“Eh?” He said.
“Never mind.”
“I ran out of tea in Fujian Province; I’m very thirsty.”
“I have—”
“Good thing there is free water on the next train for Guilin. It leaves soon, I need to get to platform three. Are you coming with me?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Han. I came to collect you and bring you home.”
He patted my arm. “Thank you for coming to see me, Ting Ting.” He planted his cane to indicate further onward motion.
“MR. HAN!” I yelled again. He kept walking until I stood in his path. “LOOK!” I held up two bags. He stopped to survey my offerings. “I brought tea for you. And baozi. They even had carrot and leek.”
He stopped as he reached me. “That is very kind of—”
“I don’t want you to die,” I blurted. “Please, don’t go to Guilin. It’s not your season! I need you to come home with me.”
He shook his head.
“Even your miserable sister wants you home!” I begged.
He smiled and cocked his head. “I can’t go home until I visit my ancestors.”
“Please,” I pleaded. “Just sit and talk with me for a few minutes and drink your tea.”
“Méiyǒu kòng.” He moved to step around me and continue to shuffle forward.
“Don’t you want your baozi?” I hollered after him.
He didn’t turn.
“Fine, be stubborn! But you won’t win today, Mr. Han; I’m not following you!”
He didn’t make it very far until I bounded several steps in his direction and turned to walk backward next to him.
“Never mind, you win, I’m coming, okay?”
He turned his head and twinkled his eyes at me like a naughty little kid. “You will love my village,” he said, and bowed his head, as though he knew I would be joining him all along.
After an extended debate, he finally caved and allowed me to upgrade his ticket from Guangzhou to Guilin from the car boasting the worst possible conditions in the history of locomotives, to the class I’ll call not-great-but-also-not-terrible. The fare difference? Seventeen dollars per ticket. The cheap and atrocious car was packed wall-to-wall with people and who knows what else. Our car was empty except for us. This allowed him the space to lie down, across three hard plastic seats, using his bag as a pillow on the seat closest to the aisle. I did the same, dropping my head onto my balled-up sweatshirt on the aisle seat across from him.
I was about to launch into my story, how Daniel and I had decided to move home because life was too hard here, but part of me didn’t want to admit it because it felt like I was giving up. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry to disappoint him, that I’d miss our times at Mt. Trashmore, but who knows, maybe I’d continue my tai chi practice back home in between the frenetic juggle of work and family. But before I could begin, his soft snores reached my ears. I glanced over at him. His lips fluttered with each exhale. I sighed and sat up, unwinding my sweatshirt and laying it carefully over his torso. Then I scooted over to look out the window. In a few short hours, we’d be in Guilin.
58.
The burial ground of Mr. Han’s ancestors was about fifty miles south of Guilin, near Yang Shuo. Mr. Han insisted we complete the final leg of our journey by boat. I didn’t question him. After watching him sleep for the entirety of the last train trip and then snort awake with a clear sense of purpose, I resigned myself to the fact that this was his journey, and I was along for the ride until I could turn him around and guide him safely home. I would soak in my time with him, watch him execute his pilgrimage, and only step in when it was imperative for me to do so. I would be the sweeper to his curling stone, mostly gliding alongside, only skating in to madly wield my broom when I needed to alter the course, speed things up, or head off disaster.
Before leaving the train station, we stopped at the minimart near the exit. The lights were off, so I wasn’t sure if it was open, but once my eyes adjusted, I saw a woman in a red jumper that matched the sign out front slumping behind the counter. Mr. Han approached her. After a heated negotiation, he pulled a few rumpled bills from his pocket and she reached into the glass counter to grab a single stick of incense, three mandarin oranges, and a rubber-banded two-inch stack of square yellow paper, each piece the thickness of a phone book page. She put these items into a small plastic bag which he stuffed into his satchel.
“Donuts!” I exclaimed, pointing at a package of six round, powdered pastries. “Are we going to eat soon?”
