The Yellow Papers

by Dominique Wilson

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘You’re sure I can’t persuade you to come to Adelaide? ‘

  Ming Li smiled and shook her head – it was becoming their little joke, this pretence that she could simply pack up and hop on a plane to Australia. They’d discussed it last night, and she knew that though there had been moves to relax the White Australia Policy, change was slow in coming. He, on his part, also knew she would not leave Hong Kong as long as she believed MeiMei and the boy might one day join her. That she had heard no news of her daughter and grandson in years didn’t matter. She still questioned refugees, and hoped.

  ‘All right, I’ll come here then. As often as I can. In between, we’ll write. And I’ll ring you at the shop – every single day. It won’t be as bad if I can speak to you every day.’

  ‘It’ll cost you a fortune.’

  He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll just have to come back quickly then, won’t I?’

  He remembered the last time he’d left her, the fear and uncertainty. The unbearable pain. But this time it would be different. Both knew he’d soon be back, and both knew she’d be here when he returned.

  When they reached his hotel room, she gave him a cheeky grin and went straight for the bathroom. He heard water running. When she called him a short while later she was in the tub. Bubbles overflowed and the air smelled of apple blossom. She smiled, raised an eyebrow and opened her arms out to him.

  Later, as he lay back against her chest in the cooling water, her legs around his waist, he wished he had something to give her to express what he felt. And then he remembered.

  ‘When I get back to Adelaide, I’m going to send you a present. It was given to me by a very special man.’ And he told her about the brush-rest shaped like a lotus leaf, and about how he’d come to have it, and even how he’d turned his back on his friend, until it was almost too late. ‘I think you’ll appreciate its beauty,’ he finished. ‘It’s made of apple-green jade – so fine you can see the light through it.’

  ‘I’ll treasure it. Not because it’s made of jade, but because it comes from you.’ She kissed the back of his head, the side of his neck. ‘Jade … crystallized moonlight. Do you know,’ she asked, almost copying Chen Mu’s words from so very long ago, ‘that it means wisdom? And truth, and loyalty. Compassion, and courage too … Your friend was right in giving it to you.’

  Edward kissed the inside of her wrists, not trusting himself to speak.

  28

  Ming Li stood amongst the crowd gathered at the Hong Kong border of China in the New Territories, and watched the refugees trudging over the bridge crossing the Shumchun River. She had waited so long for this day. Thirteen years! From the very day she’d arrived here in ‘49 till today, she’d dreamt this day would happen. And now she refused to think past this moment – this minute – in case the gods took it all away from her. But even as she thought this her mind drifted back to Edward.

  True to his word, he’d taken some sabbatical leave after their first meeting and moved to Hong Kong for six months. They’d been together constantly then, and he’d proposed marriage, but she’d refused because she knew it was impossible for her to follow him to Australia whilst there was a chance that MeiMei and Huang Ho could join her. When he’d returned to his classes at the University, they’d begun a routine where they spoke on the phone nearly every day, then spent hours writing to each other, continuing their conversation.

  In these past two years Edward came to Hong Kong anytime he could, even saving up his sick leave to extend his trip for a few more days. With his commitments, these trips were few and far between, and both yearned for the time when he could take another sabbatical. But that was years away. When together they were happy, and when apart they grieved, so that there were times she thought that maybe she was fooling herself – that MeiMei would never come to Hong Kong, and that she should grab whatever chance she had at happiness with Edward.

  But then, ten months ago, she’d received news that both MeiMei and Huang Feng, her husband, had died. Ironically, it was Huang Feng who’d been denounced as counterrevolutionary, and he’d been publicly executed. MeiMei and her son had been sent to the Jiangxi Province, where massive canal and irrigation projects were taking place, and they’d joined thousands of the wretches of China who moved billions of cubic metres of rock and soil by hand to create massive dams and canals. MeiMei had died of illness and starvation, but Huang Ho was still alive.

  This time there was no questioning the reliability of this news. The person who’d brought it to her had been a friend of MeiMei, and when this woman had confided that she was going to try to escape to Hong Kong, MeiMei had asked she contact Ming Li. A few days later MeiMei had died. Her friend had been there. Had seen the body. There was no doubt.

