by Justin Hill
Little Dragon sat in silent and ignorant awe of the white sparkle on the horizon, and wondered what a planet was. Liu Bei rocked him on her knee, bounced him so he giggled. ‘Who’s a big strong boy?’ she said.
‘I am!’ he snapped.
‘Who is?’
‘I am!’
‘Who is I?’
‘Me!’
She looked around, a sweep that included everything except him. ‘Who said that?’ she called.
‘ME!’ Little Dragon shouted and stamped his foot, then fell back laughing. ‘ME-ME-ME!’
They sat and looked out of the window at the crescent moon. Her fingers traced familiar paths through his silk-soft black hair; scratched his scalp, rubbed his hair smooth again. The west wind trawled up inky black clouds that blotted out moon and stars till Liu Bei and Little Dragon were looking up into a black night sky with no way of knowing which way was east or west. At last Little Dragon spoke in a hushed voice, ‘The moon’s gone, Mother.’
Liu Bei leant down and whispered behind his ear, ‘That’s because she’s shy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re staring at her.’
‘If I don’t look will she come out?’
‘Maybe.’
Little Dragon put a hand over his eyes, and peeped between the crack. ‘She’s not there!’ he protested.
‘You have to give her longer than that.’
He hid his eyes and peeped again.
‘I can see you!’ his mother said.
His fingers closed like scissors.
‘I can still see you!’
‘I’m not looking!’
‘Yes you are!’ she tickled him under the ribs, ‘you’re looking!’
They spent the evening sitting up, watching a dance show on the TV. Pop stars came on to sing Hong Kong and Taiwan pop songs, and Liu Bei sang quietly along. Little Dragon listened and laughed, and his mother rubbed her hand through his hair and kept singing softly. She kept singing until all the celebrities came on together at the end, and the orchestra began the first bars of the national anthem.
‘Come on young man,’ Liu Bei said picking him up, ‘time for bed.’
‘Can’t I stay up?’
‘But then you’ll be so tired!’
‘I want to stay up!’ Little Dragon pouted and his lower lip trembled.
‘Who’s a strong young man?’ she asked, her fingers moving in to tickle. He shoved her hand away, as his eyes filled with tiny teardrops.
‘How about I take you kite flying tomorrow?’
‘I don’t want to go kite flying. I want to go to Grandma’s house. I hate stupid kites!’
‘Oh dear,’ she said taking him to his bed. He punched her, fingers curled into a miniature fist. ‘Heh! Who are you hitting?’
‘You!’
‘Why?’
He turned away and didn’t answer.
‘Heh?’
The back of his head was rigid and silent.
‘Heh?!’
He stayed silent.
‘Oh dear!’ Liu Bei said, tidying his hair. His little face was twisted in a scowl. ‘Come on then, you can sleep with me.’ She tickled him softly behind his ear. ‘How’s that?’
He wrapped both arms around her neck and buried his head into her neck. She carried him into the bedroom and laid him on the bed, tugged off his shoes and socks.
‘So–who wants to go to the toilet first?’ she managed to smile.
‘Me!’ he said, jumping down and pattering off on bare feet. Liu Bei sat on the bed and turned to look in the cracked mirror. She stared at the broken reflection of her face as the wind began to build outside. If she hadn’t had him her reflection wouldn’t be looking so worn and weary. She wouldn’t be single either, she thought. Outside a gust blustered in the trees and made them sing. She suddenly wondered if he could hear it too, wherever he was.
Little Dragon came running back in, and jumped up onto the bed. He yanked the quilt back and flung it down over himself, peeping out.
‘Have you cleaned your teeth?’ she snapped.
He nodded solemnly and Liu Bei took her turn in the bathroom. When she came back she stood in the doorway for a moment, turned the light off, then undressed. There was a whisper of clothes dropping to the floor, she felt the cool touch of air as she stepped towards the bed. She dug a T-shirt from under the pillow, pulled it on, and climbed in next to her son. He was small and warm, curled up like a foetus. He shifted when he felt her near and buried his face into her side; uncomfortable but comforting.
