by Zoë S. Roy
Nina’s mother turned toward the stove and began to prepare a soup for the two of them to share. While she was chopping vegetables and tossing them into a broth that had already started to simmer, she continued. “After you were sent to Yunnan, because I was considered a traitor’s wife, I was forced to work in a factory where I glued paper matchboxes for years. I don’t know if that information ever reached you. It was a difficult time.”
“I’m sorry I was not here to share these hardships with you all those years,” Nina said. “But things are changing now in China. I noticed differences during my trip.”
“What’s changed?” asked her mother, tossing some noodles into the bubbling pot.
Nina placed two bowls on the table, and described what she had seen. “People are starting to think and awaken,” she said.
Nina’s mother raised her eyebrows as she carried the soup to the table and carefully ladled the noodles and broth into the bowls. “You should be careful during your stay. I’ve gone through too much trouble, and I don’t want anything more to happen to you.” So many images overlapped in her mind: Red Guards burning books found in her home; her husband’s bloody head hitting the ground; being pushed to kneel down for her denunciation; and, the nightmares over her daughter’s disappearance.
“I will be careful, Mother,” Nina said. “Now let’s get back to Dr. Tang? Do you like him?” she teased.
Her mother shook off the haunting memories and nodded. “I do.”
“So, you should consider marrying him as soon as his kids find jobs,” said Nina, her hand holding her mother’s.
“Yes, my little mother,” her mother chuckled, thinking about what Nina had told her the relationship between her and Roger. “Now I have a question. What about you and Roger? Will you marry?”
“I’m not sure. It depends on many factors.”
“But you’ve been living with him,” her mother added, hesitating a little; she did not intend to cause a dispute.
“I know what you are thinking. And maybe I shouldn’t have told you about him. I know that according to Chinese tradition, a premarital relationship is considered sinful. But I don’t need to follow Chinese ways anymore. I live in a free country now.” She did her best to explain. “I like the fact that in America we are given free choices. By living together, Roger and I can discover and learn if we are suited to each other.”
“It will take me some time to understand it,” Nina’s mother said in a gentle tone. “How is Roger? Can he speak a little bit of Chinese?”
“Maybe he can say two phrases: ‘how do you do’ and ‘goodbye.’”
“I will only be able to speak a few words in English, too, if I ever meet him,” he mother said with a grin. “All right. Let’s promise each other. We’ll each take care of our own personal relationships, but we will tell each other about them as well.” They smiled at each other companionably and finished the rest of their soup in silence.
Nina then cleared the table and started washing the dishes in the sink. Her mother tugged her arm, and pulled her from the sink. “Let me do it. You should rest.”
“I’m not tired,” Nina said, though she was not able to stifle a yawn.
That night, she fell into such a deep sleep that her exhaustion from the emotional and physical stress of the past few days melted away.
On Sunday, Nina took her mother to the Friendship Store — a store for foreigners to buy certain goods that were unavailable in any other stores. She wanted to buy a television.
The red double door was open, but compared to other stores along that street, there were fewer customers coming and going. Good. We don’t need to lineup here, Nina thought, quickening her steps.
A middle-aged doorman, with a dour look on his face, stood on the flagstone steps leading into the store. When he noticed Nina heading into the store, her mother behind her, the man asked brusquely, “Where are you going?”
“To the store,” answered Nina, wondering why he asked the question. “We want to have a look around.”
“Not just anybody can browse in this store. Do you have money? I mean, do you have U.S. dollars?” the doorkeeper smirked.
“Yes, I do,” she answered, and from her wallet, she drew out a ten-dollar banknote.
“Do you have an American passport?” asked the man. “I bet you don’t.” He was suddenly gleeful.
Before Nina could say anything, her mother pulled her back. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“I’ll come back another time,” Nina tossed back at him crossly. She did not have her passport with her or she would have stomped angrily by him. Just then, a couple of Westerners stepped past the doorkeeper, but he did not ask them a single question. He smiled and greet them politely, “Welcome.”
The following day, after her mother left for the hospital, Nina went back to the Friendship Store, this time with her passport. When the same doorman examined her document, his face displayed a disgust that looked familiar. Nina knew that behind these eyes was the unspoken thought: “An American running dog!” She shivered a little, knowing that with a label like that upon her, any perceived misbehaviour could see her put behind bars.
Nina bought a twelve-inch colour TV for her mother, who had never even owned a black-and-white one.
When her mother saw the gift, she gasped and wrapped her arms around Nina in a warm embrace. “You shouldn’t have wasted your money on me,” she said, wiping her tears. “Just seeing you again is enough.”
“You need some entertainment even though many of the programs you have here may be boring political stuff,” said Nina. She picked up the remote control and showed her mother how to use it. “Live well and enjoy life as much as you can. You deserve to.”
