A Chinese Affair

by Isabelle Li

  With her legs spread, Raven felt very exposed. Doctor Campbell was busy adjusting the bed, as a bright light from behind his head shone directly onto her private parts. She felt like an empty stage before a puppet show.

  ‘Just relax.’ Doctor Campbell inserted a duckbill speculum, twisting it into position and opening it up. He used long forceps to pick up soaked cotton balls for rinsing, and she felt the cleanser going in cold and dripping out warm. He removed the speculum.

  ‘Now I’m going to use a probe with a camera and you can see what’s happening on the screen.’ The probe looked similar to that used for ultrasound but was hollow in the middle, to allow other instruments to be inserted. The first instrument was a long needle for the injection of local anaesthetic, which produced a numbing sting.

  A different needle attached to a long tube was then inserted. On the computer screen to her left, Raven could see the needle puncture the ovary wall and poke a follicle. The liquid inside was sucked out and the follicle slowly collapsed like a deflating balloon. A nurse stood behind Doctor Campbell with a tray, on top of which was a line of upright tubes. Doctor Campbell squeezed the orange-red contents into one of the tubes and the nurse carried it to the embryologist, a tall young man with blue eyes.

  ‘There’s one.’ The embryologist zoomed in the microscope and Raven saw a close-up of the egg on the screen hanging from the ceiling. It looked like an air bubble in the water, easy to burst.

  She felt pain in the core of her body, so deep that it was almost undetectable. Like the movements of continents, or big boulders rolling and colliding beneath the surface of the earth, the pain was distant and muted.

  After taking Raven home, Julian went to the supermarket. He liked picking up fresh fruit and vegetables in small quantities. Raven used to drive forty-five minutes to Flemington Market to buy in bulk, which he initially endured, but he went on a hunger strike after they ate eggplant for a week. She eventually gave it up after they’d each had to eat five oranges per day to prevent the fruit turning into green furry monsters.

  As time went by, he felt himself fading into obscurity. Life had become all about what she wanted and planned and worked hard for. He just felt tired, as if he was running a marathon with no resting point and no end.

  He found himself at the checkout counter with a basket of frozen berries, broccoli, onions and sweet potato—all the things Raven liked. As for what he would have liked, he no longer knew.

  He thought that once she had a baby, he would no longer be required. If he carried on, he would sink in the quicksand. But she was made of lighter materials. Raven, with her super-organised efficiency and pragmatic approach to life, would be able to formulate and execute a good plan. If he let her go, she might just make it to the other end.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon chopping wood while Raven took a nap. She once said that when she was young, she’d read Hans Christian Andersen’s stories and dreamed about living in a house with a fireplace. There would be snow outside and she would be reading in front of the fire. When they bought the house, she was fascinated by the slow-combustion stove. She ordered expensive firewood, which the seller claimed to be old railway sleepers. But they were quite big, so he had to chop them.

  When he finished chopping the wood, he stacked the wedges in the carport and swept the floor. There should be enough to last her through the rest of the winter.

  Doctor Campbell had not been able to collect all of Raven’s eggs because one or two follicles were too close to the major arteries. The embryologist told her that among the six oocytes collected, two of them were a little immature and smaller than the others. On Day One after the egg collection, she heard from the clinic that four eggs had been successfully fertilised.

  Raven felt euphoric. She saw signs everywhere, as if there were cherubs teasing her: hidden flower buds behind leaves, new shoots growing from drainage holes, new patterns suddenly appearing on old carpets.

  On Day Three, she received another phone call: all four embryos had divided normally, two had eight cells, one had seven, and the other six. Raven felt an overwhelming tenderness for her embryos. They were lonely and cold in their respective saucers right now, struggling to survive, but one of them would soon be inside her, safe and warm, where it would thrive.

  Raven told Julian about her appointment for embryo transfer on Day Five but did not ask for his company. There was enough on his shoulders, looking for a job while coping with the pressure of trying to have children.