“Maybe on raft there will be food.”
“Raft? What raft?”
He grunted as he wrestled with the zipper on his bag. I quickly bought the donuts and two bottles of water, unsure of the food prospects on the adventure awaiting us.
I slept for the entire four-hour raft segment of our journey. Whether it was the sound of the river lapping against the bamboo planks, the tap and squeak of the planks as they rubbed against each other, the chatter of our captain with the other fishermen, or the aroma of petroleum as it overpowered my oxygen supply, as soon as my head hit the armrest, I fell into a heavy slumber that could have gone on for days but came to an abrupt end when the boat captain kicked my lawn chair and yelled, “Dào le!” I stood in a daze, pulled my sweatshirt down from my ribs, and wiped the wetness from the left side of my face.
Mr. Han looked at me and smiled as the captain helped him onto the dock. “Nice sleeping,” he said once he found his footing on land.
“Thank you.” I rubbed my eyes and cleared my throat as I stepped next to him. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been complimented on my sleep before.”
Then I looked up and stopped in my tracks. “Wo cao!” F-ing awesome! I said as I took in the spectacular scenery surrounding me: the dramatic Karst mountains surrounded by low subtropical greenery punctuated by the glowing verdancy of newly sprouted rice paddies. The peaceful, majestic Li River flowed to our left, a small dirt path leading to a quaint village to our right. Even without the lovely light of dusk, this would have been a stunning view. This was what I’d wished China had looked like when I’d dreamed my best dreams before arriving. This was a distant cry from Shanghai.
Mr. Han watched me crane my neck like an owl sitting front row at an Imax movie. “I told you you would like my village,” he said and then tapped his cane. “Now we walk.”
“Can’t it wait?” I cried. “I mean, don’t you want to rest here for a minute? Maybe we can eat something? Doesn’t your bag feel heavy? I think you should put your bag down for a short while. Seriously.”
“My bag not heavy. No more rest, we both sleep on raft. Hotels this time of year too expensive. We visit ancestors, then eat traditional food. Get on 10 p.m. bus to go back to train station. Go home. Huí jiā.”
“Okay,” I grumbled like a spoiled child. Although I’d just heard him acknowledge his intention to return home from this trip, which was a huge relief, I wanted to extend our stay for a while. This place was too beautiful to rush out of. But since this was not my trip, I made a mental note to come back here before leaving China with Daniel and the girls. Then I bowed and said, “Whatever you say; I’m following you.”
Forty minutes later, we arrived at the burial ground. It was lovely and green, tucked into the base of the sheer sided mountains. The air smelled faintly of incense. Low trees were interspersed with blocks of marble covered in chiseled characters and patches of moss.
Mr. Han knew exactly where to go. He wove in between stones, finally stopping in front of a carved block of marble that stood about four feet high and eight feet long. He brushed two leaves from the top of the slab and then slid off his satchel and placed it where the leaves had been. He pulled out the plastic bag from the train station, and arranged the three oranges and the stick of incense a few feet away from his bag with the tip of the incense hanging over the edge, which he lit. Next, he took out the stack of rubber-banded papers and set them at the base of the stone. He fished a tiny firecracker and a lighter out o
f his front pocket. He squatted and set the firecracker in front of the paper and then lit it. Snap! It flamed out immediately. Then he lit the bottom of the stack of paper. He remained squatting for a while, watching the paper as it burned, then he reached out for the wall to help him slowly return to standing. He turned to look at me.
“Hǎo le.” He nodded. “Looks good.”
“Yes,” I said, not sure what “good” meant in this situation.
“We can go now,” he said.
“Seriously?” I looked around. “That’s it? After we came all this way?”
He nodded.
“Don’t you at least want to sing your ancestor’s favorite song? Or make a speech? Or cry?”
He looked at his watch, then shook his head. “No, now we eat. Must be on bus before 10!”
