A Hundred Flowers

by Gail Tsukiyama

The room was stark and cold and windowless. Several dim lights hung from the ceiling. There were three rows of five wooden tables with chairs facing each another. Wei sat down at a table closest to the door, while another older woman sat at a table on the other side of the room. She looked over at him and then away again. Wei was told that he’d been given special visiting rights, since visitors were usually allowed only at the beginning or the end of the month. He wondered if the woman had come from far away, too. Wei was tempted to make conversation, to raise his voice and ask her who she was there to see, but they had chosen tables far apart from each other for privacy, and he thought it better to keep it that way.

  When the door finally opened, Wei’s heart leaped. He took a deep breath and held it in, only to let it seep slowly out again when he saw a thin young woman with a shaved head walk in with a female guard. She was hunched over and moved slowly, as if in great pain, but raised her head just long enough for Wei to see her black eye and swollen lip and just how young she was. She wasn’t much older than Suyin. When she walked past him, a foul stench emanating from her accosted him, and Wei quickly turned away.

  The older woman immediately rose from the table, but the guard held up her hand to stop her. The woman, who he assumed was the girl’s mother, hesitated, then sat back down again. Wei could see how anxious the woman was to get up and go to the girl, but she gripped the edge of the table instead and waited. The guard pushed the young woman down in the chair across from her and stepped to the side.

  “Fifteen minutes,” the guard said.

  Respectfully, Wei looked down at the table. There was nowhere else to escape. He knew well that privacy could be found only in small gestures, by closing his eyes, or turning his body away, or dropping his gaze to the tabletop. It provided emotional distance if nothing else. He looked down at the sticky and worn tabletop. Someone had further added to the despair by making a deep gouge in the table that ran in a curving line from one end to the other. But the longer Wei studied it, the more it appeared to follow the same route as the Yellow River flowing through Central China. He had spent more hours than he could count scrutinizing maps and tracing the artifacts in this area where so much of China’s civilization began. The river wound through nine provinces from Qinghai to the Bohai Sea, where the table ended. Wei might have been imagining it, but he was delighted with the discovery. The Yellow River represented the spirit of the Chinese people, and it was not only fitting, but inspired that someone would have scored it into the tabletop as a symbol for all those visiting their loved ones. Even if he were the only one ever to make the connection, it lifted his spirits.

  He studied the tabletop closely, wondering how the gouge had been made and by whom, the visitor or the inmate. With a pen? A sharp object? Out of rebellion or despair? It must have required thoughtful planning and cunning not to have been seen and stopped by the guards. He imagined the room crowded with visitors, voices raised to be heard, the guards gathered together smoking, ignoring the reunions. Wei’s finger traced the line and he smiled at the secret of it. He had been thoroughly searched before he was allowed into the facility, and had the presence of mind to wear Sheng’s sweater rather than carry it in. He wondered how many others had prepared intricate plans of defiance on their visiting days.

  When Wei looked up again, the girl across the room had laid her head down on the table as if she could no longer hold it up. Her mother reached out and began to stroke the girl’s head as her voice hummed quietly. Wei listened to the dialect and thought he recognized her saying something about time and patience. In the moment afterward, a frightening moan erupted from the girl. “Quiet now, quiet now,” the older woman soothed, raising her voice to let the guard know she had things under control. Just then the door whined open again and he turned to see if it was Sheng who had stepped through the doorway.

  The guard who approached Wei was a large man, with close-cropped hair and sleepy-looking eyes. He leaned against the table, just enough to pin Wei between it and the chair he sat in, the guard’s shadow falling over him.

  “Lee Wei?” he asked. His voice was surprisingly high for such a big man.

  Wei nodded. “Yes, I’m Lee Wei.”

  The guard stood straight to his full height. “I’m afraid there was a mix-up. Your son left for the stone factory this morning before he received word of your visit. He isn’t here.”

  Wei was confused. “Are you saying I won’t be able to see my son today?”

  “Not today,” he said.

