by A. H. Wang
“I can’t begin to describe to you, Georgia, the horrors I saw during this time. It was like the whole world had descended into hell. The sounds of screaming and crying became a background noise in this city. We lived in constant fear. The kind of cruelty the soldiers inflicted on the people was something I hadn’t imagined possible. They didn’t just rape and kill their victims; they mutilated them, did unspeakable things to their bodies. I still have nightmares now, sometimes.”
Amah’s eyes widen as images of rape victims resurface in her memory. As if reading her mind, Georgia reaches for her hand, squeezing it firmly. Amah looks over to her with a small smile that twists into a grimace. Her lower lip begins to tremble as she tells the next part of her story.
“The night the soldiers came to the University, we heard them make a lot of noise in the building. They were yelling and banging around and there were people screaming. Gunshots were fired. My husband picked up the baby and yanked me by the hand. We ran down the hall searching for somewhere to hide, but one of the soldiers spotted us. Two of them came after us, and my husband pushed me into a classroom, shoved the baby into my arms, and shut the door, telling me to lock it. My son was crying, shrieking. I could see through the frosted glass of the door: my husband standing there, facing the soldiers, trying to hold them back. It was useless, of course. They stabbed him with their bayonets, and his blood sprayed all over the glass. He didn’t even have time to scream.”
Amah sighs, tears now welling in her eyes. She feels the familiar ache in her chest, something she has done her best to accept over the years. Beside her, Georgia gasps with emotion. This is the first time she has ever seen her grandmother cry.
“They broke down the door, r-ripped—” Amah stutters, her words breaking off with a sob.
Georgia grips her hand with alarm. “Amah, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”
“No.” Amah wrenches her hand away to wipe at her face. She takes a deep inhale. “No, Georgia. Some truths need to be told. And you need to hear this.”
Her granddaughter falls silent. Recomposing herself, Amah continues her story with as much stoicism as she can muster.
“They broke down the door… ripped my son out of my arms… and, just for fun, one of them—” She draws another breath. “One of them threw him in the air while the other pierced him with a bayonet. They were laughing, but all I could hear was his little body hitting the floor with a thud, and then there was no more crying.” She swallows the lump in her throat, tears streaming down her cheeks. “The rest of it was inevitable… I woke up in the hospital a week later with severe rape injuries and a stab wound in my neck. The doctor told me I had lost thirty percent of my eyesight from multiple head traumas.”
“Oh my God,” Georgia whispers as she chokes off her own tears.
“I was one of the lucky ones.” Amah smiles grimly. “The nurses told me that. A kind-hearted man had picked me up after I passed out and brought me to the hospital. Most victims would have been left to die—there were just too many of them every single night.
“Of course, I didn’t see it that way for many, many years. I hated that I was alive, Georgia. How was this luck, when I was left behind to mourn for my dead husband and son? I wished I had died the night my little boy was killed. I felt guilty for surviving when they didn’t. I woke up every morning with a pain in my heart that made me cry. Like you, I tormented myself for a long time. I couldn’t bear the thought of being happy when I shouldn’t even be alive.
“After the Japanese left Nanjing, and once my wounds had healed enough, I eventually made my way to Hangzhou. Through some family connections, I managed to leave China and moved to Taiwan. Looking back, fate saved me once again because none of my family survived the things that happened after Mao took over.
“A few years later, I met your grandfather.” She smiles, wiping her tears away. “And slowly, through his love, I began to see the errors of my thinking. When your mother was born, I realised life had given me a second chance when it’d been stolen from so many others who died during the war. I realised that life can be cruel, yes; but it has also been generous to me. People can be savages, but they are also capable of great kindness. Just like the man that brought me to the hospital in the nick of time.
“It was only because I let go of my suffering that I was able to live the life I had with your grandfather, your mother, and you. I finally saw that letting go of my pain didn’t mean I was abandoning my son and husband. It didn’t mean I’d forgotten them, because they are still in my heart and I still think about them every day. But now, I only think about all the happiness we shared. I am determined to live my life fully and gratefully, because I want to honour their deaths.”