  ‘Are you sure the boy is still alive?’ Ming Li had asked.

  ‘Still alive when I left. By now, of course, he could have joined his mother.’

  There had been little she could do at the time, except send parcels of food that she doubted would reach him. She refused to accept that Huang Ho could also be dead – believing her grandson alive was the only thing that helped her cope with the grief of losing her daughter. So she planned her life around the possibility of getting him out of China.

  She rented a better apartment – three rooms, running water, a bathroom and a private balcony, and even a telephone – and she didn’t sublet as before. It was absolute luxury after the places she’d lived in these past years, but properties on Hong Kong Island had risen so much in value that she could charge astronomical rent for the house in Repulse Bay, and the shop brought in a healthy profit. She then set about finding those in Hong Kong who went back and forth into China on a regular basis. Few would risk it, not even to visit their ancestral homes during festival time, for fear of not being allowed back, but there were some – amahs and labourers – who regularly took the risk so as to take to their families food and clothing, all wrapped in large cloth bundles to ease the strict cloth rations. They would obtain a re-entry permit from the Hong Kong police, make the journey, and on their return would start scrimping all over again so that they could make the journey one more time.

  When she found such a person going to the Jiangxi Province, she would give them a parcel of food for Huang Ho, and beg them to urge him to apply for an exit permit, even though she knew those were almost impossible to get. Then she would slip a few notes into their hand for their trouble, and to help convince them to do as she asked. She knew, of course, that the likelihood of them finding Huang Ho was almost nil, and that many of her parcels would end elsewhere, but she had to try. Finally word came back that Huang Ho was alive, but that he had no intention of leaving China.

  ‘He says he’s a man,’ the old labourer told Ming Li, ‘and as a man it’s his duty to help Chairman Mao build China into a prosperous nation. He says he doesn’t owe anything to a grandmother he’s never seen, but he does owe his loyalty to The Great Leader.’

  ‘But he’s just a boy – he’s barely thirteen!’

  The man shrugged. ‘To you he’s a boy, but he’s a man. But I tell you, he’s not well. Already he walks like an old one.’

  How she’d wished she could go into China then! Find Huang Ho and bring him back herself, but she knew she couldn’t chance being recognised. Anyone who’d known her and Xueliang would label her as ‘ultra-rightist’ – she would be denounced in no time. The very fact that she’d escaped to Hong Kong would be seen as an admission of guilt, and how would that help Huang Ho? She had to find a better way. Until then, she’d continue to send food parcels. He was MeiMei’s son, her grandson. That was all the reason she needed.

  Then last week, like wildfire, word had spread that both China and Hong Kong would open their borders. It was only to be for a few days – rumours said it was to ease the famine in China – and no one was sure when they’d close again, but it was her only chance. This time she would risk it – she would go into China herself and fetch Hua
ng Ho. She’d rung Edward to tell him the news.

  ‘Don’t! I beg you, LiLi, don’t go. I don’t care what they say, if you go in you may never come out. I don’t think I could live if I were to lose you again.’ He knew people in Hong Kong. He would arrange for someone to go in her place. ‘I have a friend – you remember the Springwells – Jonathan and Olivia from Shanghai? One of their daughters married a Chinese man – Mike Wang – they’re in Hong Kong. Mike will help. I’ll chase him up right away. Huang Ho may be more willing to listen to a man.’

  In the end, this argument had persuaded her, and she’d withdrawn most of her savings for Mike Wang to use as bribes. They had so few days – they couldn’t afford to wait for officials to ponder whether or not Huang Ho should be given an exit permit.

  And now, Mike Wang was coming back with her grandson.

  Around her, Red Cross officials and police mingled with people from Hong Kong carrying bundles of food, who hoped or had heard their relatives would be amongst those crossing the border this day. Overhead a helicopter circled, watching for any who might try to sneak in illegally. Journalists waited, cameras at the ready. Nearby, a police truck with a cage on the back waited for those who were found trying to sneak into Hong Kong by swimming the river.

