The Water Beetles

by Michael Kaan

  And those other small parks, the ones in my old city where memorials were put up here and there after the war, what did I recall of them, and what can they say to anyone who sees them now? Like the statue I touched that night, those memorials can only whisper, their granite has been set over a mountain of oblivion. Living memory is barren: it has no descendants or inheritors. It is a reservoir from which no channel can be struck. Where are Shun-Lai and her mother? Where are the tailor and his apprentice? They have crumbled like statues before time and the rain, and the ground they once walked has grown thick with forgetting.

  The hilltop made me uneasy. I felt the inadequacy of my old walking shoes against the wet grass on the hillside. Clumsily, I made my way back down and cursed myself, frightened of the park’s emptiness in the near dark, and on the drive home in the rental car I blasted the heat and shivered in my wet clothes. Old fool.

  It was late when I returned to find my son nervously pacing the driveway in the rain, a mobile phone against his ear. He met me with such a worried look that he seemed likewise to have aged that evening.

  ELEVEN

  Late in the afternoon of the twenty-third of February, my mother summoned us all. She sent Sheung and Tang to gather us up from around the house, both families into the library. Mrs. Yee entered leaning on her son’s arm. I hadn’t seen her for two days and was shocked at her appearance — though I’d also been avoiding my own face in the mirror. I was tired, my clothes smelled, and when I touched the contours of my face in bed at night, I could feel how thin it was getting.

  My mother sat stiffly on a chair next to my elder brothers. Wei-Ming ran over to her, and my mother gave her a quick kiss and had her sit by Sheung. She looked around at us.

  “Children, you all see how bad things are. We’ve held up in here as best we could, but there’s little left for us to eat. I know it must be safer in the countryside.” She looked at me and Leuk with these last words. “Boys, you and Wei-Ming can go to live with your uncle. You’ll be safe there. Yee-Lin will take you, and the rest of us will stay here. But don’t be afraid, it won’t be for long.”

  She said this in a very flat voice, as though she couldn’t believe she was really saying it. I looked at her and nodded. I believe she saw me. I need to believe that she saw I understood. Even now that moment has a sharpness, like the day I heard my father had died. I still see the evening light fading behind her, and the orange trees trembling in the windy courtyard. In the chilly air of the library, a small draft of warm air drifted up from my shirt and passed under my chin. The stale odour of our clothing hung over me and Leuk; and staring numbly past my mother at the rows of books, I thought of the scent of their pages. I longed to retreat into them, to become someone whose pain was just a story.

  How the others responded, I don’t remember. But we all got up and returned to our rooms to prepare.

  The plan was simple and terrible, and it was the only one my mother could devise. We would break up into three groups. Mrs. Yee and her children would have to leave for her sister’s in Wan Chai. As for my family, my elder brothers and my mother would stay in the city, where the danger was greatest. My older brothers expected the Japanese would want to confiscate our firm and keep them on as slaves to run it, and if they disappeared with us, we would all be hunted down. Yee-Lin, Leuk, Wei-Ming, and I would leave for our uncle’s house in the countryside, where we would be safer and could perhaps attend school. My mother said we would reunite as soon as we could.

  I didn’t know what “as soon as we could” really meant. No one did. It could mean when the war was over — but what if the Japanese won? I imagined us retreating into China, deep into its mythical West, where I imagined the Japanese might never go. That evening I stared at a map of Guangdong, trying to grasp what my mother had said and where we might end up. It was incomprehensible. Even the nearest villages seemed far away.

  I had so little to take, it took only a few minutes for me to pack my bag. Ah-Tseng helped me, keeping her back to me as she leaned over the clothing on my bed. I caught a brief glimpse of her face, swollen with tears. Everything fit into my backpack, the same bag I’d taken on trips to the park or market. She packed clothes for me, some soap and a toothbrush, and a small paper package of dried fruit and sweets.

  Then I went downstairs with it, and set it down next to all the others, which were propped against the wall by the front doors.