The bed slowly warmed up, and Liu Bei lay with her eyes open; stroking her son’s soft hair and listening to the wind in the trees.
Little Dragon’s voice came from under the sheets. ‘Mother…’
She absent-mindedly traced a finger behind his ear, ‘Hmmm.’
‘What does Daddy look like?’
‘He’s tall and strong,’ she said.
‘Does he look like me?’
She tried to smile. ‘Oh yes. And he likes kite flying and reading books.’
There was silence as she stroked his head. Then Little Dragon spoke again. ‘I thought he liked basketball and karaoke.’
‘Oh he likes that too.’ She could hear the impatience in her voice and wished she couldn’t.
‘Mother,’ Little Dragon began again, ‘when is Daddy coming home?’
‘I don’t know. Go to sleep.’
He shuffled closer and she squeezed him. ‘Go to sleep,’ she said, softly this time, voice blending into the measure of a lullaby as she repeated, ‘go to sleep,’ and his breathing slipped into the soothing and predictable rhythm of dreams.
As Little Dragon dreamt of soldiers Liu Bei listened to the rain outside just beginning to fall and remembered how she and Da Shan had sworn to each other that whatever happened they’d wait for the other. It had been raining that night as well. She tried to work out how long ago that had been now and stretched her toes under the quilt. She wondered where he was, what he was doing, and whether he was thinking of her at that moment.
Like she was thinking of him.
The spring rains continued from grey dawn to grey dusk, through black night and back again to dull wet day. The streets and paddy fields were flooded with acres of water pock-marked by unforgiving rain.
Behind Number 7 block of flats Old Zhu dug over the heavy soil of his allotment feeling his feet sink further into the yellow mud of his Motherland, as if the soil was claiming him already. He dug harder but the effort exhausted him, so the harder he worked the less he got done. At last he leant on his spade handle and wiped his white hair, felt his pulse flutter flirtatiously and curiously thought of the day of liberation, October 1st 1959, when Chairman Mao Zedong had stood at Tiananmen Gate and announced the founding of the People’s Republic of China. Mao had waved to the millions and declared that the Chinese people have stood up; then spent the next twenty-five years kicking them to the floor again. Old Zhu looked at his vegetable plot and didn’t know why he bothered, nor why he should have remembered Mao’s speech now of all times, when it was raining.
As Old Zhu thought of Mao, Da Shan caught a taxi to the centre of town. The driver forced his way through the confused traffic, his hand pressed down onto the horn the whole way. At the cross-roads next to the Main Post Office the traffic had welded itself into an irrevocably solid mass. Policemen in dark sunglasses gathered like vultures and added more tangles to the chaos by blowing whistles and issuing contradictory orders. The taxi driver slammed to a stop, and rammed his hand down on the horn. Beep! Beep! Beeeeeep! He began punching his steering wheel–Beep! Beep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!
The policeman blew a whistle and motioned the driver to go forward, but he couldn’t. Beeeeep! Beeeeeeeep! The driver gesticulated and the policeman blew his whistle again, this time at the jostling crowd who took no notice at all.
‘Forget it,’ Da Shan said, ‘I’ll get out here.’
The crush on the pavement swallowed Da Shan up, squeez
ed him tight like a long-forgotten friend. He cursed the confused jam of peasants and salesmen and shoppers as they hugged him closer and finally managed to push himself across the pavement. He edged a short way up the street, then turned down a side alley that ran between two mirror-fronted shopping arcades.
The alley took him back into the old town of crooked alleys and cluttered houses, of courtyards walled off from the main road and barricaded with old wooden gates. He found the shop he was looking for through a round moon gate. Inside was a paved courtyard with buildings on three of the four sides. A family was moving out, everything they owned was piled up in the middle of the courtyard: there was an old writing desk, a box of clothes and shoes, a red plastic bucket with the family’s wok and chop.
‘I’m looking for The Meng Family Number One Antiques Shop,’ Da Shan said.
