Colors of the Mountain

by Da Chen

  The nurse rushed us through a minor check, then asked us to take off all our clothes.

  “Our clothes?”

  “Yeah, now.”

  My brother and I squirmed uncomfortably. We finally stood there in our underwear, the last shred of our male dignity hanging loose.

  “What’s the matter? Come on, drop it, I don’t have all day. There’s a hundred female applicants waiting for me.”

  That sent us flying. We faced the wall and dropped our protection. We stared at each other with goose bumps crawling over our bodies like ants. It was the first time we had seen each other naked. The nurse’s cold hands ran over a few things. Then she took off her plastic gloves with a disgusted look, tossed them into a garbage can, and washed her hands.

  We had passed.

  “I guess nothing’s missing,” Jin said, pulling up his shorts.

  “I guess so. Mom and Dad made us right and whole.”

  We laughed and were out of the exam room in a second.

  The wait began as the college admissions people flew in from all the major cities to interview the applicants from Fujian. They were stuck there for the next few days until all the slots were filled. The Board of Education fed them local delicacies, put on performances to cheer them up, and passed buckets of fresh fruit around during their break. They even threw a banquet for them at the end of the process.

  Jin and I gave our sisters a rest and took over the farm work. Jin was a lot of fun to work with. He showed me how to hold a plow straight behind a buffalo and how to dig a neat furrow. I dug up human manure from the bottom of a manhole and dumped it into buckets, which he pulled up. Then we both carried them several miles to the fields where the manure was spread as fertilizer. Jin walked faster than I, and stopped and rolled a cigarette for me. When I caught up to him, we sat by the road under the summer sun, wiped our sweat, and smoked the rolls. Then we moved on again.

  It was hard labor, but we were lighthearted. We dreamed, boasted, argued, and even sang as we dragged our tired feet, heading home as the moon shone on our backs. Jin was totally another person, no longer the distant, older brother who had always loved me, but had never gotten the chance to say so. The manhood in Yellow Stone had been too confining for him to show brotherly affection, but now it was as if a part of him had been freed. He saw me as an equal and respected me. We had sweated together and were victorious in the end. We had never been this happy before.

  Not surprisingly, Jin got some generous proposals of marriage from the beauties of Yellow Stone and beyond. There were nurses, teachers, sales clerks, secretaries, and actresses. Jin showed no interest. He wanted to consider marriage only after college. But Mom, Dad, and our sisters were having a terrific time going through the list, studying them as if for real. They even broke into serious arguments over the merits of their personal choices. Some of the girls on the list shied away whenever they passed our house, acutely aware that they were being scrutinized.

  One night a pretty little girl no more than seven or eight ran to our house and said that her dad was inviting me to her house to watch television. There was a special program on that night. The invitation came from out of the blue. The girl turned out to be the youngest daughter of the party secretary of our commune. He was the only person in Yellow Stone to have a nine-inch, black-and-white TV, which he proudly placed on top of a table in the front yard. In the evenings, he would invite the town’s small group of dignitaries to watch the nightly programs, starting at seven and ending at eleven. An invitation from him to witness the magic of his nine-incher was like being given his personal seal of approval. The next day the whole town would know who was there and why.

  Mom was obviously flattered by the invitation and asked me to take a long bath, put on my best white shirt, and a new pair of sandals. I had dinner early, then strolled over the bridge to his walled estate. There were about fifty people sitting, standing, and squatting outside the gate. They were there in the hopes that the party secretary might be in a generous mood and let them in. If not, they would be perfectly content sitting outside the wall all night long, listening to the TV as though it were a radio.

  The crowd parted as I strolled through the throng. The party secretary stood at the door, fanning away flies with a dried coconut leaf. His potbelly was barely covered by his shorts. He welcomed me enthusiastically.

  “There is a drama at nine tonight that I thought you might want to see,” he said.

  “Thank you for the invitation. I love drama.”

  “I thought you would.”

