The Hundred Secret Senses

by Amy Tan

  As it turned out, he had been safe all along. After our fight, he too had left the archway. He was trudging back to Big Ma’s house when he ran into the cow herder who had called us assholes. Only the guy was not a cow herder but a graduate student from Boston named Andy, the American nephew of a woman living in a village farther down the mountain. The two of them went to his aunt’s house, where they chugged shots of maotai until their tongues and brains went numb. Even if he hadn’t passed out, Simon would have been all right, and it pained him to admit this had been so. In his fanny pack, he had a wool cap, which he put on after I ran away. And then he had raged, pitching rocks into the ravine until he worked up a sweat.

  “You worried for nothing,” he said, devastated.

  And I said, “Better than finding out I worried for something.” I reasoned that if I was grateful that Simon had never been in any real danger, similar luck would be granted me any minute with regard to Kwan. “Sorry-sorry, Libby-ah,” I imagined she’d say. “I took wrong turn in cave, lost. Took me whole morning come back! You worry for nothing.” And later, I made adjustments in my hopes to account for the passing of time. “Libby-ah, where my head go? I see lake, can’t stop dreaming. I think only one hour pass by. Ha!—don’t know was ten!”

  Simon and I stayed by the cave all night. Du Lili brought us food, blankets, and a tarp. We pushed away the boulder blocking the entrance of the cave, then climbed in and huddled in the shallow cove. I stared at the sky, a sieve punctured with stars, and considered telling him Kwan’s story of Miss Banner, Nunumu, and Yiban. But then I became afraid. I saw the story as a talisman of hope. And if Simon or anyone else discounted even part of it, then some possibility out in the universe, the one I needed, might be removed.

  On the second morning of Kwan’s disappearance, Du Lili and Andy organized a search party. The older folks were too scared to go into the cave. So those who showed up were mostly young. They brought oil lamps and bundles of ropes. I tried to recall the directions to the cavern with the lake. What had Zeng said? Follow the water, stay low, choose the shallow route over the wide. Or was it narrow instead of deep? I didn’t have to ask Simon not to go into the cave. He stayed close to me, and together we watched grimly as one man tied the rope around his waist and burrowed into the cave, while another man stood outside, holding the other end of the rope taut.

  By the third day, the searchers had navigated a labyrinth that led them to dozens of other caves. But no trace yet was seen of Kwan. Du Lili went to Guilin to notify the authorities. She also sent a telegram that I had carefully written to George. In the afternoon, four vans arrived bearing green-uniformed soldiers and black-suited officials. The following morning, a familiar sedan rolled up the road, and out stepped Rocky and a somber old scholar. Rocky confided to me that Professor Po was the right-hand man to the paleontologist who discovered the Peking Man. The professor entered the intricate maze of caves, now explored more easily with the addition of guide ropes and lamps. When he emerged many hours later, he announced that many dynasties ago, the inhabitants of this area had excavated through dozens of caves, creating intentional dead ends, as well as elaborate interconnecting tunnels. It was likely, he theorized, the people of Changmian invented this maze to escape from Mongolians and other warring tribes. Those invaders who entered the labyrinth became lost, and scurried about like rats in a death trap.

  A team of geologists was brought in. In the excitement that ensued, nearly everyone forgot about Kwan. Instead, the geologists found jars for grain and jugs for water. They barged into bat lairs and sent thousands of the frightened creatures shrieking into the blinding sun. They made an important scientific discovery of human shit that was at least three thousand years old!

  On the fifth day, George and Virgie arrived from San Francisco. They had received my various telegrams with their progressively dire messages. George was confident that Kwan wasn’t actually missing; it was only my poor Mandarin that had caused us to become temporarily separated. By evening, however, George was a wretched mess. He picked up a sweater that belonged to Kwan, buried his face in it, not caring who watched him cry.

  On the seventh day, the search teams located the shining lake and the ancient village beside its shore. Still no Kwan. But now the village was crawling with officials of every rank, as well as a dozen more scientific teams, all of them trying to determine what caused the cave water to glow.

  On each of those seven days, I had to give a report to yet another bureaucrat, detailing what had happened to Kwan. What was her birth-date? When did she become an overseas Chinese? Why did she come back here? Was she sick? You had a fight? Not with her but with your husband? Was your husband angry with her too? Is that why she ran away? Do you have a photo of her? You took this picture? What kind of camera do you use? You are a professional photographer? Really? How much money can a person make taking a picture like this? Is that so? That much? Can you take a picture of me?