  My mother and older brothers gathered Leuk, Wei-Ming, and me, and told us that Yee-Lin would guide us to our uncle’s house in a village called Tai Fo. My mother reminded us that Yee-Lin was nearly twenty and we should listen to her as though she were our mother. As if to emphasize this, my sister-in-law and Sheung brought out a map and began explaining the journey to Leuk and me. We would go up the Pearl River at night by boat, to Tai Fo, a town I’d never heard of. Sheung wrote the names of my uncle and aunt on a piece of paper, folded it, and put it in Yee-Lin’s bag. He couldn’t spare the map, so he had meticulously made two copies of it on plain paper, which he gave to Leuk and to Yee-Lin.

  Sheung called Leuk and me into my father’s study and said he had something for us.

  “I know your pants aren’t fitting very well these days,” he said. I was so hungry that I felt angry at his attempt at humour, but I didn’t say anything. He instructed us to take off our cloth belts. We stood there holding our pants up by the belt loops while he went to a small cabinet and took a few things from it.

  “Here’s a new belt for each of you,” he said. “If you’re careful, it will do more than keep your pants in place.”

  I unrolled my belt and puzzled over it. Its leather was even more worn and scratched than my old belt. But the buckle was different. In my hand it weighed more than the rest of the belt. It was solid gold. Leuk’s was the same.

  “We’ll give you a little bit of money,” said Sheung. “But that’s for ferries or small favours. The buckle is for when you’re really in a bad spot.”

  I started to loop the belt around my pants, but he told both of us to wait. He knelt down in front of Leuk and took a small bottle and a cloth from his pocket.

  Sheung tipped the bottle very slowly over the cloth, and a small silver ball rolled out. It was the first time I’d seen mercury, and I was fascinated. He cupped the cloth to keep the little ball from rolling out of his palm, and then he took Leuk’s buckle and carefully rubbed the mercury over it. Almost instantly the gold turned a dark, dull brown. He made sure to cover every spot, including the pin, and when he was done, the buckle was as ugly as the belt itself. Then he took my buckle and did the same. He put the bottle and cloth away and told us to put the belts on. Now that they were stained and scratched, the belts suited our old pants and also fit well.

  “You’re wearing more money than any villager will earn in a lifetime.”

  I cupped the buckle in my palm. The gold was still warm from being rubbed, warm like skin. “If I need to sell it, how do I get it off?” I asked.

  “Only do that if you have to. Scratch it carefully, and do it in secret. Smash it up with a rock so no one knows how it was disguised. If someone knows one of you has gold hidden, they’ll guess the rest of you must too.”

  By the time all these last details were taken care of, it was late in the afternoon, and we realized it made no sense to leave when it was nearly dark. My mother agreed that we would stay in the house one more night.

  That evening, I sat at the dining room table with my small bowl of millet dotted with chopped, salted turnips and a sliver of egg, listening to my family eat as slowly as they could. I hadn’t expected to stay another night. In the house sealed like a tomb, and with my belly shrunken, listening to Yee-Lin weep at the thought of leaving her husband, I could still touch the smooth white floors and see the faces of those I knew, and believe that I was lucky.

  I knew it would be hard for me to sleep that night. I sat in the library facing the garden and looked outside at the trees, which seemed to have grown. In the countryside, I thought,
there would be trees everywhere, wild and taller, impenetrable walls of forest along the road. I felt cold and wanted to find Leuk, but didn’t want to leave my favourite seat in the old library.

  Around ten, I heard the familiar tentative click of Mrs. Yee’s shoes and others walking behind her. She and my mother came into the library, talking in low voices, while Shun-Po and Shun-Yau trailed behind, all three carrying bags. I moved to leave the room, but my mother said I could stay. She turned and took Mrs. Yee’s hands in hers.

  “Mrs. Yee, I would never want to turn you and your children away. I wish this were the safe place it used to be. Maybe one day soon it will be again.”

  Mrs. Yee thanked my mother for taking her family in. “My sister’s home in Wan Chai isn’t far. On quiet days I may be able to walk back here.” I knew what she meant when I looked at Shun-Yau. He was carrying two bags over his shoulders: his own and Shun-Lai’s. The handle of her hairbrush was sticking out of a side pocket like a signal, as though she had merely forgotten the way home.