  It was a fine day, bright and breezy, with a few scattered clouds. Raven sat next to the window on the bus and rested her feet on the heater near the floor. The harbour was beautiful in the morning, like a huge gemstone, reflecting the sunshine and lighting up the city. She noticed a type of climber on the walls of the expressway, in the shape of trees. One day, her child would ask if it was a forest pressed onto the walls.

  When she was waiting inside the day surgery, the embryologist came in to talk to her. He drew on a piece of paper how a blastocyst should look, with a mass of cells forming in the middle to become the foetus and a chain of cells forming on one side to become the placenta. He explained that one of her embryos had reached the early stage of the blastocyst, although the cavity between the cell mass and the chain was not yet obvious. The other three were not yet in the blastocyst phase.

  For the first time, Raven felt fear. One embryo had barely made it and the others were behind schedule. Although she had read the IVF success rates, and understood that results were not guaranteed, she had never had any doubts.

  Before the transfer she saw the embryo on the screen—a bubble that did not seem bigger than before but had more content inside. Doctor Campbell said, ‘Think positive thoughts,’ which worried her. Did he see the image and have concerns over its quality? The transfer took only a few minutes. Doctor Campbell told her that the embryo was like a sesame seed between two pieces of toast with butter and jam in between. It would not fall off and she could conduct her daily activities as usual.

  She felt precious. There, in her uterus, under layers of her winter clothes, beneath the skin, the fat and the abdominal muscles, behind the messy intestines, a little seed, bearing all her hopes, was about to start a life. Did it like its new environment? She had to take extra care now that she was nurturing her secret treasure.

  She received a phone call the next day: none of the other three embryos were suitable for freezing.

  In the late afternoon of Day Fourteen, Raven went out for a walk. She could hear kookaburras laughing in the distance. She could hear frogs, although she never knew if they were quite close or far away. There was the sound of tree branches beating. Or was it a bird that she did not recognise? She had accumulated considerable knowledge about the flora and fauna in this country, which she had hoped to share with her child.

  Two days before, she had detected a hint of pink in her discharge, reticent, like the early morning sky suggesting a rainy day ahead. Her body was emitting a musty sweetness, like a peach hanging low on the branch and about to drop to the muddy ground. She had started to bleed at midday today.

  She felt the flow between her legs, wet, insidious, patient. Flowing out was her secret joy and caught on the pad was her secret sorrow. She felt her body becoming lighter and lighter, as if she was losing her life force.

  The river reflected the tranquil forest submerged in a pink haze, a subtle moment of consolation.

  She came back home and took a shower. She heard Julian opening the front door and his heavy steps. He must be carrying the groceries.

  They had a simple dinner and washed the dishes together. Then he asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ she said, standing in the kitchen. Despite her tiredness, she looked clear and pure like a painting freshly touched up by the artist. Her face was cleanly washed with grief.

  He took a tea towel and dried her hands. ‘I already know.’ He pulled her towards him and embraced her.


  She buried her face in his sweater. Her body shuddered while she wept.

  He helped her onto the sofa. Although it was a mild day, he had started a small fire.

  She cried for a long time and then stopped. She leaned on his shoulder while he traced the contours of her face and the shape of her temple, stroked her arm and thigh, feeling her weight, and smelling the sweetness of her hair.

  She closed her eyes but she was not asleep. She could see years of life before her like a river, carrying with it rubble and debris. They would be wading across, holding hands. But such unity would come at a price. Many times she would have to compromise, in return for care, tenderness and loyalty. It would be all right, not perfect, but all right.

  The crackling fire filled the silence and lit the otherwise dark living room. Outside, a sliver of silver was hanging in the sky, a new moon, a glimpse of hope.

  By the Riverbank

  On 30 April 1989, Labour Day eve, I decided to leave my country.

