“I heard that reporters will show up. They gotta listen when the news gets out.”
“Rumors! Who can believe anything you hear?”
And then, as the cool breeze of late afternoon crossed over the ridge into the valley, a convoy of trucks appeared in the distance.
FANG SHUPING HAD NOT EXPECTED SUCH AN ORGANIZED gathering of peasants. Their coarse features and garlicky odors repelled him, and they thrust their fists too close when they chanted. He could not dodge their curious glances. But as the afternoon wore on, the women of Sulin’s village lost interest in inquiring about this new friend of hers. When the officials showed up, Fang stayed close to her as the crowd gathered around Longshan. He felt a strange sense of envy toward his friend, a leader of the masses, who was emboldened, not defeated, by the succession of obstacles thrown his way. Fang began to think it was a foolish idea to join the rabble-rousers, but Sulin had become as committed to sticking by her brother as he was to standing up for their cause.
At first, Fang did not join in the chanting, but as the protracted hours of the afternoon crept by, he took part to relieve the monotony. Sulin did not pay him much attention beyond an occasional reminder to drink some water or rest his feet. I’m following her like a faithful dog, he thought ruefully, and all she has to do is throw me a few scraps.
He scanned the crowd to pass the time, his eyes alighting on the faces of women, the occasional colorful garb, the hoes and sickles that lay on the ground. And he remembered the woman who lived with her little boy in a shack amidst the ruins of old Wushan. She had a broad face like Sulin’s, but her nose was bulbous, not so handsome. Maybe she didn’t really have a husband. Did she wind up in her present state because she was too homely? But maybe she was telling the truth after all. Perhaps her village had fought a losing battle against the dam that held back the Three Gorges, and she had been left with nothing but a poor husband and child.
A fellow with a small gray goatee offered Fang a spot beneath his tarp, and the two sat smoking as the leaders led the crowd in another wave of chanting. Longshan stood on a large outcropping of rock at the base of the canyon, his cries as blunt as the cawing of a crow, his voice growing hoarser with each round.
“We are here for our children. And our children’s children!” he shouted. “And we cannot disappoint our fathers, who fought so hard for a better life, a better China.”
“Long live China. Down with the despots!” The crowd surged into a frenzy of renewed chanting.
It was then that Fang gleaned a moment of understanding, that the same China that sought to destroy his father had offered bold promises to her humblest citizens, those who tilled the land. And in the swell of voices, acrid and potent and reeking with garlic and spice, Fang saw that these people did not want to eat bitterness anymore. He could not forgive his own oppressors who had taunted him and driven him from Sulin thirty-five years ago, but he was beginning to grasp the plight of the villagers.
At a quarter to six, Fang spied the first of a long line of trucks. Creeping along like a giant caterpillar, they approached the canyon where the people were gathered. The People’s Liberation Army had arrived. Tension hung in the air, and it threatened to erupt in angry blisters. The men picked up their farm tools and turned toward the advancing convoy. Seven trucks arrived, stopping where the dirt road fed into the base of the canyon. Two dozen soldiers filled each of the truck beds, their taut bodies as rigid as rifles.
A thick voice sounded through a bullhorn. “GO HOME. Be good citizens, and there won’t be any trouble.”
All around, Fang heard anxious whispers, and then the croaking of peasant voices broke through the echoes of the PLA bullhorn. A hundred yards away, Longshan called for the people to stand their ground.
“Stand your ground!” the deputy leaders repeated throughout the crowd.
“Stand your ground!” their voices echoed defiantly. The swarm of villagers rose to their feet.
On cue, the soldiers charged forth with their shields and tore the crowd asunder.
Longshan did not move from his post. “Be brave, people! We’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Stand your ground!” the deputy leaders cried. But some of the peasants began to duck and run, jostling those who were frozen to the spot. The men with their rusted hoes and spears pounced on the charging soldiers, pummeling a few to the ground. Fang, who had been huddling with the goateed neighbor, felt their tarp topple amidst the chaos, covering them in a mass of canvas. He fought free, and saw Sulin moving through the tangle of arms and legs toward her brother, who was still rooted to his stump, staunch in his cry of peaceful resistance. “Courage, people! Courage!”
