His head bobbed from side to side, and he drifted into a delirious sleep, in which demons chased him from all directions, with plaintive voices like a young child’s and flaming arrows that pierced his flesh, until a tidal wave overtook him and reduced that leg to smoldering ashes.
The accident had created an unspoken truce between Liu and Mei Ling. Yet she was increasingly sullen as she ministered to his needs, all the while keeping tabs on their headstrong toddler.
Liu had failed the family and once again, Mei Ling was the sole wage earner. He replayed those moments before the accident over and over, sinking further into a deep, nameless well. The broken leg would take months to heal, and Liu wondered if there would be a job for him after all that time. No, he thought, Mr. Wu’s employees were dispensable. Neither laziness nor bad luck was an excuse.
The days and weeks crept by in tedium. An unspoken tension built up in the apartment, stirring the tempers of adoptive mother and child. But Liu was powerless in his present state. So he held his tongue whenever Mei Ling snapped at Rose, knowing he could say something he would regret.
One afternoon, Mei Ling returned home clutching a bag of groceries and a letter torn open haphazardly. She sighed and collapsed on the small couch they had acquired after their wedding.
“What’s the matter?” Liu asked in a thin voice.
“My mother is terribly ill. Her joints have been aching a lot, and she’s running a fever. My father thought she was just sick with the flu, but days later, when she fell, her arm swelled into a big purple patch and she couldn’t stop the bleeding. So he took her to a doctor.” Mei Ling’s voice fell to a whisper. “She has cancer. It’s in her bones.”
“What are they going to do?”
“She’ll have to take some nasty drugs that’ll make her hair fall out. It’s going to be very expensive,” Mei Ling replied, chewing her fingernail.
“They will need your help?”
“Yes.” Silence lingered in the room. It was time to let go of old grudges, Liu thought. He would be more understanding. “I’m sorry, Mei Ling. I wish I could be more of a husband at this time.”
Mei Ling said nothing. She rose up and tucked the letter into a small wooden chest with a brass lock.
MEI LING FUSSED WITH HER APRON, TURNING AROUND WHENEVER she thought she heard Tai’s lopsided shuffle into the kitchen.
“Where’s the old boss?” she asked Ol’ Guo.
The cook dropped a large coiled heap of fresh noodles into the boiling water and turned around, wiggling his toothpick between his teeth. “He’s haggling with the fishmonger. Got a big banquet coming up.”
“I need to talk to him. It’s important.”
“You want a raise or something? Lots of luck. Like trying to catch a rabbit between your thumb and pinky.”
“You could frighten one to death, no problem, Ol’ Guo. I’m not asking for a perk. I’ve got people in the family who are ill.” Mei Ling’s voice quavered, and she turned away to avoid more questions from the cook.
When Tai returned, Mei Ling smoothed her apron and approached him in the back office. She had rehearsed what she would say. A laid-up husband, a growing child, and now a sick mother; these were all responsibilities that had befallen her. She needed extra money to provide for all of them, especially her mother, at least until Liu recovered.
Tai assured her that he was mindful of her present demands, but he had debts to pay for the renovation. It was expensive to run a larger establishment. And then there was his wife’s spending habit. He didn’t think he could offer her much of a raise. “You know all those shoe stores on Guangdong Road? She keeps them in business.”
“I have an emergency situation, do you understand?Your friend Liu is housebound. He can’t work. All he can do is help keep that child quiet during the day when I’m home. I wanted to find other relatives who can raise her, but I haven’t dared to ask. Why does he dote on her so? It’s not like she’s his flesh and blood.”
“No, that’s true. She was a foundling, after all.” Tai filed away some papers in his desk, and turned toward the kitchen.
“Tai. Wait a minute. What did you say?” Mei Ling cried, her voice shrill and hawkish. She was not going to let him leave.
“What? About the baby? Liu told you how she was found, didn’t he?”
“No, you tell me,” said Mei. She could feel her throat burning, as if all that was unsaid had caught fire. She had completely trusted Liu’s claims about the baby’s origins, just as she had put her faith in unseen horizons, beyond the shabby state of the lives they led. And now, this act of deception. Another sign that her marriage had been a hasty decision.