  The day started well, with no sign of tragedy. Or maybe there was, but I was only seventeen, not yet experienced enough to notice. As usual, we woke up to the swallows singing around their nest in our roof. Fourth Sis propped herself up and told me about her dream. She had sold something to a customer and could not calculate the right change. She ducked her head under the counter, pretending she was searching for small notes and coins, but then she forgot how much money she was given in the first place. She laughed and called herself silly, yawned and rubbed the crusts from the corners of her eyes. She asked if I had dreamed of Ming. I thought for a while and replied that I had not; I had dreamed, instead, of historical dates and the names of cities. Ming had told me that the best time to study was before bed, so while I was asleep my brain was doing the revision.

  ‘Get up, lazybones. Aren’t you going to buy scampi?’ Dad came in, carrying with him the smell of tobacco and his morning ablutions. A cold draught slipped in from the opened door, and we could hear Mum lighting the fire in the kitchen.

  We jumped out of bed, quickly ran to the communal toilet and said hello to the neighbours on the way. We washed our faces with the leftover warm water in the thermos flask, then brushed our teeth on the roadside, spitting into the gutter. I suggested we skip breakfast and eat something at the market.

  Fourth Sis insisted I should not wear my woollen jumper, but put on a white blouse with lace. She lent me her plaited belt to fasten the blouse around the waist of my jeans. She combed my hair, let it flow down over one shoulder and tied it halfway with a pink ribbon. She borrowed Third Sis-in-law’s lipstick and coloured my lips, pouting and stretching hers at the same time. She then rubbed a bit of the lipstick on the heels of her palms and coloured my cheeks. ‘Let Ming judge if our country girl is as pretty as those city girls,’ she said when she was finished.

  During the last year, boys had started to look at me. Once, when Dad asked me to buy fifty cents’ worth of fish worms from the market, and two of his goldfish overate and turned belly up, he laughed and said the worm boy must have given me extra. I had Mum’s large eyes and melancholy eyebrows. When I was little, Mum used to caress my eyebrows and worry about my misfortune. Everyone thought she was superstitious, but maybe she had foreseen things others could not see.

  Mum was shocked, seeing me wearing make-up, and almost dropped the washing basin. She poured the water outside the gate and said, ‘You look like a bride.’ Dad was sitting on the bed, practising his repertoire for the next amateur Peking Opera show. When I tried to wipe off the lipstick, he said, ‘If you are pretty, you are pretty. Why hide? In the old time, girls your age were getting married.’

  I felt a bit precious, especially when I put on Third Sis-in-law’s high-heel shoes. But I took them off and decided to save them for the evening.

  Fourth Sis and I walked arm in arm to the morning market. Ming had said in his letter that he missed marinated scampi, and who could do it better than my mum? Third Bro and Fourth Bro had got everything else last night, but scampi had to be purchased in the morning if they were to be eaten raw.

  Dad had been married before and had my first two brothers and first two sisters, but then their mother died. Mum had also been married before and had my third sister and my third and fourth brothers, but then their father died. Dad was classified as Rightist during the Cultural Revolution. He was working in the labour camp one day when he saw Mum walking down the dirt road, with Fourth Bro on her back, and Third Sis and Third Bro holding her hands. She was wearing a blue cotton coat with a white floral pattern. Dad thought Mum was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Mum did not remember Dad but she recalled the black faces emerging from the field, only their teeth white. Mum and Dad married and had Fourth Sis and me. I was the youngest and I had eight siblings.

  Our town was still half asleep on the Sunday morning before the May Day public holiday. There were few pedestrians on the road. Occasionally trucks drove by, carrying haystacks, pigs or workers from the south wearing white towels as headscarves, sitting cross-legged, dozing off, the corners of the towels fluttering in the wind. The blossoms had reached the end of the season, and jade-green new leaves had sprouted to compete for attention.

