Pearl of China

by Anchee Min

  “I admire your work at the Nanking Daily,” Dick blurted out to me. “How about working for us?”

  Though I was flattered, I was taken aback by his directness.

  “You will be guaranteed your own page plus the weekend edition,”

  Dick continued. “You can run it any way you want. We’ll match your current salary and add a bonus.”

  I turned to Pearl. My eyes said, “Can you believe this man?”

  She smiled.

  Dick turned to Pearl and began to speak English with a Chinese accent. “Welcome to China,” he said, bowing with exaggeration. “It is my honor to meet you! Hsu Chih-mo tells me that you came to China in diapers. Is that true? No wonder your Chinese is flawless. Do you know Chinese is a very dangerous language for foreigners? One slip in tone and ‘Good morning’ becomes ‘Let us go to bed together.’”

  The debate was moderated by Hsu Chih-mo. The topic was “Should novelists write for people or write as people?” The discussion soon became heated.

  “A novelist’s duty is to wake society’s conscience,” Dick insisted. “He must make the peasants learn shame—I am talking about those who bought and ate the bread made of the bodies of the revolutionaries!”

  The crowd clapped.

  “China is where she is because our intellectuals are selfish, arrogant, decadent, and irresponsible,” Dick continued. “It’s time for our novelists to demonstrate leadership . . .”

  Pearl raised her hand.

  Hsu Chih-mo nodded for her to speak.

  “Have you ever thought,” she said, “that it might be the author’s choice to write as the people? No matter how you justify the horror of an act like the one you just used as an example, the fact is that China’s majority is made of peasants. My question is, Don’t peasants deserve a voice of their own?”

  “Well, you must pick a worthy peasant to portray,” Dick responded. “Like harvesting a fruit tree, you pick the good apples and throw away the rotten. Again, you have an obligation toward society, which needs a moral compass.”

  “Does that mean you won’t publish authors who write with the voice of the real people?” I asked.

  “Personally, I won’t.”

  “Then you are denying representation to ninety-five percent of China’s population.” Pearl’s voice was pitched.

  Holding firm in his view, Dick declared, “We deny these small-minded, ill-mannered characters a voice.”

  “Who will you publish then?” I asked.

  “The authors who are committed in their fight against Capitalism,” Dick replied. “In fact, we are aggressively seeking to publish works by authors that represent the proletarian class. We’ll assure these authors’ success.”

  “Dick wants to change the world,” Hsu Chih-mo teased.

  “Shouldn’t it be up to the readers?” Pearl challenged.

  “No,” Dick said. “Readers need guidance.”

  Smiling, Pearl disagreed. “Readers are smarter than we think.”

  “Mrs. Buck.” Dick lowered his voice, although it was still loud enough for the room to hear. “I was the editor who rejected your manuscript. I am sure you have tried other publishers without success. My point is that we, not readers, decide.”

  Pearl got up and quietly walked out of the room.

  I rose and followed her.

  Outside in the hall, Pearl rushed toward the door. Hurrying my steps, I suddenly heard footfalls behind me. I turned and there was Dick Lin, coming my way.

  I paused, thinking that he might wish to apologize for his rudeness toward my friend.

  “Willow,” he called out as I stopped. “Willow, when can I see you again? I would love to buy you a cup of tea sometime.”

  I sneered and turned, making my way toward the door.

  Hsu Chih-mo’s wet hair fell across his face. He stood in front of me by the garden door. His hand reached up to his face to wipe away the rain. “I come to apologize to Pearl for my friend if he has offended her.”

  I said, “Pearl Buck has told me that she no longer wishes to be part of the Nanking literary circle.”

  “Dick didn’t mean to attack.” Hsu Chih-mo insisted that he have a chance to speak with Pearl face-to-face.

  I stood looking at him and wanted time to stop. My emotions churned and I started to feel sick inside. I kept telling myself: The man has no interest in me! But my heart refused to listen. My eyes luxuriated in the sight of him.

  Hsu Chih-mo looked away uneasily.

  “I will pass the message,” I said like a fool.