  “But this letter of permission,” he said, pulling it from his pocket. “It’s dated today. Today, see? Can I see him over at the stone quarry? If not, will I be able to use it tomorrow?”

  The guard shrugged. “Visitors are received only here. You’ll have to either reapply with the unit manager or through the police security bureau.”

  Wei sat in disbelief. He’d come this far, he was so close to seeing Sheng he could almost hear his voice, see his boyish smile. Instead, he would have to start all over again. “It can’t be,” Wei muttered to himself, but the guard had already closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Across the room, the female guard moved closer to the girl, signaling her time was up. Wei heard a sharp scream come from the girl when the guard grabbed her arm and lifted her from the chair. “Go quietly, go quietly, I’ll return soon,” her mother said, pleading. The girl grabbed on to the woman’s hand for as long as she could before she was dragged away.

  Song

  Song surveyed her growing garden, knowing that the cleared area where Tao had just planted new seeds would soon be brimming. By early spring the garden would be thriving, providing them with a new crop of vegetables for the months ahead. She saw it day after day already in the form of cabbage and chives and pea shoots sprouting. She prayed to Kuan Yin that Wei would have returned safely by the time she cut the chives, and that Sheng might be home by the next harvest.

  The past few years had been bountiful and she was grateful. But Song wouldn’t forget that anything could happen, that nature had a way of taking as well as giving.

  * * *

  The only year Song’s garden didn’t bloom was during her second year at the villa. It had rained incessantly for weeks and the land she worked so hard to clear had flooded, becoming a small pond, the earth swelling and bloating from all the water, the new seeds she’d planted rising to the surface like tiny corpses. Any signs of growth afterward would be a miracle.

  When the rains finally stopped, Song had rolled up her cotton trousers and waded barefoot into the muddy mess, wanting to see how deep it was and if anything could be salvaged, her feet sinking into the muddy sludge below her ankles. Every time she tried to lift a foot, she sank a little deeper into the mud, a sucking sound raising air bubbles to the surface. She needed something to grab on to for leverage. Song wanted to laugh at her own stupidity, and couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it felt like to be sucked under in quicksand. What if she couldn’t get herself out, would she die standing upright encased in dry mud? What a silly way to go, she thought.

  “Can I help?” Sheng had asked.

  He appeared out of nowhere, a tall, gangly teenager then. She hadn’t heard him at all, didn’t realize he was standing there and watching her, amused.

  “Of course you can,” she said, reaching out for his hand, grateful beyond words that he was there.

  He leaned over and grabbed her hand, first one, and then the other, and pulled her slowly out. As her feet made their final kick free of the sucking mud, it splattered all over Sheng’s clothes. He began to laugh and it was the first time Song realized Sheng was growing up and becoming his own person, full of life and mischief. His temperament was so much like Liang’s, even more so as he grew older. Unlike Wei, they were both able to laugh at themselves. Sheng never told anyone about her being stuck in the mud, and they kept it as their private joke throughout the years. Afterward, he never failed to check on her after every big storm.

  S
ong hadn’t thought about that day in a very long time and it brought sudden tears to her eyes. Weeks later, she remembered being surprised to see a few green shoots sprouting from the once sodden earth—the remaining seeds finding their way toward the sunlight. She marveled at nature’s resiliency, its sheer stubbornness to survive.

  She thought no less of Sheng.

  Wei

  By the time Wei returned to Luoyang, it was too late to go back to the public security bureau. It would take at least two or three days to process another letter of permission, and that was if the fates were with him. Wei wasn’t sure if he had the energy to go through it all again. He was tired and hungry and he wondered how many times he’d have to go through the endless bureaucracy before finally getting to see Sheng.

  The room felt emptier and colder with Tian gone, the presence of defeat in every corner. Still, as Wei sat on the sagging cot, he heard Tian’s voice encouraging him to continue: Come now, you’re tired, tomorrow you’ll go back and Clerk Hu will issue you another letter of permission. You know what to do now, and you’ll see your son the next time. Wei tried to smile, though he could have just as easily wept, his heart so heavy with loss.