  A train pulled in on the Chinese side and stopped. On the Hong Kong side, the atmosphere changed to one of expectation. Everyone pressed forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of a mother, a brother, a wife alighting. No human, except for the crew of trains bringing pigs and cattle into Hong Kong, was allowed to cross the border by rail. All had to get off the train on the Chinese side, walk across the bridge, and take another train on this side of the border to Kowloon. A moment of waiting, and it was as if all held a collective breath.

  They struggled across the bridge, one by one or in groups. Colourless people, worn and tired. On their faces desperation mingled with hope. The Hong Kong police stopped them, handed out food and checked their papers. Ming Li stood on tiptoes, trying to see above the heads of those in front of her, but she couldn’t see Mike Wang. Had they been stopped? Had something happened? A young woman carrying a toddler reached the border. Was stopped by the police. A man from the Hong Kong side – a husband, a brother? – ran towards the woman and child but another police officer held him back. They called out to each other. The police officer kept questioning the woman but she ignored him, calling out to the man. The police insisted. She shook her head, crying, obviously begging, but the police officer’s face remained impassive. She let out a wail that silenced the crowd. The man freed himself from the grip holding him back and ran towards her, and she only had time to thrust the screaming toddler in his arms before being taken back across the bridge. A picture of heartbreak that Ming Li imagined would be repeated many times before the end of the day.

  She saw them then, and it took all of her will power to restrain herself and wait. She watched Mike Wang, dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase, hand the police some papers. His self-assurance presumed no hindrance. The young man beside him contrasted so sharply that surely the police would question his association with Mike Wang. Though almost as tall as Wang he was half the weight, and his baggy wraparound Chinese trousers flapped in the breeze. He stood quietly, hunched and gaze lowered, though he occasionally glanced here and there then quickly looked down again, as if afraid of being found curious. Barely a minute after handing over their papers Mike Wang and Huang Ho were allowed to pass.

  Up close, the boy looked even thinner, unwell, with deep circles under his eyes. But when introduced to his grandmother he stood up straighter so that Ming Li had to look up at him, and she detected a hint of haughtiness in his gaze.

  ‘Welcome, Huang Ho,’ she said in Mandarin Chinese, but he refused to meet her gaze.

  ‘He’ll only speak Gàn,’ Mike Wang explained, ‘but I suspect he understands you perfectly.’

  Ming Li didn’t know what to do next. She’d imagined many scenarios for this moment, but none had included her grandson refusing to talk to her.

  ‘Very well then,’ she said at last, pulling back her shoulders so that she stood as rigid as her grandson, ‘we shall speak English. I know you understand English; you would have learned it at school, and I suspect your mother would have spoken it to you as well. It will be good for you.’ She noticed a fleeting reaction in his eyes – she had guessed right. ‘Come, we’d better find our seats,’ and she headed for the Kowloon train without a backward glance.

  Rocked by the movement of the train, Huang Ho slept. Ming Li took in his much-patched tunic, his trousers so thin in places she could see skin beneath, and regretted her earlier sharpness. Asleep, Huang Ho didn’t look like the man he pretended to be.

  ‘He didn’t want to come,’ Mike Wang told Ming Li quietly. ‘I really thought I’d come back alone.’

  ‘How did you convince him?’

  Wang looked uncomfortable. He took his wallet out of his pocket and withdrew a few notes. ‘Here. There’s not much left, I’m afraid, but I had to move quickly.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the money,’ Ming Li said, taking what he offered without bothering to count it. ‘But you haven’t answered me. How did you convince him to come?’

  ‘You’re not going to like it …’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Well, you have to understand his thinking. He really believes all this Mao bullshit about making a better China. He kept on telling me how much better off the people are now. Jesus Christ! They’re all starving to death and he really believes they’re better off!’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I had to get him moving – you understand, don’t you? It was like sitting on a ticking time-bomb. The way he was just digging in … Anyway, in the end I told him you were rich, and if he played his cards right he could get all your money, and with it he could really help the people. I’m sorry, Ming Li. But you have to understand—’

  ‘So the only reason he’s here is my money?’

