by Hualing Nieh
‘I’ve decided to keep the child.’
‘No, that won’t do,’ he frowns. ‘You’ve got to get an abortion.’ I grab his penis, and lightly rub it between my hands. ‘New York. You can go to New York for the abortion. New York’s changed the law: abortion is legal there. I’ll pay for everything: travel expenses, medical expenses, all your expenses in New York.’
His penis stiffens in my hands.
He lowers himself back into the water with a grunt.
I suddenly leap out of the tub. I-po, lying in the water, yells at me. ‘Hey, Mulberry, you can’t leave. I’m about to come, I’m about to come! Mulberry!’
I turn on the T.V. The astronauts are speaking.
‘. . . I’m climbing down the ladder. The feet of the Eagle only sink one or two inches into the moon’s surface. Getting closer, you can see that the moon’s surface is made up of very fine dust, like powder, very, very fine. Now I’m going to leave the Eagle . . . That’s one small step for man, one giant leap forward for mankind . . .’ Armstrong, moving slowly one step at a time, explores the surface of the moon. He is hunched over like an exhausted ape man.
I mix another Bloody Mary and go back into the bathroom.
I-po is lying in the tub, his eyes closed, holding his penis, a soft, wrinkled lump.
Again footsteps echo in the corridor. The sound of decisive boots, boots with cleats like policemen wear, approaching my door. I lock the door. The siren on the police car whines they’re going to break down the door and get in I’m going to jump out the window. No, no it’s not the police siren. It’s the kettle on the stove whistling.
The footsteps stop knock on my door. The landlady watched I-po walk into my room and secretly listened to I-po and me on the telephone. She’s definitely the one who reported me to the Immigration Service. One evening I called I-po more than ten times I told him that I felt ashamed about the incident in the tub that evening, he’s a good person I shouldn’t torment him like that - I’ve decided to do as he said and go to New York to get an abortion, I shouldn’t make problems for him I shouldn’t leave proof of guilt for the Immigration Service, for the time being we won’t see each other, then the Immigration Service can’t accuse me of any more bad behaviour, not seeing him is a matter of life and death, I need him if I don’t see him I will have nothing at all.
The knocking on the door gets more insistent as soon as I open the door I will see two large black lenses I’ve never seen his eyes.
As soon as I open the door two eyes fix on me they’re the listless eyes of an old man. He asks me if I want to buy an evangelical pamphlet ‘Guide to the Truth of Eternal Life’. He says this world doesn’t have any god we should bring god back, very cheap only twenty-five cents will bring god back. I buy the ‘Guide to the Truth of Eternal Life’ for twenty-five cents. I close the door lock the door lock the old man’s eyes outside the door. I leaf through the truth pamphlet in it is written ‘The Dead May Hope for Resurrection’ perhaps I should keep the child because of that hope I shouldn’t harm a single life. I’ve hurt so many people. Keeping the child is my only chance for redemption. Sang-wa hasn’t written for a long time. She hates me she despises me she won’t live with me
I see that red bird again with the blue breast and yellow eyes it’s perched on my father’s fresh grave. I pick up a stone and throw it at the bird the bird is pecking at the dirt on the fresh grave. I burn paper money before the grave the bird flies into the room I go into my father’s study the bird flies in the door. It jumps around bobbing and bowing on my father’s red yoga cushion. I ask the bird are you my father’s incarnation it nods. I light three sticks of incense in front of the bird confessing that I stole the jade griffin ran away from home I seduced many men I threw away many men I stole Mama’s gold locket gave it to my younger brother so he could run away from home I must change and become a new person I want to start a new life. The bird flies out the window.
The hospital in Nanking. The civil war. I am lying in a sick bed Chao T’ien-k’ai stamps into the room wearing tall US army boots his eyes are blood-shot a stubble of beard crawling all over his face. He tells me he hasn’t slept for three days. There was a riot at the student anti-hunger demonstration and the Nationalist police arrested a truckload of students his two roommates were taken away people say that the Nationalists put the rioters in hemp bags and threw them into the Yangtze River, someone found Lao-shih, my best friend, lying on a path on campus her body covered with blood they don’t know who beat her up like that, some people say it was the leftists who beat her up because she was a reactionary other people say it was the rightists who beat her up because she was a leftist. Other people say she is just sex-starved and helps the leftist student cause so the leftists will sleep with her and then helps the rightists so they will sleep with her and when her lovers found out they beat her up, Chao T’ien-k’ai isn’t sure what she really is he doesn’t even know what he himself is, some people says he’s a reactionary, some people say he’s on the left, he only knows one thing: he must think of a way to rescue his friends who were arrested . . . Chao T’ien-k’ai goes on talking without stopping. I lie on the bed looking at his stubble of beard my arm neck and part of my chest stick out from the covers. I tell him to calm down rest awhile. When the nurse comes in Chao T’ien-k’ai is lying under the covers beside me.
A large scar covers half of Lao-shih’s face one eye stares blankly at me.
All that happened so long ago I’ve completely forgotten I hope I won’t see those things before my eyes again.
Fifty, sixty, seventy mph. The car goes faster and faster. Red lights, yellow lights, black mud, red barns, white centre line, green trees, blue cars, brown turkeys rush past. A summer breeze sweeps in the window. I feel renewed.
Snow floats in the little crystal paperweight, floating above the Great Wall. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Teng picks up the glass paperweight from the dashboard and shakes it vigorously a few times.
The snow floats up in the paperweight, drifts over the Great Wall again.
‘Where to?’ I ask Teng.