He turned to walk back toward the entrance. I grumbled and rubbed my fingers through my knotted hair and followed him.
It was already 8:30 p.m. when we walked into a box-shaped, non-descript restaurant. Only one table had patrons.
“Why don’t we go to a restaurant down the street that looks busier? Empty restaurants make me nervous.”
“Not enough time,” he said. “And this place has dinner special.”
“Oh. What’s the special?”
He shrugged. “Local food.”
“I saw a bucket of snails in the window,” I said.
“Maybe snails then.”
I admitted to myself that if there was ever a time that I would eat something that pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone, this would be that time. The three donuts on the train were ghosts of distant past and my stomach was making noises loud enough to be mistaken for a rabid animal under the table. But I also didn’t want to be sick for our long journey home. This was the fine line I considered as our snails were served. I took a quick, tiny bite of a (snotty, salty) snail and then sucked down two bowls of rice followed by two scoops of green tea ice cream.
“Mr. Han, I want to tell you something,” I said once the ice cream was demolished.
“Mm,” he said. “Hurry, must leave soon.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to tell you. I’m leaving soon. But not from this restaurant. From China.”
He looked at me, confused, and said nothing.
“In three months or so, we’re moving back home.”
“You have more work,” he said.
“I know. I’m not leaving tomorrow.”
“You’ve only just started to improve.”
I laughed. “It’s a stretch to believe I’ve made any improvement.”
He scowled at me, like he was trying to figure something out. Then he slowly stood. “Jiǔ diǎn bàn. Xiànzài wǒmen xūyào qù gōng gòng qì chē zhàn.” It’s 9:30. Now we must go to the bus station.
It was time to commence the first leg of our restful journey home.
Or so we thought.
59.
The two-hour bus ride back to Guilin City was crowded and smelly but otherwise a non-event. The train ride, however, was another story.
“Gù zhàng le,” Mr. Han said after consulting with several uniformed people at the train station.
“‘Gu zhang le’ meaning what? Is something broken?”
“The train is broken.” He shrugged. He didn’t look ruffled by this breaking news.
My good sportsmanship, on the other hand, had soured. My jovial, I’m-just-along-for-the-ride attitude had clocked out for the night. “Shit!” I cried. “What time does the next train leave?”
“No more trains tonight,” he said, scratching his chin.
“What do you mean, no more trains? That can’t be right.”
“Can be right. Next train 7 a.m.”
“Will they put us in a hotel until then?” I sputtered.
“No, too late. Hotels all closed for night.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We wait,” he said.
“Where?” I looked around. “There are no benches at this station.”
He followed my gaze, nodding, saying nothing.
“Don’t you have any friends or relatives around here?”
He shook his head. “All dead,” he said. “That’s why I must come.”
“That would be the reason I wouldn’t come,” I mumbled.
“Eh?”
“Never mind. What do we do? I’m tired, I’m filthy, and what am I even saying? You need to rest. You’ve been sick! We can’t stand here all night, and we can’t rest sitting against a wall—we’ll catch hepatitis! I’ve only been vaccinated against the first two letters of the alphabet, Mr. Han! There could be Hep L, M, N, O, and P out here!” I shrieked, clutching each side of my head.
He paused for a long while, which I took to mean he wasn’t going to answer. Until he did. “We will walk to the park,” he said calmly and planted his cane.
“But why? What’s at the park?” I asked as he led us down the first of several dark streets. “And what do we do when we get there? What purpose does this serve?” I cried into the night.
He ignored me, and I stumbled after him.
“We’re absolutely lost. We walked by that gray building before—I recognize the rust pattern on the blue gate in front of it.”
“The park is still this way,” he insisted. “Yi zhe zou.”
I shook my head and marched up to a policeman on the opposite corner. “Why won’t men admit it when they’re lost?” I asked him in English.
“Shénme?” he said. What?
I sighed. “Bu hao yì si, gong yuan zai na li?” Excuse me, where is the park?