Amah now turns to look at Georgia, grasping her hands tightly. Her granddaughter, for all of her astonishing intellect, sometimes fails to see life for what it is. She knows her Georgia all too well: she clutched the dear girl to her breast when she was just a baby, whispering stories to her every night. She saw Georgia through her schooling years and teenage struggles, watched her grow into a capable and independent young woman. But all her brains and logic will not save her. Not this time.
“You listen to me, child,” she says firmly. “I know it’s hard for you to see this, but I am telling you this story to let you know that what you are feeling at the moment will eventually pass. Life doesn’t end here. Life is generous. It will bring you other loves, and you never know—maybe even other children. This, I know for sure: life will bring you much more than what you can see right now. Don’t ever forget that.”
Her granddaughter breaks into sobs. This time it’s impossible to hold her tears back.
14
Georgia opens her eyes slowly, blinking a few times against the bright morning light filtering through the curtains of her grandmother’s apartment. Yawning, she stretches, massaging out the kinks in her muscles from falling asleep on Amah’s small settee last night.
The sounds of clinking crockery ring out from the kitchen, and the delicious smell of her grandmother’s cooking drifts over to her. Her stomach rumbles in response. She smiles as she listens to Amah hum a melody as she works in the kitchen. Rising from the couch, Georgia slips into the small bathroom to freshen up, catching sight of her face in the mirror and grimacing at her puffy eyes: the aftermath of last night’s tears.
Sobbing into Amah’s shoulders for over an hour, it was probably the first time she’d had a good cry since Jacqui’s death. Georgia was exhausted afterwards, and only barely registered her grandmother placing a light blanket over her as she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Rubbing her eyes now, she realises that despite the aches in her body from sleeping on the cramped couch, she feels surprisingly refreshed, as if a weight has been lifted from her spirit. She smiles at her reflection in the mirror.
As she emerges from the bathroom, a renewed sense of inspiration comes over her. She decides to send a quick text to Hank:
— Doing some research in Taipei. I’ll call in when I return to Sydney. G.
“Georgia,” Amah calls from the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready.”
“Morning.” Georgia gives her grandmother a quick peck on the cheek as she walks over to help her with the tray of dishes. They sit down on the settee with the food, Amah filling large bowls with steaming rice porridge.
“Yum,” Georgia says, accepting one of the bowls. “Thank you, Amah.”
Amah pats her on the knee. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah. I do, actually.”
“Good. Good to cry it all out.” Amah nods. “So, what are you up to today?”
She considers this as she chews on a mouthful of food. “I think I might head to the Gugong Museum again to see if I can find out anything more about that painting.”
“Ah. Good.” Amah smiles. “I’m glad you’re going to have a proper look into it. Don’t forget, Georgia, the best legends are often inspired by truths.”
Ling Ling Hsia walks through t
he corridors of Gugong Museum, heading for the stairs that lead to the exit. She desperately needs a break. She’s been cooped up in that windowless box that her boss calls an ‘office’ since six this morning, trying to get a report finished for tomorrow. But when her computer crashed for the third time, she decided she should get out and take a walk. The exercise will be good for her anyway, especially since her husband has been hinting she is getting a little soft and round on the edges.
It is early morning and they have just opened to the public, so there are only a few people around. This is the time Ling Ling loves the most in the museum, where there are only a handful of visitors dedicated enough to make the early morning visit before the arrival of the tourist crowd. These early visitors are usually researchers, scientists, and scholars who are sometimes more knowledgeable than many of the staff working on the premises.