  We reached the morning market on the outskirts of the town, where farmers from the villages gathered to sell their produce every day. A young man with a red face and bright eyes was selling scampi that looked fresh and lively. He first said he charged seven yuan for five hundred grams, then he said, ‘Sis, sis, I give you for five.’ But we were already walking away. Fourth Sis whispered to me that he might have had an eel underneath the scampi and that was why they moved so vigorously. ‘And who would want to be his sister?’ I added. We bought scampi from an old man and a girl our age. Their scampi were bigger and cheaper. We followed our nose and found roasted corn cobs for breakfast.

  Suddenly the market started to stir. At the other end of the street, two men with red armbands arrived on motorbikes, the officials from the Bureau of Industry and Merchant Regulation. Most sellers dropped everything and even stopped collecting money. They packed up as quickly as possible and ran in all directions like ants escaping a flooded nest. The young man selling scampi was on his bicycle, riding away with the bundle of scampi on the back seat. But he had not secured it properly and all the scampi fell off, leaving behind a shimmering trail. There was no eel, and the scampi were indeed very active.

  We watched for a while and lost our appetite for the corn cobs. Was the episode in the market a warning for what was to come?

  At the junction of the town centre we split. Fourth Sis took the scampi home and I went to the coach station. Ming was going to take the night train from Beijing to Shenyang, the provincial capital, and change to a long-distance coach to come home. The coaches were irregular and sometimes they waited until they were filled up before departing.

  There was a small market around the coach station, selling bread, soft drinks, fruit, nuts and egg wraps. Six or seven trishaws were idly waiting for passengers. I bought a packet of sunflower seeds and waited outside the ticket booth. Two rusty bicycles were chained to the railing. I sat on the top rail, my feet hooked onto the bottom rail, scrunching up my eyes as the sun rose higher.

  Ming was a year older than I. As a mathematics prodigy, he had won various prizes at both district and provincial competitions. Last year, he’d had the highest score in our province for university entrance exams and was accepted by Beijing University to study computer science. He came home for the New Year but did not come back for the winter holidays because he was part of a team developing robots that could play chess. He told me there was a robot chess competition in Osaka every year.

  We had not seen each other for four months. But in my mind, our future had been clearly mapped out. I should have been more cautious and considered all that could go wrong, which at least helps one to prepare for, if not to prevent, the worst. That’s what I do now. But back then, I thought we would always be together. If sometimes we were not, we would be w
aiting to be together, as we were doing now.

  After the second packet of sunflower seeds, another bus came. From the open window Ming was smiling at me.

  Usually when we met, he would grab my ponytail and call me a crazy girl, and I would respond by holding his waist and wrestling with him. Then we would tell each other all the interesting things that had happened since we had seen each other last and debate every issue. Ming was very logical and I was well read. But it did not matter. Ultimately we would resolve every argument by physical competition, mostly wrestling, and end with a good laugh.

  But we did not run to each other this time. Ming looked different. He had grown a little taller, though he was still skinny. I used to call him ‘four eyes’ because he wore a big pair of spectacles with thick lenses; or ‘white head senior’, the name of a local bird, because his hair had started turning grey when he was fifteen. Some grey hair and a baby face with big spectacles made him look really funny. However, I could not say anything cheeky on that day because of the way he was looking at me. His big smile was squeezing my heart.

  We took a trishaw, sitting opposite each other, with his luggage in between.

  There were more cars on the road now. Our town had just been upgraded to a city. New buildings had been erected. An eighteen-level block had been half built and then the developer had run out of money. There were rumours of a corruption scandal. New roads had been constructed, some with kerbs, and trenches were being dug every day to accommodate pipes. Then the same trenches were reopened for the pipes that had been forgotten previously. Our city had become a popular destination for seafood and traditional village-style cooking. Many bathhouses had opened, with dark windows shielding scurrilous affairs.

  Fortunately, all the awkwardness between Ming and me vanished when we went to his home. Ming’s father worked for the weather bureau and his mother was a maths teacher. I had been the daughter in his family since primary school, the daughter they never had. They did not live in a house like we did, but in an apartment building with central heating and gas. They slept on timber-frame beds rather than brick beds.