by Chongda Cai
Contents
Cover
Title Page
1. Vessel
2. My Mother’s House
3. Frailty
4. Christmas in the ICU
5. Friends in High Places
6. Bella Zhang
7. Tiny and Tiny
8. Wenzhan
9. Hope
10. You Can’t Hide the Ocean
11. A Thousand Identical Cities
12. The Question We All Must Answer Eventually
13. Homecoming
14. Where Is This Train Going?
Afterword
A Note from the Translator
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Vessel
Nana, my great-grandmother on my mother’s side, lived to the age of ninety-nine. She was a tough woman. Her daughter, my grandmother, passed away in her fifties. Parents should never have to bury their children, but that’s exactly what my nana had to do. The relatives worried about how she would take it, so they took turns watching over her. As the time to see her daughter off came, she became angry. For reasons that were unclear even to her, she stalked the house, cursing to herself. She opened the lid of the coffin to look at her daughter, then went to the kitchen to inspect the offerings for the funeral. When she went back into the main room, she saw someone trying to kill a chicken. They had cut the neck of the bird but hadn’t managed to sever its carotid artery. The chicken was running around, dripping blood everywhere. She ran over, grabbed the chicken, and flung it to the floor furiously.
The feet of the chicken clawed at thin air, then finally stopped moving. “You have to finish it—don’t let the body torture the soul.” She wasn’t an educated woman, but she had a reputation as a sort of witch doctor. She occasionally came out with a phrase that seemed to have been pulled from a dusty tome.
Everyone was struck dumb.
She didn’t cry at the funeral. Even when my grandmother’s body was being put into the crematory, she only cast a sidelong glance at the scene, as if expressing silent disdain for those who wept and wailed—or perhaps she was simply an old woman drowsing.
I was just going into first grade that year. I didn’t understand how she could be so cold-blooded. During the funeral, I went over to her side a few times to ask her, “Nana, how come you’re not sad?” Her liver-spotted face smoothed and softened. That was Nana’s smile.
“It is because I hold no grudges,” she said.
It was something I heard her say many times later in life. After my grandmother died, she often came to stay with us. She said, “Before your grandmother died, she told me, Blackie doesn’t have a grandpa or grandma, and his parents are always busy. I want you to look after him.”
Nana was a ruthless woman. You could see it even in the way she chopped vegetables. She chopped down on the stems and leaves with the same force she used to whack through spareribs. One time she was working in the kitchen, and I heard a very calm “ai-ya.”
I shouted back, “What’s wrong, Nana?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just cut the tip of my finger off.” Everyone in the family started rushing around, but through it all she remained stone-faced.
My mother and I sat on a bench in the hospital hallway while she was having her fingertip sutured back on. My mother told me a story about her. When Nana’s son—my mother’s uncle—was still young and hadn’t yet learned how to swim, she threw him in the ocean. That was her way of teaching him to swim. He came close to drowning, but a neighbor was nearby and ended up jumping in to save him. A few days later, the same neighbor saw her throw her son into the ocean again. When she heard people calling her cold-hearted, she coldly replied, “Make your body serve you, not the other way around!”
When she got out of the hospital, I asked her if the story was true. I couldn’t help myself. “It’s true,” she said flatly. “Your body’s a vessel. If you wait on it to do something, there’s no hope for you. If you put your body to work, you can start to live.” To be honest, at the time I didn’t understand.
I always thought she must have been carved from stone: she was so hard that nothing could hurt her. In our small town, she had a reputation as a tough old woman. Even in her nineties, she would totter on her bound feet by herself from her village to the town. When we tried to get her a car to go back, she would always erupt: “You’ve got two choices, you either walk with me or I walk back by myself.” So it became a frequent scene on the flagstone path that led to the edge of town: a young man supporting the old woman as she walked back home.
But as strong as she was, I did see her cry. This happened when she was around ninety-two years old. She had climbed up on her roof to fix a hole. She was careless, lost her footing, and slipped off. When she came inside, she could only lie motionless on her bed. I went to visit her. She heard me coming, and before I even opened the door, she cried out, “My great-grandson, such a good boy. . . . Your nana can’t move. Nana is stuck here.” A week later she stubbornly insisted on getting back on her feet, but she only managed a few steps before she fell again. She cried and made me promise that I would come see her as often as I could. She got up every day and leaned on a chair to make her way to the front door. She sat there waiting for me. I went to visit as often as I could, and even after she had recovered, I kept going, especially when something was bothering me. Sitting with her, I felt an indescribable peacefulness.
I started to see her less frequently after I went to university and then took a job in another city. But whenever I was going through difficult times, I asked for leave and went back to sit with her for an afternoon. When I told her what was troubling me, she didn’t always understand—she was hard of hearing, too, so maybe she didn’t even hear me. Whenever I saw a slightly perplexed smile spread across her face, smoothing the wrinkles that the years had carved, I felt completely at ease.