  “Please be safe,” my mother said and called me over.

  I bowed to Mrs. Yee and wished her good luck, and then said goodbye to Shun-Po. I shook Shun-Yau’s hand. “See you back at school, I hope.”

  “I hope so too,” he replied.

  My mother and I walked them to the entrance. Chow was waiting to walk them all the way to Wan Chai, and had plotted a safe route for himself back to the house. He checked the street and then ushered them outside, past the broken gates.

  TWELVE

  Tang touched my shoulder and I opened my eyes. He looked worried as he turned to rouse Leuk from his sleep.

  “Time to get up,” he said. He opened the shutters, revealing grey skies.

  “I don’t want to get up.” I thought this would be funny, as though Tang were trying to get me off to school. Instead, he bit his lip and blinked a few times before he spoke.

  “Come on,” he insisted and took me by the arm.

  I got up and dressed and went downstairs with Leuk. My mother and Ah-Tseng were having tea and had set the table for Yee-Lin, Wei-Ming, Leuk, and me. There were small bowls of steamed millet mixed with rice, and on a plate in the middle were two salted duck eggs sliced into quarters, and a dish of preserved vegetables with a little salted pork fat.

  I waited until the others were sitting before I picked up a slice of egg with my chopsticks. I paused and looked at my mother.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already eaten,” she said.

  Yee-Lin ate very quickly with trembling hands. I heard her breathing in between mouthfuls, and she sipped her tea slowly as though trying to calm herself. Sheung sat down next to her and stared vacantly at the empty plate in the middle of the table. A small pool of brine where the eggs had lain glistened on the cream-coloured pottery. I reached over with my chopsticks and dipped the ends in it, and then I brought them to my mouth and tasted it. I looked over at Yee-Lin and she did likewise.

  My mother put down her teacup and looked at her. “It’s time for you to go,” she said.

  Sheung walked with us to the road, looking carefully around for soldiers. Holding my bag, I thought our departure would draw stares. I imagined people pointing us out in horror, as though the last fortress of the city had fallen.

  But nobody cared. The streets swarmed with homeless and distraught people carrying bags and cases not worth stealing. No one would notice us. I realized, after looking with pity at the people in the street, that I was one of them. I clung tightly to my small bundle, fearing someone would steal it, but I didn’t see anyone who would have had the strength.

  The number of people in the streets was growing. On the front steps of abandoned and vandalized shops, people sat silently as if posed there by a painter. Many had patchy, discoloured swellings on their limbs that were otherwise as thin as poles. A skull-faced boy Wei-Ming’s age drew his hand up to his face, moving as though half frozen, and chased a fly off with fingers covered in red sores. Many years later, unable to forget him, I guessed that he had beriberi. His hopeless eyes locked on mine, seizing me with a power that was monstrous in proportion to his shrunken frame. I felt as though I were sinking into a pit of cold mud that climbed up my chest, threatening to fill my mouth.

  We were headed for a small harbour to the east where fishermen kept their junks near the river mouth. It was a long walk through the damp spring air. We quickly left the crowded areas and were in the poorer parts of the city, where few people showed themselves. The buildings were old, encrusted with posters, and coloured only by the masses of hanging laundry. Stray dogs fed well on garbage and rats. Up ahead, fishing boats bobbed in the harbour. It struck me only then that I was leaving home.

  We reached the harbour in the early evening. I was starving and thought about announcing it, though I knew the rest of my family probably were, too, and didn’t need to be reminded. Unlike the main harbour, which was lit up all night for the ships, the lights at this port were rationed, and in the twilight the docks and fish huts had a ghostly feel. The old wooden vessels creaked softly as the water lapped against their oiled hulls. Fishermen and their families shuffled over their boats, silhouetted by coal fires and dim lanterns.

  We waited near an old brick building. Yee-Lin took a sheet of paper from her purse and squinted at it in the inconstant yellow light. I asked her what it was.

  “The name of the man who’s going to take us,” she said quietly. She held the sheet close. “He’s supposed to meet us here. His name is Kwan. Chow made the arrangements. He’s already been paid. I don’t know much else.”