Fang rose up, grabbing the shirt of a peasant to avoid being thrown to the ground. All around, sharp blades and spears danced in defiance, as the men shouted and spat and hurled insults. The khaki-colored soldiers fired tear gas, and protestors crumpled to the ground like drunken bees. A spear whisked through the air, crashing with a thud on a smoke-colored shield. A cry punctured the air, and then choked words, a dying groan.
Fang pushed forward, and the tide pushed against him. The sweat trickled down his nose, his dirt-smeared face, but all he could fix his eyes on was the gray blouse of his old lover. He pushed harder, finding a strength he did not know he possessed, grabbing a short stick to prod the tussling torsos and thighs out of his way as he crept along like an animal toward Sulin, toward the raised stump where Longshan fought valiantly. The peasant leader was braced behind the shield of a felled soldier, warding off the rubber bullets fired at him.
“Brother, get out of here!” Sulin cried as she approached Longshan, with Fang close behind her.
“Courage, people! We shall not be defeated!” the defiant Longshan croaked.
Fang called out Sulin’s name, but she could not hear him through the din of clashing bodies, metal, and Plexiglas. He groped his way forward. His eyes were glazed with dust, casting the world around him in a murky underwater light.
And then he saw her hand reaching up toward Longshan. In the next breath, a hulking khaki-colored arm seized Sulin. And just before Longshan could thrust his fist from the shield, before two more men could rush to her defense, before she could utter a cry of resistance, Fang leapt on the soldier’s back and clenched him around the throat. He felt the bristle of the young man’s crew cut, smelled the stench of sweat and blood, and still he clung on as the soldier bucked like an unbroken horse and pummeled Fang with his fists.
And then it was over. A fatal blow landed on Fang’s temple, and another, and another, until the old man fell into a lifeless heap beside Sulin.
FANG’S BODY LAY IN A SIMPLE COFFIN OF SALVAGED WOOD IN her workroom, beside an unfinished heap of baby clothes Sulin had been sewing for her neighbors. In the three days since the protest, she had refused to let the officials take him away with half a dozen other casualties. She would have to arrange for a proper burial or cremation soon, before their deadline to move. The troop reinforcements had come in two more convoys that day, and in the end, the protest had been quelled.
As Sulin pushed the pedal of her old sewing machine, its needle sailed in a chopping motion along the silk like a steady rudder. When the last row of stitches was completed, Sulin held up the scarf, embroidered with tall pines in dark green, a bubbling brook of pale blue, two small figures like black ants. This had been their secret hiding place. She remembered how she loved the woods in summertime, with its fragrance of pinesap and camphor wood. She draped the scarf around Fang’s bosom, carefully lifting his head. And then she rested her hand on his chest beneath the embroidery, as a long, slow tear fell on the old man’s chin.
31
MEI LING COULD NOT BELIEVE HER EARS. SHE HAD DONE EVERYTHING she possibly could to move forward with her life. She had initiated plans to divorce Liu; although he had not shown up that following Sunday, she intended to lay it on the table when she returned for the lunar New Year. She had made her choice, and risen to Sun Daimen’s challenge. And no
w that she was ready to start anew, he dealt a bitter blow to her plans.
“You can’t continue this because you’re betrothed?” She blinked, incredulous at the idea that this man was betrothed, set aside and claimed by another. She heard the shuffle of Sun Daimen’s feet under the table. He appeared repentant, but it only provoked the anger seething in her bosom.
“Mei Ling, I really didn’t know how to tell you this. And please believe me. . . . I never meant to deceive you.”
She glared at him. “So I’m supposed to believe whatever you’re going to tell me.”
