Mulberry and Peach

by Hualing Nieh

  ‘We have just gotten engaged.’

  ‘Get married tonight,’ Master Chao jumps up. ‘The main hall will be the wedding chamber. The mud floor the wedding bed. You can roll around and turn somersaults on the floor. Make love in front of the Buddha. The god of heaven, the god of earth, the god of man, none will bother you. No need for a minister, the witnesses or a matchmaker. The hell with them all.’

  ‘Good idea!’

  ‘No ceremony whatsoever. All you do is get into bed, no, get down on the ground to sleep.’

  ‘What could be a better ceremony?’

  The student and the girl look at each other. He pinches her. She pinches him. They lean against each other and laugh.

  Chia-kang runs over and beats the drum in the hall three times. The wedding ceremony begins.

  We all retreat to the courtyard. The bride and groom are the only ones left in the hall.

  In a woodshed in the corner of the courtyard, we find a huge butterfly kite and a small red lantern.

  A half moon shines on the hill. A soft breeze. We light the lantern and tie it to the kite with some string. The kite flutters upwards. The wings spread wide. As it goes higher, the lantern becomes a tiny point of light. We run; the string whispers in the wind. We race on the hill toward the mountain top. The kite soars higher, flickering like a firefly off the darkness. Suddenly the kite catches fire, blazes red above the village.

  We return to the temple. Through the door to the hall we can see the bride and groom sleeping soundly on the mud floor, the quilt has slipped off half-revealing their nakedness. The bride sleeps cuddled in his arm; her mouth against his cheek, right arm curled around his neck.

  Her right breast touches his chest and shimmers in the moonlight.

  Chia-kang leads me to a small shed where hay is stored. For the first time, he tells me that I have a beautiful body.

  PART III

  ONE

  Peach’s Third Letter to the Man from the USA Immigration Service

  (22 February 1970)

  CHARACTERS

  PEACH, she lives with a tree cutter, a Polish Jew, in an abandoned water tower in Mid-west of America; they call it ‘The Womb’. With her letter, Peach encloses Mulberry’s diary kept during her life in the attic in Taiwan.

  THE MAN FROM THE IMMIGRATION SERVICE.

  Dear Sir:

  I’m living with a lumberjack in a water tower in an open field south of Des Moines. The water tower is a round wooden tank supported by three legs, like the Eagle space capsule that landed on the moon. It stands in the middle of a vast expanse of corn and from the highway you can see it a long way away. If you want to chase me, then come on. I’ll be sending you reports all along the way because I want to convince you that I’m not Mulberry.

  I was hitchhiking in Des Moines when I saw a very muscular man pulling a thick rope. The rope was tied around a huge termite-eaten elm tree; there was a semi-circle cut deep into the trunk and a large saw lay beside the tree on the ground. It was cold and dry outside. The man’s face was bathed in sweat. He gritted his teeth as he pulled. The elm cracked and the gash opened wider. He suddenly jumped aside and the huge tree crashed to the earth.

  I was standing by the roadside, watching him fell the huge tree.

  He straddled his motorcycle and was about to start it up, when he suddenly turned around and looked at me.

  ‘I’m waiting for ride.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Anywhere is fine with me.’

  ‘Let’s go get a drink.’

  ‘OK.’

  I climbed onto the back of his motorcycle and clutched him around the waist. The motorcycle moved like wind, like lightning. We rode up and down the undulating backroads of the Midwest, rising and falling, rising and falling. Dry flecks of fine snow were suspended in the sun.

  The motorcycle stopped at the water tower. All around the earth was black and frozen. The grass around the water tower was very tall and the weeds had been hacked down unevenly. A large scythe was sunk in the grass. I was half-buried by the weeds.

  ‘I’ll make a path for you. This is where I live.’ He picked up the scythe, hacking at the weeds with one hand, pulling them aside with the other, each stroke harder than the one before. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m a foreigner.’

  ‘I could tell. I am, too. This is the age of the foreigner. People drift around everywhere. I’m a Polish Jew.’

  ‘I’m an Asian Jew,’ I joked.