Tai appeared nervous at that point, as if realizing he had betrayed his friend’s secret. “Well, he told me that she was . . . uh . . . abandoned, you see, parents didn’t want her. And Liu, he’s got a good heart, you know.”
“And a slippery tongue. Tai, he told me that the baby was adopted from his brother. So there’s no dead brother. For all I know, it is his child, and the mother ran off. And who knows, maybe his wife isn’t even dead. Maybe he’s making all this up.”
“No—no—no; it’s not like that. Please don’t misunderstand, Mei Ling. Liu didn’t mean to deceive you. He just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“I’ve been fooled before. I don’t know what to think anymore.” Mei Ling’s breath came in rasping gulps, but she did not want Tai to see her cry. She tied her hair up in a bun with angry, stabbing motions, and carried through the evening with pain rising up her sore feet.
She thought about the lie on her way home. Perhaps the weeks of self-inflicted silence had its advantages. She would not give way to her indignation, not indulge in the darker passions that could set her eyes ablaze, causing even the bravest of men to cower.
What mattered most to Mei Ling was her mother. She regretted that she could not be with her. Perhaps she could divorce Liu and move back home. But she had declared her vow in front of the congregation, and going back on her promise would be unforgivable. Besides, she could not bear being manipulated by her father. After all, he could revive his scheme to marry her off. She could not see herself tied to some peasant, no matter how prosperous, with bad teeth and rough hands.
The minibus sped along, winding up the quiet streets of the city, past the empty sidewalks where vendors squatted into the evening, making a turn toward the church. The bellowers were bathed in golden light, like a beacon in the dark. Mei Ling would talk to Father Chong; he could provide guidance to quiet the tormented rumblings of her heart.
The next morning, Mei Ling waited for Father Chong outside his office, a modest room above the sanctuary. From the balcony, she stared at the diffuse light pouring in through the stained glass windows below.
When she was face-to-face with Father Chong, Mei Ling spoke as if she were in the confessional. The spectrum of her troubles struck every dark chord of emotion. Guilt about being away from her mother while she was ill. Anger that consumed her, making her wish terrible things on Liu, whenever she caught sight of that blasted leg of his. Regret that she had been foolish in her passions.
“Mei Ling, your heart is burdened with so many troubles. Know that if you nurture your faith, the Lord will provide the answers.”
“But God helps those who help themselves,” insisted Mei Ling. “I have to support my mother. My parents cannot afford the treatment. Why, they hadn’t seen the inside of a hospital until now, until this terrible cancer. And even with the money I’m sending them, they can barely make a living off the land.”
“Look outside, Mei Ling.” Father Chong directed her eyes to the sanctuary. “Remember how our congregation learned to make do in a crumbling building? And how devastated we were when the old church slipped away in the heavy rains? A parishioner from Hong Kong appeared in the depths of our misfortunes, and built us this temple filled with light. Our prayers were answered. And yours won’t go unheard.”
Mei Ling nodded; she would pray for guida
nce, and stoke the fires of her faith. And yet, when she sank down to pray late in the night, her whispers punctuated by the sighing breaths of husband and child, she found her thoughts drifting to possibilities that lay beyond those four walls of peeling plaster.
AFTER BEING LAID UP FOR SIX WEEKS, LIU COULD STAGGER around the apartment fairly well with a crutch. In fact, he could walk almost as well as his little daughter now.To entertain Rose, Liu would balance the crutch on his good leg, rocking her to and fro on top of the seesaw. One day, in the midst of frolicking, the rubbery end of the crutch struck a vase. A teetering, then the dreadful crash on bare tile. Liu clutched Rose instinctively to his chest. The bouquet of flowers was scattered like threshed wheat among the shards. That vase had been a gift from Mei Ling’s mother. His wife might take her anger out on Rose. Liu glanced around furtively. As his gaze swept past the window, a cat landed on the ledge outside.
