Bury What We Cannot Take: A novel

by Kirstin Chen

  “No, please, no!” she cried.

  Dr. Lee’s voice lost all composure. “I won’t go anywhere without my wife.”

  Again, the sickening sound of a baton connecting with a body. San San was shaking so hard, she feared they could hear her teeth chatter through the wall of bushes concealing her.

  “Doctor, look around. Does this appear to be a hospital? You aren’t in charge anymore.”

  San San bit down on her lower lip, afraid of what would spill out of her.

  The second student said, “Comrades, please have mercy,” which earned him a strike, too.

  “Enough,” said the leader. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.”

  San San tasted blood where her teeth had shredded her lip. She waited until the galloping faded, and then she waited some more.

  Later, much later, when she finally dared open her eyes and emerge from her hiding spot, the sun was rising over the water. The once menacing prickly grasses swayed benignly in the breeze. The wooden handcart lay toppled on its side, with the dusty tarp tangled in the spokes of its wheels.

  Shielding her eyes with the flat of her hand, San San gazed down the steep slope at the rickety boat. It was too risky to attempt to row herself to Xiamen in broad daylight, and even if she somehow made it across the channel unseen, the ship with the green flag could have already set sail. If that were the case, how would she survive on her own in the city for two whole weeks?

  But returning home was unthinkable. By now the servants would have reported her disappearance. Perhaps the authorities had already figured out her plan to flee with Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose. San San didn’t know if children could be sent to the labor camps, and she had no intention of finding out.

  Her only choice would be to hide out on the islet until Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose were released. Despite what the evil leader had said, San San believed Dr. Lee could convince the authorities to release him and Auntie Rose. He knew all the highest-ranking party officials. He’d probably saved some of their lives. They wouldn’t keep him locked up for more than a few days. In fact, the Party would probably punish those bad men for what they’d done. Once Dr. Lee and Auntie Rose were set free, San San would go to them, and they could figure out their next move. Until then, she would fish for yellow croaker at Flourishing Beauty Cove, the way she and her brother had done last summer. She’d roast the small fishes over a fire. Perhaps she’d sleep right on the beach.

  Her stomach growled; she hadn’t eaten in a long while. This side of the islet was all but unpopulated, save for the arts college on Chicken Hill Road. She seemed to recall a longan tree that flanked the school gates. When no one was looking, she’d climb up and steal fruit.

  En route to the college, a gust of wind lifted her shirttails. She reached back and brushed the waistband of her trousers. Her mother’s letters were gone. Hurrying in the direction she’d come, she prayed those men hadn’t returned. But when she darted behind the bushes, her bundle was exactly where she’d left it, lying on a rock like a lizard in the sun.

  16

  At long last, a letter from San San arrived in Hong Kong.

  Dear Ma,

  It pains me to report that Cook is behaving very badly. Can you believe he took over Grandma’s bedroom? He actually sleeps in her bed! I told him Grandma would get mad, but he just laughed! I think you need to come home, although Auntie Rose said that my pa is still sick and that you may have to stay in Hong Kong for longer. How is my pa? Why didn’t you tell me you’d be delayed? When can you come home?

  Your loving daughter,

  San San

  PS. Cook and Mui Ah invite the downstairs tenants to play cards in our drawing room. They make a lot of noise! Even late at night!

  PPS. I saw them put their dirty feet on our chairs!

  PPPS. The kitchen is a mess! Piled high with dirty dishes that Mui Ah rarely washes.

  PPPPS. Please come home soon.

  Seok Koon stared at the last line until the characters blurred together. It was no use fretting about the servants’ unruliness, not when there were so many other things to worry about. All that mattered was that they were good to San San. But how was she to ensure that from all the way over here? Should she tear off a letter to the servants, vowing to find a way to punish them if they mistreated her daughter? Should she ask Rose to intervene? But Seok Koon knew that if she angered Cook and Mui Ah, they would simply turn around and vent their wrath on San San. Should she send money, then? Enough to buy their kindness, but not so much that they grew greedy and hard-hearted. How much, exactly, would that be?