  He bent over, gripping the scythe and cut a path open through the weeds, all the way from the road to the foot of the water tower.

  I climbed up into the water tower from that newly cut path. He had made the furniture in the tower from logs all by himself. We drank gin. He said that when he was thirteen he had been in Auschwitz. The Nazis had used his father, mother and older sister for bacteriological experiments, and they had died in the camp. After he got out, he became a drifter. He makes a living by cutting down termite-infested trees. By chance he discovered this abandoned water tower. He felt very safe there. No one could harm him there. During the time of the Indians, the water tower had supplied water to the soldiers. But now it’s the space age. Who would want such a broken-down wooden tank? Deer, antelope, squirrels, and rabbits live around here, but no people. When he was small, he dreamed of having a zoo when he grew up, a zoo without tigers. When he was four he was almost eaten by a tiger. His father had taken him to the circus. They sat by the gate where the animals enter the ring. The tiger was supposed to come out and jump through hoops of fire. When he saw the tiger coming out, shaking its head and swishing its tail back and forth, he jumped up excitedly. The tiger suddenly turned and clamped his head in its teeth. He heard the crowd’s startled screams. He wasn’t frightened but his neck hurt a little. He couldn’t see anything; the tiger’s mouth was a black cave. Then the trainer came and pried the tiger’s mouth open. The teeth left holes in his head and neck, and its claws had ripped the skin on his shoulders. As he felt the blood dripping from his head, he told his father that he wanted to grow up in a hurry. He wanted to be as big as Tarzan so he could kill tigers.

  I like boys who want to kill tigers, so I have settled down in this water tower. I have decided to have my baby here. Right now I feel that little guy kicking in my stomach.

  I’m sending you Mulberry’s diary written in the attic in Taipei, the T’ang poems and the Diamond Sutra which she copied out by hand, and Shen Chia-kang’s pile of newspaper clippings.

  Peach

  22 February 1970

  TWO

  Mulberry’s Notebook An Attic in Taiwan

  (Summer 1957-Summer 1959)

  CHARACTERS

  MULBERRY, she is now 28. She and her husband and child have lived in Taiwan since 1949. They are now hiding out from the Nationalist police in an attic. Her shattered past, her guilt, and life in the attic begin to wear away at her sanity. She begins to show signs of schizophrenia.

  CHIA-KANG, is now in his 30s. He is wanted by the police for embezzling. Never very strong or independent he has become more and more self-pitying and bitter.

  SANG-WA, their daughter, born in Taiwan.

  MR TS’AI, an old friend of Mulberry’s father who allows them to hide in an attic in his storage shed.

  AUNT TS’AI, his wife, dying of cancer.

  (A) Summer, 1957

  The noise on the attic roof has started up again. It’s like rotting ceiling beams splitting apart, or like rats gnawing on bones, gnawing their way slowly from the corner all along the eaves, stopping just above the place where I am lying. Gnawing overhead from my toes to my forehead, then back down again. Gnawing up and down, finally stopping at my breasts. Gnawing my nipples. Two rows of tiny, sharp rat teeth.

  I am sleeping on my tatami mat.

  Chia-kang is sleeping on his tatami mat.

  Sang-wa is sleeping on her tatami mat.

  Clothes are piled on half of the remaining tatami mat. The moon shines down on
a small patch of the tatami mat where the clock sits. It’s twelve thirteen.

  Overhead the rat stops and gnaws at my nipples. Chia-kang writes something on my palm with his index finger. We talk on my palm.

  SOMEONE ON ROOF

  RAT

  MAN

  WHO

  SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING US

  WHAT SHOULD WE DO

  WAIT

  FOR WHAT

  WAIT TILL HE LEAVES

  SHOULDN’T HAVE RUN AWAY

  BUT YOU’D BE IN JAIL

  NO WAY OUT EITHER WAY

  IT’S GNAWING MY HEART

  Chia-kang reaches over to feel my heart, then continues writing on my palm.

  I LET YOU DOWN

  I CHOSE THIS

  YOU’RE NOT A CRIMINAL

  I AM

  WHAT CRIME?