  Pearl sat by the table and drank her tea as if she was lost in her own thoughts. I had torn her away from her writing and brought her to my house so that Hsu Chih-mo could talk to her. I was sure that Pearl would leave as soon as he delivered his friend’s apology. I waited impatiently for my own private time with Hsu Chih-mo.

  “Dick is oblivious.” Hsu Chih-mo leaned forward, holding his cup in both hands. “He is combative by nature, but he is good-hearted. He is a genius. To have a conversation with him is like planting seeds together. Wisdom will sprout once you allow sunshine. Only those who appreciate honesty can enjoy Dick. He is passionate about what he believes.”

  “So you are here to deliver Dick Lin’s message?” Pearl’s eyes were on the tree outside the window.

  “No,” Hsu Chih-mo said so gently that it was as if he had merely breathed. “I come to deliver my own message.”

  She didn’t ask to know.

  He waited.

  I found myself tortured by the fact that he tried to get her attention, tried to get her to turn her head.

  CHAPTER 18

  Many years later, after Hsu Chih-mo’s death and after Pearl had become an American novelist and had won both the Nobel Prize and the Pulitzer Prize, she wrote about him.

  He claimed me with his love, and then he let me go home. When I arrived in America, I realized that the love was with me, and would stay with me forever.

  He used to sit in my living room and talk by the hour and wave his beautiful hands in exquisite and descriptive gestures until when I think of him, I see first his hands. He was a northern Chinese, tall and classically beautiful in looks, and his hands were big and perfectly shaped and smooth as a woman’s hands.

  I sat in the same room with Pearl and Hsu Chih-mo. It was my home, but I felt like a ghost.

  Dick Lin was no longer their topic of discussion.

  Hsu Chih-mo was talking about a famous musician, a blind man named Ah Bing who played the erhu, a two-stringed violin.

  “Ah Bing is a perfect example of someone who created his art as the people.” Hsu Chih-mo’s tone was rushed, eager to get his point across. “Before Ah Bing became an artist, he was a beggar—something the critics choose to ignore. Ah Bing spent years wandering the streets of the towns of southern China. He dressed in rags and was bitten by hungry dogs. He became famous because his music moved people. Listening to his erhu was like hearing him tell the stories of his life. He made my heart weep and made me want to be a good human being. He didn’t set out to inspire or guide . . .”

  “What do you imagine occupied Ah Bing’s mind when he played?” Pearl asked.

  “I have asked myself the same question.” Hsu Chih-mo’s hands gestured like birds in the air. “Did Ah Bing think that he was creating a masterpiece? Was he impressed with himself? Did he think that he was claiming an important place in Chinese music history?” Hsu Chih-mo turned to look at Pearl as if asking for her opinion.

  “More likely, he was thinking about his next meal,” Pearl responded.

  “Precisely!” Hsu Chih-mo agreed.

  “Ah Bing wanted only to please the passersby for a penny or two,”

  Pearl continued. “Hunger drove him. I imagine him apologizing for being a bother. At night, he slept below the ancient walls or outside the train station . . .”

  “Yes, and yes,” the poet Hsu Chih-mo echoed. “During his waking hours, he played his erhu to forget his misery.”

&
nbsp; “Ah Bing would take up his bow. Sorrow would pour from his strings . . .” Pearl followed.

  “Yes, Ah Bing, the greatest erhu player that ever lived. His music is considered the symbol of the Yangtze River. It starts at the bottom of the Himalayas and flows like water across the vast plains of China to the East Sea and out into the Pacific Ocean.”

  They spoke as if I were not in the room, as if I didn’t exist. I could feel the force pulling them closer. It was strong. They were my real-life Romeo and Juliet, the Butterfly Lovers. I sat behind Hsu Chih-mo in the corner of the room by the shadow near the curtains. I held my breath and dared not stir. Moment by moment I saw love take root in their hearts. They blossomed like flowers. It was fate.

  I was amazed to be both witness to and victim of a great love. I was touched by their birth of feeling but sad beyond description because my heart withered.