Now he had an idea. Liu hobbled to the kitchen with his crutch and snatched a handful of dried anchovies. Opening the window, he offered a plate to the cat. “Come here, you ol’ dirty whiskers, you’ll save Rose from a scolding.” The cat lifted its paws to sniff at the offering, licked its chops, and leapt gracefully onto the windowsill.
Just then, the door opened and Mei Ling walked in, staring at the spectacle. “Liu, what are you doing?”
Liu’s eyes darted from the plate in his hands to the mangled blossoms and shards on the floor. “The cat came in and I . . . well ... thought I’d feed it.”
“To keep him coming back? And what about this mess on the floor?”
Liu confessed. He had been clumsy with the crutch, now that he was mobile. He waited for her wrath to descend, waited for her to drag out every shard of resentment from the past two months.
“I’m very sorry, Mei Ling. I’m sorry for disappointing you.”
His wife said nothing, and the silence frightened him more than the threat of her anger.With deliberate steps, Mei Ling walked over, extended her hand to take away the anchovies, and shut the window. The cat skittered along the ledge to the neighbor’s apartment. And then, in a quiet voice, she said, “After we put Rose down for her nap, I have something to tell you.”
Her tone was flat, her face devoid of expression. Still, Liu braced for the worst. Perhaps she wanted to end this marriage. She must be tired of providing for everyone; she needed a better man, a strong and resourceful husband. “Okay,” he whispered.
“I’ve been thinking,” Mei Ling began, “ever since I learned that my mother was sick, that I need to find a better-paying job to support her. My father’s no help; he still rants and blames her for the condition. If only I could be with her!” Mei Ling’s voice cracked, and then she composed herself, staring out the window where a new apartment building rose up. “Liu, let’s be realistic, you know your friend’s a miser. I won’t get much of a raise from Tai.”
“He’s thrifty with his money.”
“A miser,” Mei Ling repeated. “And in order to support her—and us—I am going to work in Chongqing. A friend told me that a three-star hotel downtown is hiring.”
It came as a load of bricks, squeezing the breath from his lungs. “Mei Ling, isn’t there anything closer you can find? Chongqing is so far away. It’s two days by slow boat.”
“I need to take advantage of this, Liu. I don’t think I can make that kind of money here. Besides, I need a little space to think about things.”
Marriage . . . Rose . . . disappointments . . . Liu’s failings. The possibilities swirled through his mind. “I should recover in another month or two, and then I’ll be back to work, I promise. It won’t be so hard then, Mei Ling.”
“No, Liu. I think this is for the best.” Mei Ling rose from the chair and rinsed the food on the plate down the sink.
THE BREEZES BLEW IN FROM THE RIVER, STINGING ROSE’S cheeks, her exposed throat. She leaned closer to the car window, drawn to the distant clatter of voices and heavy objects, the melding of gray sky with a tinge of blue. The back door opened, and the perfumed woman she called Ma Ma planted her legs on the dusty ground. A loud thump sounded in the rear, and Ma Ma reappeared with a massive trunk. Ma Ma leaned back into the rear of the cab, kissed her daddy on the cheek, then pecked at Rose’s forehead, a cool wetness that tingled her skin. A flutter of words, the sound of her name, a tinkle of laughter like bells, and Ma Ma was gone.Then the car tore away from that dusty spot. Pressing her nose to the window, Rose fixed her gaze on the pinpoints of objects and people as they melted into the gray sky and brown water, fading away like memories of fog and cold amidst a swollen river.
24
FANG SHUPING WAS NOT ONE TO GIVE IN TO HIS VICES, BUT when he arrived back home from the countryside, he found solace in his liquor cabinet. At first, it was an extra drink after supper, and then he began to drink during the lull of late afternoon when his will and his energy sagged. He had failed to exercise any influence on behalf of the Lanping villagers, and his most important project—a reunion with Sulin—had failed miserably. Aside from any feelings she could have for her late husband, he wondered why she loathed him so. Sulin had saved his life, on more than one occasion, and now she did not seem to care if he were living or dead.