  Her mother-in-law was playing mahjong at the Fujian Association. Seok Koon alternately envied and resented her each time she left the flat. And even if she’d been home, what advice could she have offered? The once opinionated Bee Kim was as lost as she, deferring to Ah Zhai at every turn. The other night, as Seok Koon had sat at the dining table, copying out another fairy tale for San San, her mother-in-law had intoned, “Better to raise geese than girls.” It was a tired old saying, but Seok Koon had spun around, hot with rage, and caught the single tear wending its way down her mother-in-law’s creased cheek.

  Seok Koon glanced at the clock on the wall. For now she’d have to set aside the letter. Her haggard reflection gazed back at her in the vanity mirror. She dragged a hairbrush through her hair, slapped powder on her forehead and nose, and smoothed the wrinkles from the skirt of her new floral cheongsam.

  Why the priest had sent for her today, she didn’t know. On the telephone, all his secretary had said was that Father Leung had requested a meeting—the sooner the better. Seok Koon leaned in to the mirror and prodded her pallid, flaking skin before uncapping the tarnished gold tube of lipstick she’d discovered in the depths of her suitcase. It had been years since she’d worn lipstick, and when she slicked on the crimson shade, she couldn’t deny her resemblance to a Peking opera singer. She snatched up a tissue and wiped off the garish paint.

  She planned to slip out unnoticed, but when she pulled back the front door, there was Bee Kim, along with the maid who accompanied her everywhere.

  “Going out?” her mother-in-law asked.

  Seok Koon fingered a lock of her hair. “I have an appointment.”

  “Where at?”

  “The church.” Seok Koon steeled herself for Bee Kim’s usual lecture on how she needed to listen to Ah Zhai, how those Christians only cared about converting you. She peeked at her watch.

  Bee Kim scanned the length of Seok Koon’s body. “New dress?”

  Seok Koon blushed. “I thought I should get some clothes made for this humidity.” She hadn’t anticipated that the colors would turn out so bright. “You don’t like it?” She hated herself for asking.

  “What do I know of current fashions?” said Bee Kim.

  The maid discreetly lowered her eyes.

  For an instant Seok Koon considered changing, and then she took hold of herself. “I won’t be long,” she said and marched past her mother-in-law.

  In the taxi, on the way to the cathedral, she ran through all possible reasons for this meeting. Maybe the priest had learned of forthcoming changes to the border policies; maybe he had formed a new connection on the mainland. Each time hope surged through Seok Koon, she sternly warned herself to expect nothing. More likely the priest just wanted her to reconsider his proposal that she put her piano skills to use by accompanying the children’s choir—but why would that require an urgent in-person meeting?

  When Seok Koon entered the church offices, the secretary said, “What a pretty dress.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. How could she waste money and time on something as unimportant as clothing when her daughter was suffering so?

  “Father Leung is expecting you. Go right in.”

  Seok Koon wiped her damp palms on her seat, realizing too late she’d stain the silk, and knocked on Father Leung’s door.

  “Come in.”

  The priest was retrieving a book on a high shelf, and when he tu
rned, she was once again jarred by the juxtaposition of his silver hair and smooth face.

  “Good afternoon, Father,” she said.

  “Madame Ong, thank you for coming in on such short notice.” The priest shook her hand. His palm was cool and dry against her clammy skin.

  “I should thank you for making time for me.”

  He gestured for her to take a seat. “I wanted to discuss your daughter’s situation.”

  She nodded, too tense to speak.

  “I consulted a friend who works at the UN refugee agency. There might be another way to get your daughter out—a less risky way that your husband could accept.”

  Seok Koon had to stop herself from lunging across the desk and clasping Father Leung’s slender, fine-boned hands. “How? When? Please tell me everything.”

  Father Leung elaborated. Seok Koon would have to send a letter to San San and her guardian. A seemingly ordinary letter. A letter explaining that all attempts to treat her husband’s illness had failed, and that now the family was simply waiting for him to expire. (Obviously this would require another doctor’s note, which was easy enough to obtain.) Once her husband passed away, Seok Koon would write, the family would wrap up business in Hong Kong and return to the islet.