  HARD TO SAY

  MAYBE SPEND WHOLE LIFE HERE

  THAT’S OK

  WHY

  CLEAN CONSCIENCE

  HOW ABOUT SANG-WA

  SHE HAS NO CHOICE

  HE’S GONE

  HOW DO YOU KNOW

  HE’S GNAWING MY HEAD

  MY HEAD

  NO, MINE

  CAN’T HEAR IT

  GNAWING MY NOSE

  CAN’T HEAR IT

  GNAWING MY STOMACH

  CAN’T HEAR IT

  HE’S LEAVING

  HOW DO YOU KNOW

  NOT GNAWING ANYMORE

  HAS HE GONE

  YES

  ALIVE AGAIN

  SLEEP WELL

  Taiwan is a green eye floating alone on the sea.

  To the east is the eyelid.

  To the south is a corner of the eye.

  To the west another eyelid.

  To the north, the other corner of the eye.

  The sea surrounds the eyelids and the corners of the eye.

  It’s now typhoon season.

  The little attic window looks out over the street. Peering out from the left side of the window, we can see the roof and the fence of the house at Number Three. Peering out from the right side we can see the roof and fence of the house at Number Five. Crows fly above the rooftops. Directly across from the window is the blackened chimney of a crematorium. We don’t dare stand in front of the window for fear someone might see us.

  The attic and the Ts’ai’s house are enclosed by the same wall. Underneath the attic is a shed where the Ts’ais store junk.

  The attic is the size of four tatami mats. The ceiling slants low over our heads. We can’t stand up straight; we have to crawl on all fours on the tatami mats. Eight-year-old Sang-wa can stand up. But she doesn’t want to. She wants to imitate the grown-ups crawling on the floor.

  I sit on my tatami mat and read old newspapers. Old Wang, the Ts’ai family servant, piles the old newspapers for us at the foot of the attic stairs. Every day I go down to pick them up. Chia-kang crawls over to read them with me. He wants to read the international news. I want to read the police news, and we both want to see who is on the wanted list. I imagine how the story would appear:At-large: Shen Chia-kang. While acting as Director of Accounting of the Public Transportation Service, Shen Chia-kang embezzled 140,000 Taiwan dollars and fled with his wife and daughter. A warrant is now out for his arrest.

  I also look to see if there is any news about Chao T‘ien-k’ai. I imagine that the story would be written like this:Chao T’ien-k’ai has been found guilty of collaborating with the Communist rebels. While attempting to flee the country, he was captured. Before his attempted escape, he was seen in the Little Moonlight Cafe with a mysterious woman. The police are now trying to find out the identity of this mysterious woman.

  I arrange kitchen matches in the shapes of ideograms on the tatami mat, three characters:LITTLE MOONLIGHT CAFE

  Chia-kang also takes some matches and writes:HAVE YOU GONE THERE?

  TWICE

  WHY

  THIRSTY

  BAD PLACE

  I WAS THIRSTY

  BE CAREFUL

  CAN’T GO NOW

  I’LL GIVE MYSELF UP

  NO

  WHY NOT

  SINCE WE’RE HERE, ACCEPT IT

  IF I GIVE MYSELF UP, WHAT WILL YOU DO

  WAIT

  HOW LONG

  UNTIL YOU GET OUT

  GOOD WOMAN

  BAD

  BAD GOOD WOMAN

  I raise my head to look at Chia-kang. He opens his mouth in a silent laugh. There’s a big grin on his face.

  He turns over and tries to repair the broken clock.

  I take a pair of rusty scissors. I pick up handfuls of my long hair and begin snipping it off.

  We have a big box of kitchen matches. They help pass the time. We use matches to talk and to play with our child. It’s like playing with blocks. Sang-wa loves to play the word-making game. I write the easiest words for her.

  THE WORLD IS AT PEACE

  She scrambles the matches with her hand. She says that easy words aren’t any fun. She wants harder ones. She copies complicated characters from the newspapers. She arranges them one by one, then scrambles up our matches, content, giggling.