I found out about her passing on a completely ordinary morning. My mother called to tell me that she was gone, and then both of us began to cry. She told me that Nana had wanted to tell me this: “Don’t let Blackie cry. Death is just another rung on the ladder. If you remember me, I will be there. It’ll be even easier to come visit you now that I’m free of this body.”
It was only then that I finally understood what she had said to me, that I understood her outlook on life: life would be easy if we weren’t dragged down by the body and all its base desires. Nana, I remember. “If you wait around all day for this vessel, there’s no hope for you. If you can put your body to some use, you can start to live.” Please promise you will come to see me.
2
My Mother’s House
My mother wanted to build the house even though she knew very well that it might stand for a year or less before it was torn down.
She was on her way back from the municipal government offices when she decided. She had seen the demolition plans on one of the walls in an exhibition room. The pencil line on the map had been hastily scrawled, but it was clear enough that it cleaved through our piece of land like a knife splitting a block of tofu.
She thought she could even hear the sound of the line splitting her new house—not an abrupt crack but a resounding gong. The sound echoed in her ears the whole way back. She told me she had a headache.
“Maybe it’s this weather,” she said. “No fresh air. Maybe I’m just tired from the walk. Maybe it’s this dry winter.” She asked me if we could rest. She leaned against the wall of a house along the road. She turned away from me and covered her face with her hand.
I knew it had nothing to do with the weather. I knew it had nothing to do with her being tired. I knew it wasn’t because the winter air was too dry. I knew that what she was trying to do with her face
buried against the wall was to calm the rough seas of her own heart.
The four-story house we were going home to wasn’t much to look at. Even without going inside, you would know it was no palace. The lot it sat on was about two thousand square feet, with the big house on the north half, sitting in a messy yard—an older brick house, its facade mottled by age. It would be obvious to anyone looking at it that the four-story house had not been put up all at once: the two lower floors were facing west, with two big doors opening on the road, part of a naive scheme of my mother’s to run a shop there; the two upper floors faced south, and they seemed unfinished, displaying exposed brick and concrete.
Every time I came home from Beijing, as I walked down the small alley toward the yard and saw the house in the distance, I always thought of coral. That is how coral grows—rising upward and then, when it dies, providing a home for other coral, which keeps rising upward. The circle of life keeps turning, and the dead and the living are piled up together.
Sometimes when I was at my desk and got tired of working, I brought up my hometown on Google Maps, slowly zooming in, closer and closer, until I could see the rough outline of my home. I could go from the pale blue globe of Earth and focus downward to the house nestled awkwardly on our land. But I thought of all the people who must have seen the houses over the years, whether walking down that alley or even looking idly out of an airplane window: they wouldn’t have even noticed it, let alone taken a second look. Who would even guess at the heart-rending stories I could tell you about what has happened within those walls? Once again, it’s like coral, the pieces of coral nestled at the bottom of an aquarium. Their purpose is to enhance by contrast the beauty of the fish in the tank. The life cycle of coral, with its story of death and inheritance, might be just as moving as my own story, but who is going to pay it any mind?
I’ve heard the story of this plot of land many times. My mother was twenty-four, and my father was twenty-seven. Their first meeting was supervised by a matchmaker. They were too shy to look each other in the eye, and the future courses of their lives were intertwined in that moment. The government had confiscated the land of my father’s father, and any ambitions he had were replaced by an opium pipe. By the time my father was in his teens, he knew none of the family’s sons would have any help finding a wife. He had no house and no money. On my parents’ first date, my father took my mother to that piece of land and promised he would buy it for her and build a big house on it.
My mother believed him.
They bought the land three years after being married. My father took the money he had saved and combined it with the paltry sum he had received as a dowry from my mother’s family. After that came the problem of coming up with the money to build the house. But my father was still mixed up in a gang at the time, and he was fearless. He pounded his chest and stormed off to get the money. He decided to build at the front of the property, leaving room for another wing, which he said he would build later.
My father never went back on his word. My mother always remembers that as his most glorious moment.
She recalled how she worried about their debt—the thousands they owed and the look on my father’s face when he told her, “It’ll be easy to pay back!” She talked about that time with emotion, and she always ended by saying that at that moment, she knew our father was a real man.
But my father turned out not to be quite as brave as he imagined. The only reason he had been so fearless was because he had no idea how much there was to fear. That was something my mother often said in later years to mock him.
The year after that, my father had his son. That is where I enter the story. Family legend has it that he suffered terrible insomnia the night after he held his tiny son in his arms. The next morning he got up at six or seven and shook my mother awake, saying, “What the hell is wrong with me?”
The fearless, carefree man was replaced by the frowning, worried father I came to know. Anxiety chipped away at his appetite. My mother had already realized that he was not as invincible as he had seemed. Three days after I was born, my mother and I were discharged. My parents had no money to pay for a longer stay.