“Please,” Sun Daimen implored. “Just give me the chance to explain. And then you can hate me if you wish. I was not attached to anyone when you and I started getting to know one another. And when I asked you to make a choice, little did I know that I would soon have to make one myself. The woman whom I grew up with, whom my family has doted on since we were young children, has come back into my life.” Sun Daimen lowered his voice. “She was arrested in a student uprising fifteen years ago, in Tiananmen Square. She was thrown in prison, and released when her father sought help from a high-ranking Party official. But they worried about her safety, and she has been living in exile in France all these years. I never thought I would see her again.”
Mei Ling saw the wistful look in the man’s eyes, and yet she could not let her heart soften. She lowered her gaze as he continued.
“Her father is an important business leader in Chongqing. And he knew that with the right connections, he could clear up his daughter’s record, wipe her slate clean. It took quite a few bribes, going through the right Party members, to erase the record of her involvement in the student revolt.”
“How can the government do that? It’s like they’re changing the past.” Her curiosity, for the moment, had gained the upper hand.
“With money you can do anything,” said Sun Daimen. “Now don’t get me wrong. There are many in China who will carry a black stain for the rest of their lives from the uprising. But Mr. Zhang is a powerful man. He helped me get where I am today. He was the first to rise up from the terrible poverty in our village, and make something of himself. And Zhang Wei, as different as she is from her father, remains an idealist.” His voice fell into a hushed whisper. “She said she joined the revolt, not because she hates China and its patriarchy, but because she loves China.”
“And you’ve missed her all this time?” Mei Ling asked, the irritation creeping back into her voice.
“Yes,” he said, not looking at her.
“Well, I should be happy for you, Sun Daimen.Your true love has come home to roost. And what we had, I’m sure, meant nothing to you.” Mei Ling’s voice rose into a shrill pitch. “I sacrificed what I had. You asked me to choose, and I gave up my marriage to be with you. And what am I left with now? A big bag of lies!”
Heads turned as Mei Ling snatched her purse and stormed out of the noodle shop with Daimen close behind her. She fluttered down the street in high heels, but could not outpace the man who had jilted her.
“Mei Ling, please understand. I thought long and hard about this. I’ve had nothing but respect for you, and I care about you. But I couldn’t turn away from the woman who has been such a big part of my life.”
“But that was half a lifetime ago. How do you know that she hasn’t changed? That she doesn’t find this place too backward?”
“I never meant to hurt you,” Sun Daimen pleaded, circling around to face Mei Ling. “Maybe I am a bad man, but I guess I’ll have to take my chances.”
“Just you wait,” said Mei Ling. “This will come back to haunt you.” She turned away, avoiding Daimen’s pitiful glances, then broke into a wobbly run down the sidewalk.
In the dormitory, Mei Ling wept bitterly as she packed. She had come to depend on this man. And had devoted herself to him. The months she had squandered felt like years. And her marriage, she had thrown it away like a worn shirt. Everything I’ve touched has turned to dust, she thought.
On the long boat ride back to Wushan, Mei Ling noticed the presence of nearby couples with a mixture of envy and scorn. Her life had been frittered away, and she would have to start over once more. She could ask Tai if he would hire her back. As petty and unrelenting as he was in his ways, she would be willing to work at Tai’s again for the time being.
And then there was Liu. Would he take her back? Did she want to return to a family that did not feel entirely hers?Yet her own father swore that Mei Ling must have come from different stock. “We found you in the fields,” he would tease her when she was young. She would run crying to her mother, until Chen Weijin assured her that—no—she was indeed made from their flesh and blood. She had wished for a different Ba Ba, one who wasn’t scornful toward girls. Boys were precious gems to be sifted out, he used to say. And girls were mud in the river that would flow away in time.
Her husband’s lie about Rose had made Mei Ling furious. It was one more act of deceit in a long trail of lies she had heard from the men in her life. She might arrive home in Wushan and find that another woman slept in their bed, ate from their dishes, even dressed from the clothes she had left behind. She might find the little girl’s mother, or Liu’s wife mysteriously returned from the dead. And then she had a vision of the various women crowded into their humble abode, with a self-satisfied Liu in their midst. It was an absurd image, but it fed her sense of indignation. May God send them all to hell, she cursed them silently.