A woman pointed across the courtyard.
Da Shan stooped under the door lintel, then he straightened himself up and looked around. The room was cluttered with objects that dated back to the Old China, before liberation in 1949. Rare treasures and commonplace things that had managed to survive the years of starvation, poverty and the destruction of the Red Guards. In the middle of the dusty paraphernalia was a little boy, sitting watching TV and eating chocolate. He saw Da Shan and jumped down and ran out of the door shouting ‘Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandpa!’
An old man with a young face appeared and found Da Shan studying a fine porcelain cup. On it there was an exquisitely painted young girl, sitting under a cherry tree of pink spring blossom.
‘It’s from the Ming Dynasty,’ the old man said, taking it from Da Shan’s hand and slowly turning it upside-down. There was the potter’s stamp in red on the bottom, but it wasn’t clear. ‘Made in the time of Emperor Wang Li,’ the old man said.
There was a tiny porcelain teapot to match. ‘It contains only three cupfuls,’ the old man told him, ‘for luck. Made from Red Sands Clay. Came from the West Lake. Highly valued. It’s been in my family for generations.’
There were lines of characters that went down the side of the pot:
If there were no cherry blossoms in the world
then I could find peace.
A Song Dynasty poem, Da Shan thought.
‘Where did you get all this stuff from?’ he asked.
The old man smiled, ‘My father gave it to the government after liberation. He gave everything to the government. Then twenty years ago I found the receipts inside the mattress and claimed it back. Some of it had been lost, but this is what remained.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘I know.’
‘My father had an ancient coin collection he’d had since childhood.’
‘Did he get it back?’
‘Did he hell,’ Da Shan said.
The television churned out excited chatter as Da Shan examined the cup and pot. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he said at last.
‘They’re from the Ming Dynasty.’
‘How much?’
‘Seven hundred yuan.’
‘For the pair?’
The old man laughed. ‘Each.’
Da Shan put them back and moved on. The TV kept talking to itself as he paced through the room. He turned his concentration on to objects from the past and the TV’s noise turned to silence. Carved wooden panels with gold paint still sheltering in the deep grooves, porcelain pots and vases, a copper kettle, a beautiful copy of The Classic of Filial Piety and the first volume of Ban Zhao’s Admonitions for Women.
Da Shan picked up the Admonitions, the brown paper was still soft and clear. He lifted the book and sniffed the open pages: there was a faint air of rose perfume that clung on in spite of the years.
Each life has its limit
but sorrow has none.
Da Shan put the book down. ‘I want the cup and the teapot,’ he told the man.
‘Good.’
‘How much did you say again?’
‘Seven hundred each. That makes one thousand four hundred yuan.’
‘I think you said it was cheaper than that.’
‘How much cheaper?’
‘Much cheaper.’
‘Because we are friends–one thousand for the pair.’
‘Six hundred.’
‘My friend, these are from the Ming Dynasty.’
‘Five hundred.’
‘Nine hundred.’
‘Too much.’
‘Eight hundred and fifty–I can’t sell for any less. I have my grandson to care for.’
‘Where are his parents?’
‘They work in Shanghai.’
‘Then you must be rich.’
There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other, both of them smiling.
‘Seven hundred.’
‘Eight hundred and fifty. Really that’s my very lowest.’
‘Eight hundred.’
‘OK.’
The old man wrapped the cup and teapot in a sheet of China Daily, and put them in a white plastic bag, cultivated an air of sadness as he counted the money. ‘Look after them well,’ he said slowly, ‘they’ve been in my family for generations.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have sold them.’
The old man smiled. ‘If Heaven lets a plum fall then open your mouth.’
Da Shan smiled back. ‘If you eat too many plums you’ll get the shits.’
Da Shan stopped at all the antique shops he could find hidden in the winding streets of the old town. At one shop, owned by a young boy with a squint, he bought an old scroll of The Venerable Scholar that was torn and ripped. At another shop, run by an age-pickled woman, Da Shan found a dragon ink stone from the late Qing Dynasty. The ancient woman wobbled about on bound feet the length of his forefinger, and when she got close she stank of piss.