Although the museum rotates the exhibition pieces, it is hardly possible to see everything in its immense treasury within one’s lifetime. Even Ling Ling, who’s been working at the museum for almost ten years, has not seen the entire collection herself. She’s been inside the Gugong vaults only a handful of times—large, cavernous rooms hidden under the mountain that are accessed through long tunnels—but everything is encased in temperature and humidity controlled crates, and it is difficult to imagine all the objects they contain.
As Ling Ling walks through the west wing of the second floor, she spots a figure she instantly recognises. Her breath catches in her throat.
“Georgia?”
The woman spins around from the painting she was looking at, and Ling Ling sees that it is indeed her friend, Professor Georgia Lee.
“Ling Ling!” Georgia breaks into a dazzling smile.
Ling Ling booms with delighted laughter and closes the distance between them, embracing Georgia tightly. She looks at her friend, seeing that nothing has changed in the few years since her last visit.
Smart, accomplished and beautiful, Georgia is proof that life is not fair. It is almost easy to hate her for it, but she is also endowed with a humble and kind character, which is why Ling Ling idolises her with no small amount of ardour.
“What a wonderful surprise,” Ling Ling says, “I thought it was you! It’s been a long time. You should’ve told me you were dropping by.”
“I know.” Georgia looks at her sheepishly. “It was a last minute decision to visit, I didn’t even tell Amah I was coming before I showed up at her door.” She laughs.
Ling Ling places a hand on her chest. “Bless your amah. She is such a beautiful soul, I just adore her. I look forward to the days that she volunteers at Gugong. Thank you so much for introducing her to the museum.”
Three years ago, Georgia was invited to Taipei as a consultant. The Thirteenth Site Museum of Archaeology in the Bali District of Northern Taipei had a special excavation project, and had called upon Georgia’s expertise. Her reputation as an archaeologist preceded her, and everyone on the project anticipated her arrival with both excitement and nervousness. But Georgia’s easy-going nature soon put them at ease. She and Ling Ling worked side-by-side intensively over three months, and the whole experience dramatically expanded Ling Ling’s mind and knowledge, leaving her thirsty for more. She sees Georgia as a mentor for her work, but also feels somewhat maternal towards the younger woman who is ten years her junior.
After completing the project, Georgia brought her grandmother to Ling Ling’s regular workplace, and the two struck up an instant friendship over the museum’s collection of bronzes from the Shang Dynasty. Georgia’s grandmother has been passionately learning about the ins and outs of Gugong ever since.
“You know, I was just about to come and find you,” Georgia says, then gestures towards the painting before them. “Have you noticed that Hsu Fu has green eyes in this painting?”
“Huh.” Ling Ling squints, looking at the work closely. “You’re right, he does. That’s really odd, I’ve never noticed it before.” Then she shrugs nonchalantly and smiles at Georgia. “Must be a discolouration of the pigments.”
Georgia frowns. “Yeah… must be.”
“C’mon, I’m just taking a break. Come for a walk with me. Tell me how things are going with your dig in China.” Ling Ling loops her arm through the crook of Georgia’s elbow, redirecting her out of the exhibition room and down the stairs. They wander outside into the grounds of Gugong, catching up on each other’s work and lives. The pair enthusiastically bounce ideas off each other about the possible owner of the tomb that Georgia uncovered in China.
Their aimless meandering ends up at Exhibition Area II, a separate building within the compound that hosts special exhibits; and looking towards the closed doors, an idea suddenly springs into Ling Ling’s mind.
She whispers to Georgia with excitement: “Hey, you know, I’m not really meant to do this. But my good friend Ang is curating this amazing exhibition of Qin Dynasty manuscripts right now. It’s opening in two weeks, but it’s right up your alley and it’ll be a shame for you to miss it.”
Georgia raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Manuscripts? From the Qin Dynasty?”
Ling Ling nods, smiling widely. “The collection was donated back in 1965, and it’s been in the vaults ever since. It’s only now that the museum has decided to exhibit it for the very first time.” They pause at the entrance to the building, and Ling Ling tentatively pushes open the side door, glancing around the foyer. “Everyone is out at a team meeting now, and they probably won’t be back for a few hours, so I’ll give you a quick sneak peek.”