I was actually my parents’ second child. My sister came first. Worry hung over their heads that my father would be fired from his state job for violating the one-child policy. That was the reason they had gone to Xiamen for my birth. The only way to get home was to hitchhike. My father carried me, while my mother, weak from the birth, tried her best to look after herself. Without saying a word, they walked together to the highway. They weren’t really even sure how to get home.
They came to a lake. My father stopped beside the lake and looked out at it, squinting. He turned to my mother and said, “Can we really make it home?”
My mother was in so much pain that every step felt like her last, but she forced a smile and said, “Just a few more steps. God always provides a path.”
My father took a few steps and turned around. “Can we really make it home?”
He took a few more steps.
He kept going until he came to an intersection. The driver of the next car to stop was someone from our hometown on his way back after a trip to Xiamen to resupply his shop.
“Just a few more steps.” Because it had been successful the first time, my mother never stopped saying it. She had staked her future on my father, and that was how she encouraged him.
As he had feared, my father was fired from his state job and fined three years of grain rations. Weak with anxiety, he was paralyzed by the news. He refused to look for work. My mother kept silent. She looked for jobs herself and made what she could, sewing clothes, weaving, stuffing things. My mother stole the charcoal my family burned from the neighbors. She begged for the fish we ate for dinner from relatives. She didn’t comfort my father, and she didn’t lose her temper. For three years, she quietly went about the work of supporting our household. Things changed on one fateful day when my father took his usual stroll to the front gate. He stood beside the gate and looked at the vegetables my mother was growing and the ducks and chickens she had raised. He turned around and went back inside to tell my mother, “I’m going to find a job.” A month later, he went to Ningbo to work as a sailor.
Three years later, my father returned with enough money to build a brick house.
My father spent a bundle. He hired a stonemason to carve a stone tablet for the gate featuring a pair of birds and a poetic couplet composed with his and my mother’s names. My father had the mason work in secret and asked him to wrap it in red cloth after it was put up on the gate. When the time came, my father revealed it by tearing away the cloth. That was how their two names came to grace the first brick house.
I was six years old at the time. I saw my mother staring at the couplet, speechless, her hand covering her mouth. A few steps away, my father looked on proudly.
The next day, a banquet was held to celebrate. My father made another announcement: he was not going back to work in Ningbo.
Our relatives tried to persuade him not to quit. As they saw it, a job like that didn’t come along often; he was taking home twice what most people in our town made, and working on the ships, there was always the opportunity to make contacts for work on the side. My father didn’t explain his decision. He waved them off and vowed that he wasn’t going back. Some of the relatives took my mother aside, but she could only say calmly, “Don’t bother asking. It’s no use.”
He never returned to Ningbo. He took the money he made on the ships and opened a hotel, a seafood restaurant, and a gas station. It was a process of slow, steady failure. As each business failed, it was like he shed another layer of skin. He stopped looking after himself and became silent and moody. I was in my second year of high school when my father had his first stroke. He had just woken up from his afternoon nap and was about to go out to open the shop. He collapsed without warning, falling in the yard.
When my father was lying on his back in the hospital, about to go in for surger
y, my mother finally asked, “Did something happen in Ningbo? Were you running away from something?”
My father grinned, showing his smoke-stained teeth.
“I knew it,” my mother said flatly.
Today, only the southern half of the brick house my father built still stands.
When I go home, I always stop by for a look. The main part of the house was demolished, but the west wing, where my father stayed after his stroke, is still there, and so is the east wing, where my sister lived before she got married.
My father had two more strokes while living in the west wing of the old house. The paralyzed body in which he was trapped until he died was created in that house. It was in the east wing that my sister once cried while telling me the family was too poor for her to get married. She told me our family could never pay a dowry. She had already decided that she would marry a man as poor as her; she started ending friendships with friends who were better off.
I remember that night clearly. She went out with her boyfriend and came back alone. She was only gone about a quarter of an hour. She sneaked back into her room, making sure our parents didn’t see her, then she pulled me aside. Her face was red. Her eyes were wet, but she did not let a single tear fall. It took her a long time to calm down enough to talk. She said, “You have to promise me you won’t ask about him. If Mom and Dad ask, don’t let them know what’s going on.”
I nodded.
Years later I found out that when my sister and her boyfriend went out that night, he had asked her, “What kind of dowry can your parents give?”
My mother finally rented out the old house to a family that moved to our town. She charged them 150 yuan a month, and the rent stayed the same for ten years. The tiny space was home to six people and a dog. They quickly removed any trace of my family or the way the house had once looked.
I went inside a few times not long after it had been rented out. After my father’s stroke, he had sometimes fallen while trying to get around, leaving bloodstains on the floor; the blood had been covered by grease and grime. The space under the stairs that my father had carefully built for me as a playroom was filled with the odds and ends of the new tenants.