  * * *

  The next morning, Clerk Hu reacted with little or no sympathy. He filed another form and instructed Wei to wait as he had before. But he must have felt some pity toward him. Two days later Wei was on the same bus heading to Ruyang. He was beginning to feel like a nomad, moving from one place to another without a home like the Hakka, the Chinese Han known as the “guest people,” who migrated southward through the dynasties due to the social unrest. The new letter of permission was in his pocket and he didn’t allow himself to think of what he would do if he wasn’t able to see Sheng again. Wei’s money was running out and he had enough for one, maybe two more nights at the boardinghouse and a train ticket back home. What then? He couldn’t return to Guangzhou and to Kai Ying and Tao without having seen Sheng. What would they think of him? Wei cleared his head to dispel any other bad thoughts.

  As the bus traveled on, Wei closed his eyes. At first there was only darkness and then everything began to lighten. Do you remember, he heard Liang’s voice ask him, when Sheng was a little boy and he was determined to fly his dragon kite even when there was no wind? He nodded at the memory, at the calm, cool watery sound of Liang’s voice, and how she had finally returned to him after so many weeks. Yes, he said. Wei could see her smile. Remember how he ran up and down the street trying to get enough wind until he finally gave up, she reminded him. And how you were the one who told him the wind would return again in no time, but he had to be patient. The wind will return again, Liang said. You’ve come this far, just listen to your own words.

  Wei wanted to reach out for Liang, but was afraid she would disappear if he did, and remained content to feel her there beside him again. Not long after, the bus made a sudden sharp turn before it jerked to a complete stop and Wei was forced to open his eyes. He blinked against the bright daylight to see that they had arrived at Ruyang’s city center, a short walk from the correctional facility.

  Kai Ying

  Kai Ying had just finished with a patient, his wife leading him out through the courtyard, his eyesight almost completely gone. There was little she could do for the old man, who had refused to see a medical doctor, but offer him a sweet tea made from Chinese wolfberries and chrysanthemum flowers known to help vision-related diseases.

  While Kai Ying waited for her next patient to arrive, she took stock of what herbs were running low. The house was quiet during the pause in her busy morning, and it gave her a moment to gather her thoughts. Tao was at school, Auntie Song was with Meizhen in the garden, and she’d sent Suyin out using the last of their monthly coupons to buy rice and cooking oil.

  Kai Ying glanced up at the ceiling when she heard what sounded like footsteps from the room above. It was followed by a creaking sound on the stairs, although no one else was at home. It’s just the old villa playing tricks, shifting and sighing with age, she thought. Or maybe it was the ghosts of Wei’s servants, Sun and Moon, lurking about. She smiled to herself. In the ten years Kai Ying had lived at the villa, she’d never seen either of them. Perhaps they were finally paying her a visit.

  Kai Ying walked from room to room. There was no one upstairs. “What’s becoming of me?” she whispered to herself. The only room she hadn’t checked was her father-in-law’s, which she had avoided ever since he’d left for Luoyang almost two weeks ago. Now, even though there was no one in the house but her, Kai Ying knocked on his door and waited a moment for Wei to answer, knowing a reply would not come. She opened the door slowly and stepped in.

  The room was dark and had a moldy, closed-in smell of old books and traces of the ginger and sesame oil liniment she had mixed for Wei. The bottle sat on his desk and she fretted now that he didn’t have it with him when his back acted up. The drapes were parted just enough for a sliver of light to fall across his dark wood desk.

  Kai Ying opened the drapes and a dusty morning light flooded the room, making it appear drab and tired. She was usually in and out of his room quickly to clean, or to bring Lo Yeh his tea. Now she stood in the telling light and took a good, long look around. The bookshelves that lined the walls with overflowing volumes gave the room a heavy, insulated feel. On his desk were papers, a book of poetry by the poet Tu Fu, a photo of Liang and Sheng when he was a little boy. It was the photo he’d kept in his Lingnan office for over thirty years. She imagined him glancing at it every day and wondering where all the time had gone.