  At night, Simon and I hugged each other tightly in the marriage bed. We made love, but not out of lust. When we were together this way, we could hope, we could believe that love wouldn’t allow us to be separated again. With each passing day, I didn’t lose hope. I fought to have more. I recalled Kwan’s stories. I remembered those times when she bandaged my wounds, taught me to ride a bike, placed her hands on my feverish six-year-old forehead and whispered, “Sleep, Libby-ah, sleep.” And I did.

  Meanwhile, Changmian had become a circus. The entrepreneurial guy who had tried to sell Simon and me so-called ancient coins was charging curiosity-seekers ten yuan for admission through the first archway. His brother charged twenty to go through the second. Many of the tourists trampled the ravine, and Changmian residents hawked rocks from the graves as souvenirs. An argument broke out between the village leaders and officials over who owned the caves and who could take what they contained. At that point, two weeks had gone by, and Simon and I couldn’t stomach any more. We decided to take the plane home on the scheduled day.

  BEFORE WE LEFT, Big Ma finally had her funeral. There were only eleven people in attendance that drizzly morning—two hired hands to transport the casket to the grave, a few of the older villagers, and George, Virgie, Du Lili, Simon, and I. I wondered if Big Ma was miffed at being upstaged by Kwan. The hired hands loaded the casket onto the back of a mule cart. Du Lili tied the requisite screaming rooster to the coffin lid. When we reached the bridge over the first irrigation pond, we found a television news crew blocking our way.

  “Move your butts!” Du Lili shouted. “Can’t you see? We have a funeral procession going through!” The crew came over and asked her to respect the rights of citizens to hear about the wonderful discovery in Changmian.

  “Wonderful bullshit!” said Du Lili. “You’re ruining our village. Now get out of our way.” A stylish woman in snazzy jeans took Du Lili aside. I saw her offer money, which Du Lili angrily refused. My heart soared with admiration. The woman flashed more money. Du Lili pointed to the crew, then the coffin, complaining loudly again. A bigger wad of bills came out. And Du Lili shrugged. “All right,” I heard her say as she pocketed the money. “At least the deceased can use this to buy a better life in the next world.” My spirits went into a tailspin. Simon looked grim. We took a long detour, squeezing through alleyways until we reached the communal graveyard, a slope leading up the mountains facing west.

  At the grave site, Du Lili cried while caressing Big Ma’s parched face. I thought the body was amazingly well preserved after a two-week hiatus between departure and sendoff. “Ai, Li Bin-bin,” Du Lili crooned, “you’re too young to die. I should have gone before you.” I translated this to Simon.

  He glanced at Du Lili. “Is she saying she’s older than Big Ma?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to know what anything means anymore.”

  As the hired hands closed the coffin lid, I felt that the answers to so many questions were being sealed up forever: where Kwan was, what my father’s real name had been, whether Kwan and
a girl named Buncake had indeed drowned.

  “Wait!” I heard Du Lili cry to the workers. “I almost forgot.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the wad of banknotes. As she wrapped Big Ma’s stiff hand around the television crew’s bribery money, I cried, my faith restored. And then Du Lili reached into the front of her padded jacket and extracted something else. It was a preserved duck egg. She put this in Big Ma’s other hand. “Your favorite,” she said. “In case you get hungry on your way there.”

  Duck eggs! “I made so many,” I could hear Kwan saying. “Maybe some still left.”

  I turned to Simon. “I have to go.” I clutched my stomach and grimaced, feigning illness.

  “You want me to help you?”

  I shook my head and went over to Du Lili. “Bad stomach,” I said. She gave me an understanding look. As soon as I was sure I was out of their view, I started running. I didn’t give a damn about keeping my expectations in check. I was surrendering myself completely to hope. I was elated. I knew that what I believed was what I’d find.

  I stopped at Big Ma’s house and snatched a rusted hoe. And then I sped over to the community hall. When I reached the gate, I walked through slowly, searching for familiar signs. There!—the bottom bricks of the foundation—they were pockmarked black, and I was sure these were the burnt ruins of the Ghost Merchant’s House. I raced through the empty building, glad that everyone was at the ravine gawking at three-thousand-year-old shit. In the back, I saw no garden, no rolling paths or pavilion. Everything had been leveled for the exercise yard. But just as I expected, the stones of the boundary walls were also blackened and blistered. I went to the northwest corner and calculated: Ten jars across, ten paces long. I began to hack at the mud with the hoe. I laughed out loud. If anyone saw me, they’d think I was as crazy as Kwan.