The next afternoon, Nina arrived at an address that Rei had given to her. She found a three-storey building labelled Number 4, entered Unit 1, and then knocked on the door of Apartment 101. A girl her age opened it and gaped at Nina with astonishment. “Oh! Is it you, Nina?” she asked, her face pale, and her voice quivering.
“Liya!” Nina held out her arms, and Liya pulled her in. They were thrilled to see each other.
“It was rumoured that you were shot dead when you sneaked across the border to Vietnam. I’ve cried for you many times.” Liya’s voice trembled. “Where have you been all these years?”
Nina told her the true story and before the two former high-school mates knew it, the clock on the wall struck five. “I’m supposed to cook supper for my parents now.” Liya went into the kitchen and started to boil some rice and wash a bowl of soybean sprouts. Nina helped to slice the eggplant. “Have supper with us,” Liya said, “but don’t tell my folks you came from outside of China. They’re timid as mice.”
“How about it if I take you out to dinner instead?” Nina suggested. “Then we can continue talking while we eat.”
Nodding, Liya answered, “Yes, that sounds great. My night shift doesn’t start until ten o’clock, so we’ll have lots of time to catch up some more.” After supper was prepared, Liya left a note on the table for her parents, and the two girls went out and found a quiet restaurant.
They ordered chicken congee and fried buns and picked up where they left off. Their memories harkened back nine years when they were both eighteen. Liya had been able to choose a re-education location closer to home since her parents were middle-school teachers without any so-called political problems. So, in 1968, she had moved to Hainan Province. Seven years later, like most of her counterparts, she returned to the city, and found a job in a small factory that produced pots and pans, where she still worked today. Recalling her years in the country, Liya shivered. Many times she had been bitten by black flies and wasps and suffered their poison for several days without receiving any treatment. Frequently, she had to work in the rice paddies hour after hour. Even when the blood from her monthly period trickled down her legs and stained her pants, sh
e did not have the time or a place to change the pad.
Liya told her about an incident that had occurred the previous October. More than 100,000 sent-down youths had gathered on Baiyun Mountain in the suburbs to share their experiences and make complaints about the government. Some people had even sold maps containing a secret route to Hong Kong to those who planned on escaping. The Provincial Public Security Department had dispatched a large number of policemen to disperse the crowds but failed to find out who had organized the rally. “I was there, too. Because that was the Double Ninth Festival for mountain climbing, so all of us said we were climbing Baiyun Mountain to celebrate the festival,” Liya added.
Then she smiled shyly and told Nina that part of the reason she had gone to the rally was to try and meet up with a former co-worker that she had found attractive. She had debated whether to talk to him during the rally, and maybe get to know him a little. But when the police had arrived, he had run away with some of the other young men, and she had never found out what had happened to him.
Nina told Liya that at Number Five Military Farm they had not been permitted to have relationships with other workers. “Were young people allowed to have a boyfriend or girlfriend where you were?” she asked.
“At that time, nobody was allowed to make friends with people of the opposite gender. I generally followed this rule,” Liya said. “And the only time I considered breaking it … well, you know what happened. Maybe this is why I don’t have a boyfriend even now.” They finished the hot congee and paused to sip some tea. With a tissue, Liya cleaned the lenses of her glasses that had misted with the tea. “You know, I work with a bunch of older people. I don’t get many chances to meet men my age. At work, ‘Spinster’ is my nickname.” Liya grinned. “At first, I cried because I was ashamed of this nickname. But now, guess what? I don’t care anymore.”
Slowly and calmly, Liya told Nina her story as if it were the story of some other person. “Reading a lot of banned literary works in my spare time has become my great pleasure. Maybe books are better than a boyfriend. As long as I have books to read, I’m happy,” she said. “Sometimes, I think we were born in the wrong place at the wrong time. But at least you were able to leave China. Tell me about your American boyfriend.”
Nina talked only about Roger. The fact that she had slept with two men might spoil her friend’s impression of her even though Liya had read many novels by Western writers.
“You have an admirable sweetheart,” Liya said, excited for Nina. “When are you going to get married?”
“Maybe soon,” Nina lied — a white lie — so as not to disappoint her friend. According to Chinese morals, a good girl should get married. She did not want to have the same conversation with Liya she had had with her mother. Not everyone would understand. She tried instead to comfort her friend. She knew how important marriage was in Chinese culture. “I’m sure you’ll meet your Mr. Right very soon. Don’t give up hope. You need a person who understands you and also enjoys the books you read.”
“You’re the first person who has listened to my stories with interest. Most people our age have much similar, dismal life experiences. They can’t bear more. Someday, I’d like to write my stories down, though I don’t know where I’ll find readers who will be interested in them.
“I’m sure there are plenty of people, like me, who’ll want to read your stories.”
“Really?” She smiled brightly. “My folks say I have shut my eyes to reality. They think I’m in a rut. But I can hope, can’t I?”
Nina smiled back at her and then told her what she had learned on her trip to her former farm.