  We bought a little food from a hawker — small packages of sticky rice and shrimp — and ate standing in the dark. We stood apart from everyone else. The hawker, a woman with a tanned face bound by a scarf whose ends were tucked into her winter jacket, took the coins from Yee-Lin and jingled them curiously in her palm for a time before locking them up in her cash box.

  A man in a plain black suit approached. He looked us over and spoke to Yee-Lin.

  “Come this way, Mrs. Leung,” he said. She asked if he was Mr. Kwan and started to reach into her purse for the paper, but he gestured abruptly for her to put it back. We finished our food quickly and followed him.

  The boat was moored at the harbour’s edge, far from the fishermen. The captain, a tough-looking man with a shaved head, stood at the prow. Two parents and their daughter, who looked about fifteen, were already seated in the boat with their baggage. Although the boat could have held over a dozen passengers, there would be only seven of us. When I saw the girl, I thought of Shun-Lai.

  “Everything is arranged with the captain,” Mr. Kwan said. “He will take you to Tai Fo where your aunt and uncle live. Your husband has written to alert them, but he didn’t use your names in the letter.” He looked at Yee-Lin’s hands and pried the folded paper from her fingers. “Don’t keep such things on you,” he said and walked over to a hawker and threw the precious paper into a brazier. He looked at us all. “Once you cross over into China, you’ll be safer, but you can expect the Japanese to be patrolling the border heavily. Let the captain deal with them.”

  Mr. Kwan helped us into the boat, and Yee-Lin got on last. The other family was sitting near the back, so we sat in the middle. We didn’t speak to them.

  The captain leaned against the side of the boat. “That’s it?”

  Mr. Kwan nodded, and then he unmoored the boat and heaved the rope on board as the captain started the engine.

  The pier receded as we moved downriver. The harbour lights dimmed quickly and the silhouettes of crouching figures on the wharves disappeared. All I heard was the engine and the river sloshing against the vessel. In the dark, only a single lantern mounted at the back of the boat shed any light. The parents behind us whispered quickly back and forth, and each time the girl said something, the mother urged her to be quiet. I looked back at them. They were huddled on the bench with a large blanket spread over their knees.

  When we were in the middle of the
river, the captain suddenly slowed the engines and turned to us. “Do you have any valuables?”

  Yee-Lin stiffened next to me. “Yes,” she said.

  “You don’t want the Japanese to take them. We’ll be stopped and inspected for sure. Give them to me and I’ll conceal them for you.” He looked over our heads at the family behind us. “You too.”

  Wei-Ming leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Don’t give him our stuff.” She had one hand on my shoulder and pulled hard on it as she whispered, her lips running so close to my ear that her words blurred into anxious puffs. Yee-Lin looked cautiously at Leuk.

  “It’s all right,” said the captain. “I don’t want your things. You can bet we’ll be stopped, though. The better I hide them, the shorter the delay. I do this all the time. Look.” He opened a small wooden locker on the side of the boat and took out a few oilcloth sacks. “I’ll put them in here and tie them up and hang them over the side with a small weight. The hook goes under the waterline, so they won’t see it. Do you have something?”

  “Yes,” said Yee-Lin at last and looked at the three of us. “Come on, give it to him.” She took out her cotton bag full of coins and banknotes, and another one with jewellery, and we each took our money bags out of our pockets.

  Each time we handed the captain something, he said, “Good,” before shoving them into the sacks. He tied the sacks tightly with a leather strap. “Anything else?”

  My right hand fell on my belt buckle. I rubbed it lightly, fearing that in the dark the mercury stain had somehow worn off. “No,” I said. I looked over across Yee-Lin and saw Leuk fiddling with his belt. His eyes caught mine. He pulled his hand away from the buckle and looked up at the captain.

  “Nothing else,” he said.

  The captain looked at us searchingly. In the lantern light I discerned the lean contours of his face. He shut his eyes for a moment and ran his free hand over his shaved head. “Okay, then,” he said. “Leave the belts on.”