  I unearthed a trench of mud five feet long and two feet deep, nearly big enough for a corpse. And then I felt the hoe hit something that was neither rock nor soil. I fell to my knees and frantically scooped out the dark moist dirt with my bare hands. And then I saw it, the lighter clay, firm and smooth as a shoulder. In my impatience, I used the handle of the hoe to break open the jar.

  I pulled out a blackened egg, then another and another. I hugged them against my chest, where they crumbled, all these relics of our past disintegrating into gray chalk. But I was beyond worry. I knew I had already tasted what was left.

  24

  ENDLESS SONGS

  George and Virgie have just come back from their honeymoon in Changmian. They claim I wouldn’t recognize the place. “Tourist trap everywhere!” George says. “The whole village is now rich, selling plastic sea creatures, the glow-in-the-dark kind. That’s why the lake was so bright. Ancient fish and plants living deep in the water. But now no more. Too many people made a wish, threw lucky coins in the lake. And all those sea creatures? Poisoned, went belly-up dead. So the village leaders installed underwater lights, green and yellow, very pretty, I saw them myself. Good show.”

  I think George and Virgie chose to go to Changmian as an apology to Kwan. To get married, George had to have Kwan declared legally dead. I still have mixed feelings about that. The marriage, I figure, is what Kwan had intended all along. At some level, she must have known she wasn’t coming home. She never would have let George go through life without having enough to eat. I think she also would have laughed and said, “Too bad Virgie not better cook.”

  I’ve had almost two years to think about Kwan, why she came into my life, why she left. What she said about fate waiting to happen, what she might have meant. Two years is enough time, I know, to layer memories of what was with what might have been. And that’s fine, because I now believe truth lies not in logic but in hope, both past and future. I believe hope can surprise you. It can survive the odds against it, all sorts of contradictions, and certainly any skeptic’s rationale of relying on proof through fact.

  How else can I explain why I have a fourteen-month-old baby girl? Like everyone else, I was astounded when I went to the doctor and he said I was three months along. I gave birth nine months after Simon and I made love in the marriage bed, nine months after Kwan disappeared. I’m sure there were those who suspected the father was some fly-by-night date, that I was careless, pregnant by accident. But Simon and I both know: That baby is ours. Sure, there was a reasonable explanation. We went back to the fertility specialist and he did more tests. Well, what do you know? The earlier tests were wrong. The lab must have made a mistake, switched the charts, because sterility, the doctor said, is not a reversible condition. Simon, he announced, had in fact not been sterile. I asked the doctor, “So how do you explain why I never became pregnant before?”

  “You were probably trying too hard,” he said. “Look how many women become pregnant after they adopt.”

  All I know is what I want to believe. I have a gift from Kwan, a baby girl with dimples in her fat cheeks. And no, I didn’t name her Kwan or Nelly. I’m not that morbidly sentimental. I call her Samantha, sometimes Sammy. Samantha Li. She and I took Kwan’s last name. Why not? What’s a family name if not a claim to being connected in the future to someone from the past?

  Sammy calls me “Mama.” Her favorite toy is “ba,” the music box Kwan gave me for my wedding. Sammy’s other word is “Da,” which is what she calls Simon, “Da” for “Daddy,” even though he doesn’t live with us all the time. We’re still working things out, deciding what’s important, what matters, how to be together for more than eight hours at a stretch without disagreeing about which radio station we should put on. On Fridays, he comes over and stays the weekend. We snuggle in bed, Simon and I, Sammy and Bubba. We are practicing being a family, and we’re grateful for every moment together. The petty arguments, snipes and gripes, they still crop up. But it’s easier to remember how unimportant they are, how they shrink the heart and make life small.

  I think Kwan intended to show me the world is not a place but the vastness of the soul. And the soul is nothing more than love, limitless, endless, all that moves us toward knowing what is true. I once thought love was supposed to be nothing but bliss. I now know it is also worry and grief, hope and trust. And believing in ghosts—that’s believing that love never dies. If people we love die, then they are lost only to our ordinary senses. If we remember, we can find them anytime with our hundred secret senses. “This a secret,” I can still hear Kwan whispering. “Don’t tell anyone. Promise, Libby-ah.”

  I hear my baby calling me. She gurgles and thrusts her hand toward the fireplace, at what I don’t know. She insists. “What is it, Sammy? What do you see?” My heart races as I sense it might be Kwan.

  “Ba,” Sammy coos, her hand still reaching up. Now I see what she wants. I go to the mantel and take down the music box. I wind the key. I lift my baby into my arms. And we dance, joy spilling from sorrow.