  I entered the door; inside was another world. There were flowers in pots, a tea table, and lush sofas scattered around a stand where the TV proudly sat, precious modern magic. It was the first time I had ever seen a television.

  The party secretary showed me to a prominent seat as all present stood up to meet me. I bowed to them like a spineless sucker. The party vice secretary, the head of the commune’s women’s group, the head of the Young Leaguers, and a few good-looking ladies were there. I was embarrassed by the attention. These guys had hanged my dad by his thumbs a few years ago, had locked my sister up for selling our clothing ration coupons, had shortened my grandfather’s life and made his last days in this world a living hell. Now they all smiled and shook hands with me, praising me for the high scores. It felt strange, but extraordinarily good.

  I sat down. A pretty girl, the eldest daughter of the host, carried over a cup of steaming tea on an elegant tray and served me with a sweet smile. I took the tea with a humble heart, outwardly trying to be nonchalant. She sat beside me and explained the high technology of the nine-inch black box. I felt uneasy chatting with her. It was a challenge to conduct a civil conversation without spilling my tea.

  The TV blinked all night, the reception was spotty, and when thick clouds passed overhead, blurring it even more, the audience had to guess at what was happening on screen. It was a milestone in my book, nonetheless. The daughter kept pouring me tea, and I kept running to their bathroom. I left with the rest of the crowd when the TV screen turned white with busy little dots. At home, Mom had waited up to question me about how I had been received. She wanted all the details. I gave her a full and complete report, and she smiled with satisfaction.

  I WENT TO the post office every morning and sorted the mail with the clerk. This chubby lady was a one-woman show: she was the phone operator, mailman, telegram person, and the counter clerk, who sold stamps and who sealed packages, and was also the mother of the two kids who played on the dirt floor and watched the door for her. Whenever the truck arrived, the eldest kid would shout that the mail was in from Putien. His mom would come out, and I would help her carry it in. When she was out on her bike delivering the mail, her mother-in-law took over watching the children and the switchboard. No matter how shabby, the post office was a crucial message center: it held my hopes and dreams.

  I sat on the doorstep, played with the kids, and looked for the green post office truck from Putien each morning. Whenever it came, my heart would race and my head would begin to throb with anticipation. One fine autumn day, the kid yelled as usual, and his mom and I carried in an unusually large load. She threw me the stack of mail, the sorting of which had become my routine, and I clawed through them carefully and quickly.

  A large registered envelope dropped out of the stack. The return address looked familiar.

  Beijing Language Institute.

  It was addressed to Comrade Chen Da.

  I jumped up and screamed at the clerk. She handed me a pair of scissors and I slit open the envelope.

  In one simple sentence, the letter informed me that I had been admitted into Beijing Language Institute’s English department, and that I was expected to report on campus within a month.

  I ran home as fast as I could.

  Mom, Dad, and the whole family were at hand to congratulate me. We studied the letter and the information they had sent about the department and the college. The picture of the college was a treasure. />
  My dream had come true. I would be off to Beijing to study English. I would be the first one in the history of Yellow Stone High to do so. Now I had a future, a bright one. In a few years, I would be fluent in English, could go to work for the Foreign Ministry and would converse in that fine language with fine people in an elegant international setting. Other things would follow, and I would be able to take care of my wonderful family and give them all that had been denied them.

  Though I had never set foot outside my county and Putien was the largest city I had ever been to, my mind had wings, and it had traveled far away.

  I made a list of people to visit before I left. Professor Wei was at the top. She had been away traveling with her sister since I took the test, but now she was back.

  I took two ducks and visited her one afternoon. She opened the door and made me tell her what had happened. I said we should talk inside. She said she couldn’t wait another second.

  Beijing Language Institute, I said.

  She said she couldn’t believe it.

  She jumped up and down like a small child, and said she was so glad she wanted to hug me and thank me for being such a good student.

