. ‘This is a new technique, inspired by an ethnic minority’s ancient tradition of using a machete for a haircut. It’s all in the skill.’
The other hairdressers came in. One sat down and started reading a newspaper. The other one shuffled around, sorting out the rollers and hair dyes. Both pretended not to listen to our conversation.
‘How many days do you work?’ I asked.
‘Every day. We open all year round except for the first five days of the Spring Festival. So that’s when I go home.’
‘Where is home?’
‘Iron Ridge, famous for garlic and comedians.’
‘Your mother must be pleased to see you,’ I said, thinking that I should come home at least once a year.
‘Yeah. But I always get bored towards the end.’ He wiped his hands and turned on the stereo. ‘Have you heard of Xu Wei? I’ll play you one of his songs, “Blue Lotus”.’
It started with slow guitar, then a mellow male voice singing about the heart’s longing for a world of freedom. At the chorus, my hairdresser hummed along.
‘I love the image of blue lotus. A friend of mine once painted an oil of the same title,’ I said.
‘It’s real, you know. I checked. It does exist.’
‘It’s also imagined, I guess, a symbol of hope, of perseverance.’
‘It’s for people like us.’ He smiled at me in the mirror, a small figure among the posters of the superstars, yet competent and self-assured.
We listened together in silence, while his razor blade cut my hair, meticulously, strand by strand.