  Mike Wang nodded. Ming Li battled a surge of emotions. She wanted to laugh. Be angry. Cry. She looked at Huang Ho, still sleeping. Stupid boy! She wasn’t really rich, not like they’d been in Shanghai. And she certainly didn’t have any savings left to speak of. She felt like kicking him awake, telling him he needn’t have come to Hong Kong to get her money, that everything she had would have been his, eventually. Or did he mean to get it sooner? Well, maybe he wouldn’t get her money after all – not now, not later. If that stupid boy thought—

  But he was her only grandchild. Maybe, with time, now that he was in Hong Kong, he’d come to see that things were better here. Yes, surely he would. She’d just have to be careful how she handled him. It would take time, but he was still a just a boy, really. He could go back to school – how long had it been since he’d been in school? He could make something of himself instead of digging rocks until he dropped dead from exhaustion. He’d soon come to realise he had no future in China. And when he did, then they would start building a relationship. And one day he’d marry and have children, and she’d have a family again.

  ‘We’ll keep this between ourselves,’ she told Mike Wang.

  ‘Yes. Yes of course. Whatever you say …’

  She leaned her head back against the seat then, and closed her eyes so that Mike Wang could not see what she was feeling.

  29

  Ming Li watched Huang Ho leaning over the balustrade of the balcony, looking down at the street below, quickly tapping his heel up and down up and down up and down, as if he yearned to jump over and run.

  He’d spent most of his first week sleeping, and eating whatever she put in front of him, so that already his skin had more colour, and he’d lost some of that gaunt look so typical of newly arrived refugees. But apart from the day after he’d arrived, when she’d taken him to get a residency permit, he hadn’t wanted to venture out of the apartment. She’d found this strange – she would have thought he’d want to explore – but she didn’t want to pus
h him. Occasionally she’d seen him on the balcony, head back, eyes closed, as if soaking up the sun and the relative quiet, but as soon as he noticed her watching him he would busy himself, as if ashamed of having such needs. At night, when he thought her asleep, she’d heard him wandering around, opening cupboards and drawers, checking out the apartment, but this didn’t worry her – Mike Wang’s words that day on the train had prompted her to remove anything of value to a box at her bank.

  She still refused to speak anything but English to him, ignoring him if he spoke Gàn, and after the first couple of days he’d given in – his English was hesitant, but he would soon become fluent. And even though she’d taken that week away from her shop in order to begin building some sort of rapport with Huang Ho, still he refused to show any warmth towards her. So they’d settled on a cold but polite relationship, and if she yearned to break through that façade she also realised that to push would be counterproductive. She had time. She’d waited thirteen years for this. She could wait a little longer.

  Now, however, it was obvious he was bored with his self-imposed confinement, and she needed to get back to work. Tomorrow she’d take him shopping for clothes, and then he would have to start at his new school, whether he wanted to or not. She’d accept no argument. She hoped getting him back into school life would mellow his ideology and help him realise there was more to life than backbreaking toil. She also wanted him to think for himself – she’d been amazed at his inability to make a decision about the simplest thing; which do you want me to have? he’d answer to as simple a question as whether he’d prefer rice or noodles. Were they all like this now in China, or was this passivity his way of objecting to being here? Either way, it was high time he got out of the apartment and started living.

  A small flock of tree-sparrows flew towards the balcony then soared upwards, all except a juvenile who continued straight on, crashing into the glass of the window and dropping, stunned, at Huang Ho’s feet. From within the apartment Ming Ling watched her grandson as he picked up the small bird. Holding it in his cupped palm, Huang Ho softly whispered as he stroked the small bird’s back. She remembered the lack of birds in China. For some minutes the tree-sparrow did not move, and Huang Ho continued stroking and whispering, until the bird stood and fluffed its feathers. Tested its wings. Huang Ho stretched out his arm, palm open, and the bird hesitated, hopping to the tip of Huang Ho’s finger before finally flying off. Huang Ho watched its progress, a gentle smile on his face.