  Seok Koon didn’t see how this letter would accomplish anything. “But why—”

  Father Leung held up an index finger. The letter, he said, would go on to state that only one thing held up the family’s return: San San. The girl needed to be in Hong Kong to collect her share of the inheritance. If she failed to appear, the capitalist pigs in the Hong Kong government would confiscate the money for their own use.

  Seok Koon blinked, still confused. “Is that true?”

  “It’s an exaggeration, but that’s beside the point.” Father Leung said that Seok Koon must add that once the full inheritance had been collected, the whole family would board the train back to Xiamen, at which point they looked forward to investing the family wealth in government bonds. “Work that part in subtly, of course.”

  Seok Koon combed through the priest’s words. What was she missing? Why would the communists fall for such an obvious scheme?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the priest said.

  “Then, why?”

  He chose his words carefully. “If the plan were to work—and I need to stress the word ‘if’—it would be for several reasons. First, the communists desperately need the foreign currency that you’re so generously offering to bring back.”

  One of the Chairman’s famous sayings came to Seok Koon. “‘One cent of foreign exchange—’”

  Father Leung joined in. “‘—is equal to one drop of human blood.’ Exactly. If they’re desperate enough, they’ll take their chances. All they stand to lose is a nine-year-old girl.”

  Even as the river of hope swelled inside her, Seok Koon couldn’t shrug off her doubts. “It seems too easy.”

  Father Leung stretched his lips into a half smile. “You know as well as I that all of China is wrapped up in the biggest charade the world has ever seen.”

  She tilted her head, unsure of where he was going.

  “The charade that this impoverished, backward nation is in the midst of a new golden age, that it’s only a matter of time before they surpass the corrupt and wicked West. The communists want to believe that you want to return. Indeed, they must believe it.”

  This confused Seok Koon more than ever. “I don’t follow.”

  “Every single official at the safety bureau knew your family was fleeing for good, so why didn’t they stop you? Why did they let you leave?”

  “Because my friend, the Party doctor, intervened on our behalf?”

  “Wrong,” the priest said gently. “They let you go to sustain the charade. If new China is the paradise the Party claims it is, then no one in his right mind would ever leave. For those officials, acknowledging your family’s scheme to escape would be tantamount to admitting that their entire lives—and the whole nation—are built on lies.”

  Seok Koon mulled this over. “So, in order for them to continue deluding themselves, they might actually send San San to us?”

  Father Leung turned his palms skyward.

  She asked, “How much money will we need?”

  “Not too much—we don’t want to raise suspicion. Just enough to make this worth their while.”

  The number he quoted was a good deal more than the amount he’d asked her to come up with before. But, as he pointed out, all Seok Koon had to do was make sure the funds were in her husband’s bank account in case the Party decided to check.

  “Just in case,” she repeated. Despite her lingering doubts, the plan was truly risk-free. She could think of no reason for Ah Zhai to reject it. San San could cross the border in a matter of weeks. Days, even.

  “Thank you so much, Father.” Words she’d uttered so many times, they’d all but lost their meaning. How could she express the depth of her gratitude? In all of Hong Kong, this man was the only one who’d come to her aid.

  “It’s nothing,” Father Leung said. “‘Let each of us look not only to his own interests, but also to the interest of others.’”

  It took her a moment to realize he must be quoting the Bible. “Indeed,” she said.

  He rose to his feet, and she did, too.

  “You and your family will be in my prayers,” he said. “In fact, why don’t you bring them to church on Sunday? I’d love to meet your husband.”

  A bitter laugh slipped out of her. “My husband? I barely see him myself.”

  The priest’s eyebrows inched up his forehead, and she hurried to explain. “My husband is a busy businessman with many, many obligations.”

  His face relaxed. “I see.”

  Suddenly, she wanted him to know the truth. “That’s how my husband views me and his children, as another one of his obligations. Another of his burdens.”