  Like much of the old villa, the room was in a sorry state. Kai Ying looked up and noted the water stains across the ceiling, the peeling paint, the intricate molding along the walls now hidden under years of neglect. The grand villa was only a tired shell of what it once was.

  Kai Ying closed her eyes and imagined what it must have been like for Wei growing up in the villa at the height of its beauty and his family’s prosperity, when the idea of Mao and his Party were inconceivable. Later, Liang and the university had been Wei’s life, and Kai Ying had never stopped to realize how lonely he must feel with them both gone, clinging on to what little of the past he had left. She wouldn’t have been able to forget either.

  Kai Ying opened her eyes and leaned over Wei’s desk to straighten his papers and pens. He must have written the letter right here, she thought, feeling only sadness. She carefully closed the book of poetry that lay open, a long-ago gift from Sheng. Her hand rested gently on the cover for a moment before she turned and opened a window, letting in the fresh air.

  Ruyang, November 21, 1958

  Dear Kai Ying,

  There’s little time for me to explain everything to you. It’s not quite 5 A.M. and I was just about to leave for the stone quarry, when Hou, my unit manager, informed me that my father’s petition to visit had been granted and I would be seeing him for a short time this afternoon. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My father. It seems I’ve been gazing at a dark sky for so long, I’d forgotten there are always glimmers of light. I only have a few stolen moments to spend with you in this letter, and it feels as if I’m stumbling over all the words I want to say. My work unit will be leaving in a matter of minutes and then there won’t be any time to write you again. For the first time in so many months, I’m a happy man, knowing my father will be bringing this letter back to you.

  It was the leader of my work team who stopped sending my letters to you, and it was the same bastard who withheld all the letters and packages you must have sent to me. I was frantic the first few months when I didn’t receive any of your letters, thinking something must have happened to one of you. Instead, another inmate told me my letters were being destroyed by one of the managers here. From the beginning, he and I were like two alley cats who had taken an instant dislike of each other, even when I tried to remain invisible and keep out of trouble. But there are times when you can’t avoid the storm, which led to some small altercations. Had I known that the resu
lt of my convictions would be the loss of your letters, of your voice, I would have been wiser. But please understand too, that without our own moral standards, where would we all be?

  Forgive me, Kai Ying.

  Every day since, I’ve worried about you, thinking the worst—that I had turned into a shadow you could no longer see or hear. I’m here. I’m as well as I can be. All I can promise you is that I’ll survive this place because of you and Tao; the long arduous work days which begin in darkness and end in darkness, the crowded, squalid conditions, the endless steam buns and cabbage, the desires and the needs. Time is simply made up of the days passing until I can return to you.

  Do you remember when we first married and we went to Zhaoqing to visit your family? We took a boat across Star Lake to explore the mountain crags and we were separated from each other onto different boats. I remember seeing you from across the water and asking myself, what did I do to deserve such great fortune? Think of the joy we felt when we were reunited that afternoon. Think of it again when I return home.

  Until then, I’m here. I’m here.

  Wei

  Wei waited for Sheng in the same stark, windowless room of the correctional facility. He was alone this time, no other visitors to capture his attention. He sat down at the same table by the door, his finger automatically tracing the route of the Yellow River scored across the table. It somehow brought him calm, a quick means of escape.

  Wei heard footsteps coming down the hallway and looked toward the door, but the steps passed and faded. Not long after, more voices rang down the hallway as the room grew warm and stuffy. He took off Sheng’s sweater and draped it across the back of his chair. His clever plan was to hand the sweater to Sheng when they parted as if it had been his all along.

  Another half hour had gone by, when finally, the door swung open and he saw a thin, gaunt Sheng with a shaved head standing in the doorway. He glimpsed the young boy who stood quietly at the doorway of his library again, too shy to speak to him. Wei’s heart pounded at the sight of Sheng. He wanted to say his name out loud to make sure he was really there and not a figment of his imagination, but Sheng’s face appeared hard and closed, and Wei instead whispered his name to himself. Only then did it occur to Wei that his son might not want to see him.