‘My husband was a businessman,’ she said when she took his money. ‘That’s how I got these things.’
Da Shan took the bag and moved away from her.
‘I was the most beautiful courtesan in Shaoyang. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now would you!’
‘No.’
‘It’s true though. He bought me for ten thousand yuan, but we were never happy.’ She sniffed. ‘I only gave him two daughters. He always complained: that’s a woman’s gratitude!’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘Oh–he’s been dead for years. They shot him. He was a capitalist, you see. Into all kinds of perversions.’ The memory of his perversions made her laugh out loud, but she didn’t elaborate. ‘But we’re all capitalists now,’ she said, ‘aren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ Da Shan said and turned to walk back into the street.
As he left she called out to him, ‘Does sir like to play in the flower garden himself?’
Da Shan looked round and saw her coming towards him with a grotesque smile. ‘If you want to play the butterfly, then I have some things to make the flowers taste sweeter,’ she cackled. In one hand she held some silken ribbons, and a book in the other.
‘What are those?’
She held up the ribbons. ‘Shoes for bound feet! Only three inches long!’
‘And that?’ He held out his hand and she put a set of bound books into it: The Most Noble Dong Xuan’s Thirty Heaven and Earth Postures.
‘I used to use this with all my customers!’ she whispered.
Da Shan turned the title page; there was a picture on silk, with accompanying text:
Leaping White Tiger: the Master prepares to introduce his new bride to the pleasures of Clouds and Rain. He turned to the next page.
Hovering Butterflies: the Jade Stem awaits the Flower’s Heart.
The Mule in Springtime: the Turtle Head dives into the Golden Gully.
The hag took the book from him and turned to a familiar page.
‘This is the best,’ she said.
Da Shan studied the detail of the painting: it showed two lovers in the bamboo grove entwined in the agony of love.
Offering to the Male Warrio
r, read the caption. Recommended methods: Before penetration move the Yang Peak slowly and steadily as if refining one of the Five Elements. After penetration: Float and sink in the same movement, like a duck on the ripples of a lake.
‘Are you married?’ the smell asked.
‘I am.’
‘You can use it with your wife!’
Da Shan turned to the next page, looked, and then shut the book. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re divorced.’
‘Divorced, huh?’ The smell moved closer. Her breath washed over him, it had a different more unpleasant odour. Da Shan looked down into her gap-toothed mouth, at the gums that had receded so far her few remaining teeth were like the irregular stumps of fingers, clawing for food. ‘A wife is never as sexy as a mistress,’ she giggled close to his face, ‘and a mistress isn’t as exciting as an affair.’ He stepped back, but she kept coming forward. ‘And the troubles of an affair are easy to handle compared with love for an unattainable beauty.’
‘I don’t know how you know,’ he said, pushing past her back into the street.
‘I’ll give it to you for six hundred!’ she called out, but he kept on walking. When he was almost out of earshot she shouted ‘And I know where the sweetest flowers grow!’ but he kept on walking around the bend, where her words could not go.
When Da Shan got home his mother was waiting, with all the food for dinner chopped and ready. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded, wanting to be angry, but just feeling relieved he’d returned.
‘Shopping,’ he said.
She smiled and ran a hand through her hair, training it back. ‘Now you’re home,’ she said deliberately, ‘I’ll start cooking dinner.’
He ignored her and said simply, ‘I found these,’ took out the pot and the cup, the scroll of The Venerable Scholar and the dragon ink stone.
His mother picked them up one by one. ‘Wah–we used to have these when I was a child,’ she said. ‘So many things like this.’
Da Shan watched his mother feel their weight. ‘I don’t know where they all got to.’ She slowly turned them over in her hand, the cup, pot, and the heavy ink stone with its carved dragon. ‘They were smashed or stolen during the Cultural Revolution. We smashed and burnt so many things–and then when the Red Guards came to take your father they destroyed everything else.’