  We hugged and she rested her head on my shoulder. I felt her tears on my white shirt. She was having a good time.

  I promised to write and report all my progress to her. She looked at me and shook her head slowly, still incredulous. Her hands cupped her delicate face, as she stood in her doorway waiting until I disappeared into the woods.

  Of course, her mean dog was still angry at me. He seemed to be saying, I’m the only one in town to see through you. You are nothing but a country boy and will always be a country boy. I made peace with myself and agreed with the dog for the first time. I would always be a country boy, no more, no less.

  Dad gave me another list of people to visit, the older generation, his friends and those relatives with whom we had lost contact during the tough times. I visited them all, and was received warmly and with respect.

  My four buddies reappeared from nowhere one day and had two bikes on hand. They took me to a fancy restaurant in Putien, one that we used to look at from a distance as we smelled the fine aromas wafting from the ventilation window, trying to guess the price of each smell.

  We boasted and talked about the old days. Mo Gong took off his old leather shoes and said that I would need them in a cold city like Beijing. We went to a photo studio and froze our memory into a black-and-white picture.

  Meanwhile, we were getting worried about Jin’s admission. He was a little older than the usual college student, and we suspected that someone might have been making trouble for him. With his score, he should have received letters from the colleges by now. The whole family was sort of caught between us two. I was in the celebrating mood, while he still waited in agony. There had been cases where applicants with high scores had been left out by clerical error. He began to go to the post office just as I had, waiting every day. He, too, played with the kids and helped the lady clerk with her routine.

  Finally, two days before I was about to leave, his letter came.

  It was a moment of great happiness for all of us. Mom and Dad, who were hardened by many years of suffering and deprivation, rarely revealed their emotions, but now I saw Dad collapse into a chair, bury his face in his shaking hands, and weep. Mom sat down also and let loose a torrent. Everyone was sniffling.

  Thirty years of humiliation had suddenly come to an end. Two sons had been accepted into leading universities within the same year. Mom and Dad had never dreamed of such a day. They had thought we were finished. Kicked around in school, I had almost dropped out many times. Jin had been forced to quit school at the age of twelve to become a farmer with nothing to look forward to but blisters on his tender hands, being spit upon by the older farmers, and backbreaking work that had taken away ten prime years of his life. There had been years of no hope, no dreams, only tears, hunger, shame, and darkness.

  I held my brother’s shoulders as he sobbed. But it was soon over. He was the first to wipe his eyes and smile broadly at everyone. All the tears were over.

  During the next two days, Jin threw himself into packing for me as I went around bowing and thanking everyone in the neighborhood. My heart was full of gratitude to even the meanest people on the street who used to slight us. I bid good-bye to them all. They were touched and shook my hand firmly. They said they would try to take care of my parents while Jin and I were gone. I thanked them again.

  On the day of my departure, we got up early. Mom prepared all the cows and pigs I had promised the gods and Buddha. She made them with flour and water and painted them red. I kowtowed a thousand times and thanked them for making my dream come true.

  Mom gave me an embroidered silk bag filled with dust from the incense holder and a pinch of soil from Yellow Stone. She asked me to bring it with me to Beijing and to spread it on the ground there when I arrived. It would ensure protection from the gods and Buddha at home. I hid the bag safely in the middle of my wooden trunk.

  After breakfast, I checked my train ticket for the last time. Dad, my sisters, and Jin had borrowed bikes and were coming to Putien to see me off at the bus station. I hugged Mom at the door again and again. She cried, but a smile shone through her tears. She pulled me once more into her arms, then gently pushed me away and nodded. Only at that moment as I looked at her did I realize that she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world and that I was going to miss her when I was thousands of miles away in Beijing.

  As I hopped up onto the backseat of one of the bikes, our neighbors came out to wave good-bye to me. The cigarette man, Liang, was old now. He wobbled to the edge and smiled and bowed to me. The doctor was also there, waving his cane in my direction. Some neighbors stood at my mom’s side, comforting her. I took a long last look at the cobbled street of Yellow Stone, the Dong Jing River, and the Ching Mountain, looming tall in the background.