  Father Leung averted his eyes, and Seok Koon knew she’d said too much.

  “Every marriage has its ups and downs,” he murmured.

  “Indeed,” she said, hurrying to the door. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time.”

  Father Leung closed the distance between them. “Madame Ong.”

  Her hand slid from the doorknob and she turned to him. “Yes?”

  “Do you know what I do when I feel lost?” His eyes were filled with such sadness, such compassion, that she felt guilty for making him share in her pain.

  “What?” she whispered. “Tell me.”

  “Well, Madame Ong, I pray. I get down on my knees and ask the Lord for guidance.”

  The tension drained from her. “Of course.”

  “‘He is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in trouble.’”

  “That’s good advice.”

  “Promise me you’ll pray,” the priest said. “Promise me you won’t try to face this on your own.”

  And because she wanted nothing more than to leave the room, she vowed she would.

  17

  Standing before the half-open window of the Lin villa, San San stared into the kitchen at the platter of soft, rotting fruit. Her plan to climb the longan tree at the arts college and stuff her pockets full of the sweet, luscious orbs had been foiled by the guard stationed directly beside the tree. Now it was dusk, a full twenty-four hours since she’d last eaten. The cavernous space in her belly threatened to somehow swallow her whole from the inside out.

  The sky had deepened to a dusty violet, yet the lights in the villa remained dark. Surely no one was home. In fact, judging from the state of the fruit on the platter, no one had been home in days.

  The Lin villa, a sprawling redbrick structure veiled by overgrown palm and banyan trees, was the only home on this isolated stretch of Chicken Hill Road. San San had heard her mother and grandmother gossip about the villa’s original owner, a famously reclusive and effeminate businessman who was said to have been waited on exclusively by young male servants. Later, San San looked up
the word “effeminate” in the big dictionary in the study, but the definition made little sense. Men were brash and loud and tough; women, the opposite. She could no sooner picture a man adopting the mannerisms of a woman than a cat imitating a fish.

  Grandma had said that this effeminate man had built his home far from town to avoid the prying eyes of neighbors. Even so, San San looked around to ensure she was alone before hoisting herself up on the window ledge and diving headfirst through the open window. She crashed upon the cold, tiled floor, too focused on her goal to notice the pain. She lunged for the platter, filling her mouth with mushy blackened bananas and pulpy persimmons that gave off a heady, alcohol-laden scent. She devoured the entire platter of fruit before she thought to scour the rest of the kitchen, where she discovered straw baskets of dried fish and meat, earthenware jugs of rice grains and sugar and flour, and, in the old-fashioned icebox, a bottle of sour soybean milk, the repulsive smell of which did little to dampen her spirits. Here was enough food to sustain her for weeks. She stuffed her cheeks with bak kwa, sucking on the juicy sheets of cured pork to draw out every drop of salty sweetness before consenting to chew and swallow.

  With her appetite tamed, San San explored the rest of the house. Through the kitchen door was the dining room, furnished with a long teak table and an enormous chandelier. The tall windows were flanked by heavy velvet drapes, held back by lengths of silk rope as thick as her wrists. By now the sun had set completely, but she dared not turn on the lights.

  Dragging a finger across the dusty sideboard, San San guessed the villa’s current owners, Old Mrs. Lin and her spinster daughter, would not be returning anytime soon. All of Drum Wave Islet was rife with rumors of those who’d disappeared across the border, abandoning family heirlooms and other treasures to fend off suspicion for as long as possible. She wandered into the sitting room and collapsed on a round sheepskin rug, large enough for her to stretch out on. Spinster Lin was tall and mannish with a stiff helmet of hair. San San was trying to remember the last time she’d seen the woman in the shops along Dragon Head Road when the realization exploded inside her like a burst of National Day fireworks. She darted upright, recalling all the valuables left behind in the flat: the pearls and gemstones in Ma’s lacquered jewelry box, her perfume bottles and crystal vase, even this gold bangle beneath her sleeve, foisted upon her by Grandma.