  “I share Ah Bing’s joy in the warmth of springtime.” Pearl’s voice came gentle and soft. “I smell the sweet scent of jasmine and I see all beauty under the sky. Ah Bing’s love of life touches a commoner’s heart. My favorite is ‘The Fair Maiden.’ His longing for her is endless and deep. His musical depiction of the sunshine in a girl’s eyes brings tears to my eyes.”

  Hsu Chih-mo turned toward Pearl and their eyes locked on each other.

  “It was in music that Ah Bing escaped the life he was living.” Hsu Chih-mo’s voice was so quiet he was almost whispering.

  “Yes,” Pearl uttered. “Through music Ah Bing became the hero he desired to be.”

  They stopped.

  The sound of a teakettle boiling came.

  “Excuse me.” I got up and went to the kitchen. I tried to press back my tears.

  I emptied the teapot and refilled it with cold water. My hands were shaking.

  After a time, I heard Hsu Chih-mo say, “That is how I felt when I read your manuscript.”

  I didn’t hear Pearl’s response.

  I looked out the window. The sky was dark gray. The sound of the mountain creek was clear.

  “I have to go,” I heard Pearl say.

  I tried not to think that Hsu Chih-mo stayed because he felt sorry for me. I invited him for dinner and drinks. Alcohol went to our heads and we became animated. I joked about my marriage and he his. Hsu Chih-mo spoke of his confusion with feminism. I asked about his infamous love life.

  “Don’t tell me that you hate it,” I said.

  “I do, believe it or not.”

  “Come on, you are living every man’s fantasy!”

  “Willow, my friend, you have had too much to drink. A cold shower would do you some good.” Hsu Chih-mo shook his head.

  I let him know that I was upset that his thoughts were still with the one who had left.

  “You are attracted to Pearl Buck.” I turned to him and made him look at me. “Don’t even attempt to lie.”

  He smiled. “What makes you think that?”

  “Can you tell me that it is not true?”

  He lowered his eyes. “I am a married man.”

  “I am drunk.” I threw my cup at him. It missed. “Now get out!”

  I would have felt better if Pearl and Hsu Chih-mo had admitted their attraction to each other. Their denial and resistance made it worse. Pearl avoided Hsu Chih-mo at the university. She went to Lossing and persuaded him to move back home, which he did.

  Pearl buried herself in her room and wrote feverishly. She sent out her manuscript East Wind, West Wind and finally found a small American publisher willing to take on the book. She was happy, even when the book didn’t sell well. She didn’t care. She couldn’t stop writing.

  She started another novel. She let me see a few pages a day from her rough draft. I ended up reading the entire manuscript. It was The Story of Wang Lung, a title later changed to The Good Earth. I could see the shadows of villagers whom we both knew. Pearl described a world I was familiar with but had never encountered in Chinese literature. She changed my perspective. She made me see things I intuitively knew to be true.

  “I am doing this behind her back,” I told Hsu Chih-mo when I shared Pearl’s manuscript with him. I asked him to help find the manuscript a home so that Pearl could earn an advance.

  Hsu Chih-mo promised to try.

  I must say that I brought this upon myself—if Hsu Chih-mo hadn’t already been in love with Pearl, this would have pushed him over the edge. Hsu Chih-mo believed that Pearl was a true artist, the Ah Bing of literature.

  We went on being good friends. Finally, after much beating about the bush, Hsu Chih-mo asked if I could pass along a letter to Pearl Buck.

  It was a thick letter.

  I told Hsu Chih-mo that I would think about it. The truth was that my jealousy of Pearl was growing by the day. And I was hurt by the fact that she had never even made an effort to attract him.

  Pearl was the only faculty member who voted against the renewal of Hsu Chih-mo’s teaching contract. She refused to explain her action to the others.

  “He wasn’t telling the truth when he said that money was the reason he applied,” she said, frying cabbages in her wok. “He needed to pay off his wife’s debts, so he jokingly claimed. He fooled everyone on the committee but me.”