  Good-bye, Yellow Stone. I am forever your son.

  We rode on our four bikes, chatting and laughing on the way to the bus station. I had never seen Dad so happy and carefree. He joked and told stories about my childhood. We arrived at noon. My bus was already boarding.

  Jin was coming with me to Fuzhou to see me off at the train station, because I had never seen a train before. Without his guidance, it would be Da in Wonderland, running after the train as it left. I had never been on a bus before, either. The only motor vehicle I had ridden on was the commune’s noisy tractor.

  Together Jin and I threw my heavy wooden trunk onto the overloaded luggage rack on top of the shaky, dusty bus. Then we squeezed into a crowded seat that was marked for four people but actually had six occupying it. My sisters came up to the bus and hugged me tearfully, then Dad climbed up the steps. He stumbled, and I sprang out of my seat to meet him. He was a big man and gave me a bear hug. I was surrounded once more by the same warmth I used to feel as a small kid hiding under his padded cotton overcoat. He took my face in his hands and bit his lower lip until it turned pale.

  “I want to get some fruit for you, son. You wait.”

  He stumbled down from the bus and ran toward a fruit stand a few yards away. His back was hunched over, and his steps were slower than he wanted them to be. He climbed over the guardrail that separated the passengers from the onlookers and almost fell.

  When he came back, the engine had already started. Dad walked in front of the bus to stop it. The driver was yelling at him. He ran to the window where we sat, and passed four pears to me. He was out of breath and looked very tired. His eyes were wet, but there was a smile on his wrinkled face. I couldn’t help the tears that rolled down my cheeks as we pulled away from the crowded station. Dad stood there waving to me. I craned my neck until I could see him no longer.

  I love you, Dad. I am your son, forever.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I THANK THE following people for being there for me as I was in the process of bringing this memoir to life:

  M
y beautiful wife, Sunni, who told me to write this book, taught me how to write it, and worked tirelessly as a brilliant first editor for it, our third child. This is our book!

  Victoria, our daughter, for letting me grow with you. Michael, our son, for your great-grandpa’s smiling eyes.

  My literary agent, Elaine Koster: you are a dream, a class act, and a dear friend. You are a superagent. Thank you for loving the book with passion, and making it all happen.

  Bill Koster, Elaine’s other half: thank you for sharing her vision.

  William Liu and Alice Liu for loving me like a son. Without the half-days off during many tumultuous months, this book could not have been written.

  My dear sister, Ke Ke, for your blind confidence. I can’t wait to see your book in print.

  My brother, Jin; my sisters, Si and Huang, for loving your little brother abundantly. In abundance, I love you all.

  Cindy, my niece, for those wildflowers that made my summer days beautiful.

  For all my friends mentioned in the book, wherever you are, the book speaks for itself. I miss you all.

  To Tom, Joe, Doris, Jeff, Diane, Sharon, Karen, Ken Holland, and the rest of the Hudson Valley Writers’ Association. Thank you for stirring the ashes, and for believing in me first.

  Jean-Isabel McNutt, at Random House: you are a true poet and your craftsmanship overwhelms me.

  And the rest of the Random House team who labored over the book with love and enthusiasm.

  And lastly, my editor and publisher, Ann Godoff, editor in chief, publisher, and president of Random House: never a day goes by without me thanking God for you. You are an extraordinary editor and a visionary, someone who comes along only once in a long while. Thank you for making a dream come true.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DA CHEN, after graduating with top honors, served as an assistant professor at Beijing Language Institute. At the age of twenty-three, he came to America with thirty dollars in his pocket, a bamboo flute, and a heart filled with hope. He won a full scholarship to Columbia University Law School in New York, and after graduation worked for the Wall Street firm of Rothschild, Inc. He lives in New York with his two children and physician wife.