But what if there was nobody else but the little girl? What if Liu had told the truth in every other way? He was a reserved man, not one to declare his love for her in so many words, but his actions were steadfast enough. He had made the long trip to Chongqing to win her back. The separation had never been made final. Liu was a simple man, bred of the rough-hewn character of the countryside, but he could be more reliable than all the fickle men who made their fortunes in the big city.
And the prospect of taking care of Rose, perhaps that wasn’t so bad after all. The little girl had been warming up to her before she left. She could find the spirit of generosity in her heart to care for the child, who was, after all, another lamb of God put on this earth for a purpose.
She dared not think what her own purpose was, as she had not fulfilled the dreams tucked deep inside her bosom, those that remained in spite of the betrayals and cruel turns of fate. Mei Ling knew she was no longer a maiden; she was too cynical and wise to the world now to fall for the illusions of youth, but the secrets of the seasoned woman still lay beyond her grasp. She only knew, from her mother’s experience, that time did not necessarily dull the pain of old regrets.
THERE WAS NO ANSWER WHEN MEI LING KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. Liu and the child must be napping, she thought. She fished out her key. No luck there, either. Mei Ling stared at the chipped paint on the door, the faded numbers, then ran upstairs and found the manager’s apartment.
“Sir, I have been away working for some time, and my husband must have changed the locks to our apartment.” When Mei Ling told him the unit number, the manager’s face clouded over.
“Your husband moved out a week ago,” he growled. “He was late on his rent. Couldn’t pay up when I went to collect it.”
“Where did he go?” Mei Ling asked, not wanting to believe what she heard.
“How would I know? I just told him he had to go. I don’t know what kind of shady business you folks have gotten into, but a fellow came by saying that Tai’s Restaurant owes a lot of money, and your name’s on one of the bills. And then your apartment gets broken into. Cost me to change these locks, straighten up the place.”
“But I don’t work there anymore. I’m just trying to—”
“Listen, lady. We’ve got new tenants coming in, and there’s nothing you can do now.” He shut the door unceremoniously.
Mei Ling stared at her feet, speechless. A wave of panic swept over her. It was all she could do to keep from dissolving into a lifeless heap on the manager’s doorstep. When she came to her senses, she rushed
back downstairs. The neighbor next door told her about the eviction, and had her own theories about the burglars.
“I hear there’s a rash of crime ’cause of poor folk coming into the city. Must be from Hebei. Peasant trash.” The woman wrinkled her nose. “They can be so uncouth, you know.”
Mei Ling was not interested in those rumors. “Were there women going into the apartment over the last few months?”
“Don’t think so. Never saw a woman on the premises. And Liu was gone a while, too. Said he was going to visit you. I pressed him, but your husband doesn’t talk much.”
Mei Ling deflected the flurry of questions and hastened outside, where the wind and dust from nearby construction assaulted her senses. She had one more chance to find Liu.
She caught a minibus to Guangdong Street, and spied the flimsy newspaper plastered across Tai’s restaurant. She read the notice on the door, its loose edge still flapping like a broken wing. It was beginning to make sense now. The unpaid bills. The burglary. She called Tai’s number; it was disconnected.
Mei Ling turned away from the deserted building. Uttering a cry of bewilderment, she tore down the street toward the outdoor market. She asked every vendor who could possibly recognize her husband if they had seen him.
“Liu Renfu, you say? Has a 2-year-old girl with him? Don’t know such a man.” Their answers were innocent enough, but their puzzled glances seemed to say, You can’t find your husband? What kind of woman are you to let go of a good man?
A good man. A disappeared man. The thought threw her stomach into knots.
She stared at the faces of the lean men with bamboo poles across their shoulders, wondering if Liu was among them. She approached a porter with an elfish, leathered face, and asked again.
“Well, I do remember seeing a man with a young girl the other day.” The fellow pointed down the street. “Yes, he was sitting right around there, with the child, and a crowd was milling around them. He kept his head bowed, but the girl was a bouncy one, kept sticking her hand in the donation jar.”
In the Lap of the Gods Page 29