“Nǎge gōng yuán?” What park?
“Zuijin de yige!” The closest one!
“Zuìjìn de ma? Nà dàgài shì qīxīng gōng yuán. Jìxù wǎng nà’er zǒu.” The closest one? That’s probably Seven Stars Park. Continue that way. She pointed in the direction Mr. Han was walking.
I stepped next to him and said nothing. He didn’t rub it in.
Then it started to rain, and I burst into a fit of laughter.
“It’s good to laugh,” he said.
“I’m laughing because this situation has become comical! You can’t tell me that walking in the rain—away from our destination—is a good idea.”
“It’s a very good idea, Tina.”
“But why? How are you so certain this is right? The right path, the right way, the right time to be moving this direction, when every indication says otherwise?”
“I know this is the right path because this is the path we’re on. I know it’s the right time because the time is now. I know this is the right direction because I am listening.”
I stopped and threw up my hands. “Listening to what?”
“To the truth,” he said, rubbing a small circle on his chest with two fingers.
“To the truth,” I repeated with raised eyebrows.
“Mm. And if you can be still in your body long enough, you will hear it, too.”
I paused for a moment, then started walking again. “All I hear is the slap of raindrops hitting sidewalk turds,” I muttered.
“Eh?”
“Nothing. Look! A grocery store.”
“Eh?”
“There aren’t too many grocery stores above ground in Shanghai. And this one’s even open twenty-four hours. That’s not so common there, either. It’s an observation, Mr. Han. See? I must be somewhat still in my body or I wouldn’t be paying attention enough to notice that.” I made a mental note to stop at that store for train snacks on the way back. Anything I bought at this point would get soggy, and I was looking forward to biting into something crisp when I finally arrived in the sleeper car I was splurging for, for the two of us on both legs of our homebound journey. Mr. Han didn’t know it yet, but our ride home would be a welcome, sleep-filled break after this wet all-nighter.
I just hoped he had the stamina to make it until morning. Because while I wanted to protest our ridiculous walk-about in the rain for obvious reasons, there was a reason I
hadn’t wanted to hammer on and on about it, because drawing attention to it might make it worse. Mr. Han had slowed down significantly, and I was worried; he was looking weaker and paler as the night dragged on.
“Shouldn’t we take a break in this doorway for a bit, just until the rain slows down?”
He looked at me and, for a moment, I thought he might agree. But then his vision focused on something beyond me. “There it is,” he said softly. “I recognize the large rock.”
Sure enough, the park was there, straight ahead of us.
60.
Qixin Gong Yuan was huge and surrounded by a tall gate that appeared locked, but when Mr Han pushed on the turnstile, it spun with little resistance. Although the rain had stopped, I could see a few awnings, trees and other areas with coverage inside the gate, so I didn’t question him about entering a place that appeared to be closed for the night.
A woman in a thin brown sweater stepped through the turnstile behind us and scurried down a smaller side path into the darkness. She must know a good place to stay dry, I thought. I considered suggesting to Mr. Han that we follow her, but as we walked into the first clearing, I heard myself exclaim, “Wow!” instead. Because even in the rainy dark, I could see this place was enchanting.
“This is way more than a park, Mr. Han.”
“Yes,” he cleared his throat. “It was deemed by the government to also be a scenic area.”
“Psh,” I scoffed. “That makes it sound like a place where you’d stop to use the restroom. This is more like a nature preserve. It’s so beautiful. Did you come here when you were young?”
He nodded. “This is where my grandfather taught me tai chi, the first place I felt its power.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“That’s nice,” I said, smiling, feeling happy for him to be in a place with such memories. “I take back what I said before, I’m glad you brought me here.”
He continued to breathe deeply.
“Do you think there’s a bench under a tree where we can sit?”
His eyes flipped open. “First I must show you Flower Bridge.”
Fish Heads and Duck Skin Page 25