They walk into the exhibition room, pausing briefly by the wall next to the entrance. There is a short blurb written by the director of the Museum and a small black and white picture underneath the text. The special exhibit, titled The Qin Manuscripts, consists of a collection of exceptionally rare bamboo scrolls and a few artefacts from the dynasty. The collection is the largest and most intact in the world, consisting of almost thirty pieces.
Very few manuscripts actually remain from the Qin Dynasty. The ruthless Emperor Qin was paranoid of any thoughts contradictory to his own, so during his reign he performed countless book burnings and buried scholars alive for voicing any radical ideas. As a result, almost all of the only written records left were those in the palace archives. What was even more disastrous for later historians is that when the Qin Dynasty was overthrown, the imperial palace and the state archives were also burned.
At the end of the brief written introduction, the Museum Director goes on to attribute thanks to the donation of the collection from a single collector who had made it his lifelong passion to acquire these rare relics. After extensive restoration by the conservators at the Gugong, this is the first time the museum has decided to exhibit the delicate pieces to the public, as part of its fiftieth birthday celebration.
Ling Ling watches as Georgia looks around the dimly-lit exhibition room, awestruck as she takes it all in.
Ling Ling chuckles under her breath. “I know, right? Not every day you see something like this.” She pats Georgia on the back. “I really gotta get back to work, but take your time in here and call me later. Let’s try to meet up for dinner while you’re in town.”
“Sure.” Georgia gives her a hug. “Thank you.”
Georgia smiles as she watches her friend exit the exhibition room, feeling the lingering warmth of her presence slowly seeping away. It is truly wonderful to see Ling Ling again, her pleasant nature is always a delight, and she has the most infectious laughter Georgia has ever come across.
She walks slowly around the exhibition room. Though it is small compared to the other exhibition spaces in the main building, it still takes Georgia almost an hour to examine all of the pieces. She has never actually seen a fully intact scroll from the Qin Dynasty until now, as most of the remaining bamboo or wooden slips from the period have generally disintegrated due to age and lack of care. Without proper ongoing conservation, these works don’t stand a chance against the test of time.
&nb
sp; In fact, looking at the rare bamboo scrolls before her, she is reminded of the one that Akiko Hata showed her.
Glancing down at her watch, she decides she should probably leave before the curatorial team comes back. She makes her way towards the entrance, and that is when she catches sight of the small, black and white photograph below the introductory text she only half-heartedly glanced at before.
Something about the image captures her attention, and she moves closer to examine it.
Judging by the hair and clothing of the people in it, the monochromatic image obviously dates back to the sixties. It is a picture of two men shaking hands: on the left, a portly presence in a suit, smiling widely at the camera. The other man is in his early forties and has a thin, unusually tall stature. He is half-turned towards the front, and the wide-eyed expression on his face suggests he has been caught by surprise by the camera.
Georgia narrows her eyes and leans in. The thin man on the right appears to be of Chinese descent, no doubt, but there is something unique about his features. It takes her a few seconds to realise that he has light-coloured eyes.
Her eyes dart towards the small text under the image:
Hang Li-wu, Director of National Palace Museum, and Mr. Meng Jie, donor of the Qin Manuscript Collection. 1965.
She examines the man’s face again. As was fashionable at the time, his dark hair is parted on the side, and sideburns frame his long angular face.
His striking, soulful eyes gaze back at Georgia. She stares at his unusual narrow face, square jaws, and the aquiline nose, and cannot help noticing the similarity of these features to the painting she was staring at only an hour before.
15
“She’s in Taipei, sir. A detour before coming back to Sydney. She said she’ll call in when she gets back.” Hank’s soft voice crackles over the phone line. “Mr. Tanaka said they found nothing at the Senkaku Islands. Would you like me to bring her in for an update?”