“Interesting,” said Liya. “At least I know there are people like me who are still striving even though we don’t know what’ll become of us. You know what I’ll do? I am going to contact a couple of my acquaintances who have returned from the military farm in Hainan Province. Like you did with your co-workers, we too can re-connect and share our personal experiences with one another.”
The following week, Nina went to look for Yangcheng Foreign Books, the only bookstore in town that sold books in languages other than in Chinese, and she finally located it in a narrow lane with a small plate on the door. It looked as if it were hidden there to evade trouble. She stepped in and noticed a few visitors meandering among the bookshelves that lined the walls. Some rummaged through stacks of books in cardboard boxes marked, “On Sale.”
She browsed around. Most of the books were in English. Some were in French, German, Russian, and Japanese. Most of the English titles were versions of eight model plays supported by Madame Mao, as well as recently published novels and poems by contemporary Chinese workers, farmers, and army men. There were also English versions of Chinese magazines such as Beijing Review, China Today, and People’s China. Entire volumes of Mao’s work, poetry, and booklets occupied many of the shelves. Nina smiled to herself and thought the place should be called, “The Bookstore of Chinese books in English.” She looked at a newly published, thin pocketbook titled Mao Tse-tung Poems in English and wondered why the translator had not placed an apostrophe and an “s” after Mao Tse-tung’s name.
She walked over to the shelves with the most people around them. These shelves held English textbooks and dictionaries. A young man in his early twenties stood by one of the shelves with an open book in his hand. When he noticed Nina’s pocketbook, he asked, “Do you like Mao’s poems and understand them in English?”
“I’m trying,” she said. “What are you reading?”
He showed her the cover of his book. “English 900 Sentences. It’s American English.”
“Do you listen to the Voice of America?”
“Sure. I enjoy its English 900 teaching program. Do you?”
“I did,” Nina spoke in English.
“Wow, your English is so cool,” the young man said. “You sound like a perfect English teacher.”
“I’m not. Are you a student of English?”
“I wish. I’m receiving re-education in the countryside and am self-taught. How about you? Where did you learn to speak English?”
To avoid attention, she only said, “I started learning English from the Voice of America actually.”
“Then?” the young man craved to know more.
“Then, from some teachers.”
“I dream someday I can speak English as well as you do.”
“Why are you trying to learn English?”
“I love English novels. Hopefully, I’ll be able to read the originals.”
“Doesn’t reading Western books cause you trouble?”
“I haven’t gotten into any so far. Except for a couple of friends, nobody else knows about my interest in this.”
“I’m sure you will speak good English if you keep trying,” Nina said. She could see, through this young man, how her generation yearned to see beyond the tightly closed door that was China.
The day Nina left, her mother saw her off at the airport. She wiped the tears on her mother’s face with a handkerchief and hugged her once more. “When will I see you again?” her mother asked, her voice trembling.
“I hope it won’t be too long,” Nina said, and kissed her goodbye. She looked back once to wave then joined the other passengers and boarded the plane.
18.
THE SUN RISES FROM THE WEST
NINA TOOK THE ferry from Portland to Yarmouth and spotted Roger, in jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt, standing by the exit, anxiously scanning the passengers as they stepped down onto the dock. When he finally saw Nina, Roger breathed a sigh of relief.
An hour later, they were at home, nestled together on the couch with a platter of cheese and two glasses of red wine on the coffee table in front of them.
“I am happy now,” Roger said, his hand reaching for his goblet on the table.
Nina raised her glass to him, and smiled warmly, “I am glad to be home.
” They spent the rest of the night catching up, with words and with their bodies.
The following day, when Nina woke up, Roger had already left for his office. She decided to go for her customary walk along the beach. The soft red sunlight came through the thin fog over the water. It looked as though red wine had filled the bay. Seagulls and eagles slid through the air as if drunk from the wine.
It was a sleepy, peaceful morning, but the images and visions of the people and events during her journey came to haunt her, one by one. As she strolled, she drank in the ocean and shoreline in front of her, and the air, which tasted of sea salt, cleared her nose.
When she returned home, she made herself comfortable at her desk and continued with her writing project. Her mind was immersed in memories until Roger’s voice sounded behind her.
“Your essay got into the Portland Press Herald again,” he said, handing a newspaper along with an envelope to her. “I just got this letter from our mailbox. It’s from the Herald.” Nina looked at the title of the article in the paper, “My Father.” She had submitted the piece just before her trip. Inside the envelope was a cheque for $20 as payment for the piece. She shook the cheque playfully under Roger’s nose and grinned. “Come on! I’ll take you out to dinner. Let’s celebrate!”
“By the way,” Roger added, helping her to her feet. “Your postcard from China reached me. It means the mail is getting through, so I think you can write to your mother and she will probably get the letter.”
That Friday, they went to a nice restaurant and feasted on lobster and very good Bordeaux. When she looked at Roger’s contented face, she remembered the evening with her fellow farm workers enjoying the food they had made underneath the moonlight. Roger listened attentively as she told him all about it.