In the evenings, Fang no longer took pleasure in reading the papers, gloating over political demotions or the commercial developments that he influenced. Bourbon soothed him, and it gave him temporary shelter from the wretched memory of Sulin’s words, uttered with such finality on that windswept hill. Fang was ashamed of those feelings, and he wondered how he could be a legitimate son of his father, a man who had multiple wives. They had been utterly devoted to his father, and the great man never succumbed to their whims or ploys to win his exclusive affection.
Chu Sulin had never been one to give in to whims. She had an indefatigable strength and will, and had come to his aid when he most needed it.
IN THE EARLY MONTHS OF 1969, WHEN SNOW BLANKETED THE land like a stifling cloak, Fang fell ill with pneumonia. By then, the villagers had learned of his black capitalist background, and he was assigned to the worst of jobs, hauling buckets of pig manure to spread in the fields, and made to sleep in a drafty shed. When Sulin discovered him, he was nearly unconscious with fever. Medicines were almost impossible to obtain, but she used her father’s status to procure some herbs for Fang. Day and night she watched over him, fighting the fever with cold compresses applied to his forehead and feet, and rubbing his back to ease the bedsores. A week later, he was over the worst of it, and still she stayed with him. She was not merely taking pity on Fang; she delighted in his wit and intelligence, in the poetry he recited from the bawdy minstrels of the Tang Dynasty, and the translated works of Tolstoy and Chekhov. These were bootleg copies he had obtained in the city, read by candlelight while books were being burned all around.
Seized by the fever of persecution, the peasants were keen to detect any counter-revolutionaries in their midst. Fang was scrutinized in obsessive and petty detail, and only during clandestine meetings in the woods could he and Sulin allow their feelings to flow unchecked. Pushing past the limits of what was respectable, Sulin declared that she had no regrets, that her passions had no place in the outside world, where they were starved and subjugated by the duties of a good Communist leader’s daughter.
The borders between life and death were tenuous during those revolutionary years. Almost a third of Sulin’s original village had died in the terrible famine a decade earlier.While their lives seemed more secure now, the peasants grumbled about their rations. During the grievance sessions, they recalled the gnawing hunger of those early years, when they ground tree bark into flour, only to watch their elders and young children die with bloated bellies. Still, the stories did not encourage them to work harder under the commune system.
As leader of their production brigade, Sulin’s father was respected for his skill and discretion in smoothing over conflicts. But he was never at ease; they had to keep their productivity high, and he would pad the numbers
to stay in the good graces of the bureaucrats. In the summer of 1969, he arranged a marriage between Sulin and the son of an important Communist leader, the county’s party secretary. Sulin was devastated by the news. She declared her love for Fang, but her father merely told her that she needed to obey his orders. She protested, but her words fell on deaf ears. He sent someone to spy on his daughter and the lover. When their secret trysts were exposed, Fang endured a series of denunciations by the villagers.
On the first evening, the crowd gathered in an old granary turned into a public arena for the struggle sessions. Shackled with rope made of rough hemp, Fang was blindfolded and shoved onto a platform where the peasants heckled him. It was Fang, and his forebears, who were to blame for the injustices they suffered, for the iron hand of imperialism they had lived under for generations. Fang’s persecutors did not accuse him of rape; they knew that it was a consensual relationship, and that Sulin was bold enough to dismiss their claims. The scourge of capitalism provided ample fuel for the peasants’ ire.
The elder Chu’s henchman declared, “Traitor! This man is here to subvert the revolutionary cause. His father was not only a land-owner but a major industrialist—do you hear—a capitalist who dealt with the foreign devils and drained the lifeblood of China to force trade with our oppressors. But the People’s Republic has risen above this foreign terror, and we must sentence the traitors to death.”
Fang had grown numb to the accusations, but this sentence of death seized him with terror. His nerves were already shattered, his will was crumbling from physical strain and hunger, and all that mattered to him was Sulin.
By the fourth struggle session, Fang’s fate was sealed. He was sentenced to die by hanging. The crowd cheered, “Long live the People’s Republic!”
During this time, Fang was imprisoned along with two other suspected capitalists in the granary. His only contact with the outside was through Chu Longshan, the brother of Sulin, who slipped messages for him under a rock by the toilet pit.
In the Lap of the Gods Page 21