  “Did you read Hsu Chih-mo’s comments about your new novel?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “What do you think?”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  “Did they please you?”

  “Yes, very much so. It was generous of him.”

  “Do you think he understands what you wrote?”

  “He is the only other Chinese person besides you who understands my writing.”

  “There is a big difference between us. Hsu Chih-mo’s credentials give him the power to influence others.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t use his help.”

  “Then why do you keep rejecting him?”

  She closed the lid on the wok and turned away from the stove. “I am confused about my feelings for him.” She paused before continuing. “He inspires my confidence and creativity, but . . . I am terrified at the same time.”

  “Are you falling in love with Hsu Chih-mo?” I watched her eyes.

  “I feel like I am about to tumble down a hill.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Willow, please.”

  “Don’t you think you owe me at least a clear answer?” I couldn’t help raising my voice. “I am not blind and deaf as you assume. I have been poisoned by the air you two breathe. I am a strong woman capable of handling my own crisis. I am honest with myself. I have the courage to chase after my own dreams. Unfortunately, I can’t force a man to fall in love with me. By God’s grace, I have been blessed with everything else but the love of a man. One thing is clear: As long as you are in the picture, I don’t stand a chance with Hsu Chih-mo. What can I say? Bad luck? Or do I tell myself, Okay, you can’t have him but your best friend can? To tell you the truth, my heart is not that big.”

  “What would you like me to do?” Pearl said apologetically.

  “I want you to stop lying to me!”

  “Willow, I didn’t lie to you. I have never lied and never will.”

  “Oh, donkey shit! ‘I am confused about my feelings for him,’ for example. Are you, really? You know exactly what is going on! You know you are in love with Hsu Chih-mo. You know you can’t run away from him, though you tried and tried like a rabbit running from a forest fire.”

  “All right, I sinned. How do I make it right?”

  “Admit the truth. Can’t you see that I need a shoulder to cry on?”

  I accepted Dick Lin’s invitation for tea. We met at a small teahouse at the foot of the Purple Mountain. It was a warm autumn afternoon. I was in my blue coat with a black silk scarf.

  Dick wore a French-style collarless jacket and a matching French hat.

  The moment we sat down he started to talk about himself.

  “I worked in the fields with my parents before I was five,”
he began. “My father was determined to get me an education although he was a poor peasant. I went to school naked like other boys in the village. The new teacher was from the city, and she didn’t expect to see a bunch of bare-assed monkeys. She screamed the moment she stepped into the classroom.”

  Dick had an abundance of self-confidence. He demanded his audience’s attention.

  I studied his features as he talked without pause. It was a strange picture of harmony. The lizard eyes went well with the crooked nose. The thin-lipped mouth fit the small chin. Although I didn’t like him at first, I began to warm up to him, to his openness, his childlike enthusiasm, and, most of all, his will to believe in dreams.

  “I traveled after I escaped my village,” Dick continued. “My father chased me and beat me. He even pushed me into the river trying to drown me. I went abroad as a student worker. I lived in France for three years. I worked during the day and went to school in the evening. In Paris I experienced Communism firsthand.”

  Dick laughed and then paused to observe me.

  I tried to be present, but it had been a long day and my mind began to wander. I nodded and asked, “So, what brought you back to China?”

  “I didn’t miss my family, but I did miss my country,” he went on. “I was twenty-two. Never before had I felt so strongly that I could do something to help change the world, to reverse the inequity between the rich and poor . . .”

  Although he lacked the grace of Hsu Chih-mo, I found myself listening.

  “I could have been silent and remained unaffected.” He looked at me, eager for a response. “I could have imitated an ancient sage and hid myself away in the mountains. Instead I chose to lead a purposeful life and fight for the people.”

  His tone was charged with energy. I was strangely moved.

  The clouds drifted low to the ground and the crowns of pine trees spread like beggars’ arms. Dick and I followed the trail leading to the top of the Purple Mountain. I thought about asking him to reconsider publishing Pearl’s novel. But the moment he said he would do anything for me, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to be beholden to him.

  Pearl deserves honor, not mercy, I thought.