  COUNTRY

  KILL

  WARFARE

  THIEF

  ESCAPE

  CRIME

  POLICE

  DRAGNET

  UNDERGROUND

  HIDE

  CHEAT

  DRUGS

  DEFORMED

  RIFLE

  WOUND

  CONFUSION

  DESTROY

  DIFFICULT

  DREAM

  INSANE

  BURN

  DEATH

  PSEUDO

  ANIMAL

  PAIN

  PRISON

  INVASION

  LOVE

  MONEY

  SEARCH

  FOOD

  HAPPY

  GRIEF

  CHANCE

  On the roof the gnawing is beginning again. This time it’s daylight outside. The noise starts in the corner and gnaws along the eaves. It gnaws as far as my head and stops. I am sitting on my tatami mat. The rat’s sharp, tiny teeth gnaw into my head.

  Chia-kang sits on his tatami mat, repairing the clock.

  The time on the clock is still twelve thirteen.

  He is working with a small drill. I take a pencil and write in the margin of an old newspaper:DON’T FIX IT

  I HAVE TO

  NO USE FOR TIME HERE

  CLOCK STOPS, THE WORLD STOPS

  WORLD WON’T STOP. CLOCK WILL

  JUST GO IN CIRCLES. DOESN’T

  MATTER IF IT STOPS

  Chia-kang continues working with the drill.

  The rat teeth on the roof gnaw into my body. They gnaw into my heart and liver. They gnaw into my vagina.

  I recite the Heart Sutra silently.

  Newspaper clippings are piled beside Chia-kang’s pillow, all cut out from the old newspapers he has read in the attic.

  MASTER SAN-FENG’S TECHNIQUE

  TO PRESERVE POTENCY

  This technique is based on secret manual handed down from the Taoist master, Chang San-feng. It enhances conjugal bliss in the bedroom. It cures impotency and premature ejaculation. Immediate results. May heaven and earth destroy us if any deceit or fraud is intended. Write for information. Include self-addressed stamped envelope. Mail to P.O. Box 14859, Taipei.

  DREAM OF GOLD IN DESERTED MOUNTAIN

  More than a thousand tons of gold are thought to be buried in the remote mountains of Hsin-yi Village in Nantou County. The gold was allegedly buried there when the Japanese army withdrew after World War II. Kao Wan-liang went bankrupt after spending three years digging for the treasure. It is said that the gold buried there is worth three hundred billion Taiwan dollars. At present, the government has only twenty-six billion dollars of currency in circulation. The government has already signed an agreement with Mr Kao. Ninety per cent of the treasure will go into the government treasury. Ten per cent will be a
warded to the finder of the treasure.

  DIGGING FOR TREASURE OR

  DIGGING A GRAVE?

  Kao Wan-liang is digging for the treasure with a group of workmen. Fifty metres under, traces of dynamite used when burying the treasure were discovered. The workmen diggers were elated and speeded up the digging until the earth was piled high in the tunnel, narrowing the entrance to the tunnel to only six feet wide. There was no way to remove the earth. At this time, the diggers have been trapped in the poorly ventilated tunnel for three days. It is not known if they are still alive.

  REALITY OR DREAM?

  Kao Wan-liang and the other treasure hunters are still trapped in the tunnel. Informed sources are now expressing doubts concerning the possibility of buried treasure in these remote mountains. The road from Hsin-yi to the excavation site is steep and hazardous. It takes two hours to get there by car. During the Japanese occupation of Taiwan, there was no road and travelling by automobile was impossible. Transporting the gold, which weighed more than 1,000 tons, into the deep mountains on foot would have been virtually impossible.

  Chia-kang also has a pile of clippings about a British cabinet official’s affair with a model. Included is a photograph of the model lying in an empty bathtub with a wash cloth covering her vulva.

  There is also a pile of clippings about a dismembered corpse. Included are photos of the body, head, and each of the arms and legs.

  There is a pile of clippings of scenes of old Peking. Wedding and funeral ceremonies. The flower market. The morning market. The night market. The ghost market. Opera theatres. Streetcars with bells. Mutton shops. Wine vats. Barber tents. Rickshaw pullers. The ruins of the Manchu palaces.