‘Don’t know.’
He picks up the paperweight again and shakes it vigorously.
I laugh. ‘Looks like you’re mad at that paperweight.’
‘I’m mad at myself. I’ve been thinking. It took me the strength of nine bulls and two tigers to escape from the mainland to Taiwan, and the strength of nine more bulls and two more tigers to escape from there to America. Once in America, I scrubbed toilets as a janitor, waited on tables. I have only a few more months until I get my Ph.D. But once I get it, then what? Go back to Taiwan? I couldn’t stand it! Go back to the mainland? I can’t do that, either. Stay here? I’m nobody! Today I went to work at the university library. I was five minutes late. John Chang that son of a bitch bawled me out in English, yelling at me that I couldn’t show up late, couldn’t leave early, Chinese in America didn’t come to pan for gold, everyone, no matter who, had to work hard. I said to him, “Hey, Chang, are you a Chinese? Speak in Chinese!” He pointed at me and said, “Just what are you? You are fired!” I walked out of there with my head held high, only saw him turn around and show the book of colour photos that just arrived, Magnificent China, to an American professor in the history department. “It’s a wonderful country, isn’t it?” As soon as I left the library I picked up an American girl.’
‘And then what?’
Teng laughs. ‘Mulberry, you don’t need to ask what happened next. Then, well, you know. Really coarse skin. Just to have somebody to do it with. She even started to cry in bed, saying she’d never been so happy.’ Teng steps on the gas as he says ‘happy’.
Ninety miles an hour.
‘Good!’ I look at the headlights in front of us, like two eyes staring at us. Behind us are two more eyes staring at us. I’m not afraid of bright lights anymore.
‘Help! My car had a breakdown. Could you please help me?’ A head suddenly pokes out of a car at the side of the road, looks
at us desperately and yells.
We zoom by. The car behind us catches up and is about to cross the yellow line. Teng steps on the gas again: one hundred miles an hour.
The two cars race side by side down the highway.
‘You crossed the yellow line!’ Teng sticks his head out the window and yells.
‘You’re speeding!’
‘So are you!’
‘You didn’t stop to help!’
‘You didn’t either!’
‘I couldn’t stop!’
‘I couldn’t either!’
‘You’re crazy!’
‘You’re the one who’s crazy!’
‘No, you’re the one who’s crazy!’
‘I’ll kill you!’ Teng picks up the paperweight, and is about to throw it at that car. Suddenly he withdraws his hand. ‘Mother-fuckers, it’s not worth it to throw the Great Wall at those white devils!’
The paperweight rolls on the seat.
The snow floats in the paperweight.
The other car falls back, about to turn at the intersection. Teng pulls a sailor’s knife out of his pocket, snaps the blade in position, points it at the people in that car and yells:
‘Good luck!’
Teng folds the knife and puts it back in his pocket, his two hands firmly holding the steering wheel, his eyes blankly staring at the road ahead, his short chunky body sitting up tall.
‘Teng, you’ve suddenly become a man!’
‘You’ve suddenly become a young girl!’
‘You thought I was too old before!’ I eye him and laugh, as I light up a cigarette.
‘I didn’t mean that. I only meant, you’re so radiant today, and seem suddenly younger!’
I blow smoke in his face.
‘You smoke?’
‘Uh.’
‘Since when?’
‘Today.’ I blow more smoke in his face.
‘You’re making me itch all over, Mulberry! Damn! We’ve gone the wrong way!’ He looks at the sign at the side of the road, slows the car down. ‘Highway 5! I’ve never heard of a Highway 5! I’m muddled because of that smoke!’
‘Just keep on going down the highway, we’re sure to come across the right road.’
‘That’s true. Let’s just keep going.’
The car follows the curving highway awhile. Highway 7. Highway 12. No more highway. No more road signs. The car races along the gravel road. Speeds through a little town with no sign.
‘This is just like a labyrinth!’ Before Teng even finishes speaking, the car makes a strange whine, and suddenly stops.
Out of gas.
We are stopped by an auto graveyard. Junked Fords, Dodges, Chevrolets, and Pontiacs are piled in the yard. Most are twisted, empty shells, smashed up in wrecks. Beyond the graveyard is a street lined with grey houses with black windows. An empty gas station on the corner. No sign of anyone. It’s a ghost town. It was once a booming town, then the young people left to make their way in the world and the old people all died off.
‘What’ll we do?’
‘Wait.’
‘For what?’
‘Wait till someone drives through and we can ask for some gas.’
‘Who’d come to this creepy place?’
‘What else can we do except wait? It’s too quiet! Let’s have a little noise!’ Teng turns around and switches on the tape recorder in the back seat.
‘. . . To tell the truth, our Action Committee still has not taken a position. We’re only a bunch of free Chinese who have banded together. We not only have freedom of thought, we also have freedom of action. But the desire for freedom is like smoking pot, the more you smoke, the more you want it. Once you’re addicted the trouble begins. What the Action Committee advocates is “action”. Some people say we’re people without roots in a world without faith, worth or purpose. But it’s better this way! Then we can have true freedom to create by our action a life of worth and purpose, even create a God. What kind of action? How to take action? I hope everyone will think about that when he’s finished work for the day, finished writing his thesis or finished helping his wife with the dishes...
‘I propose organising a “Committee to Defend Human Rights” to protest against incidents which threaten human rights!
‘We must first get to know ourselves. Get to know each other, be frank with each other. Now to act as Chinese, this is the most important thing. So ... I suggest that we first take action, to understand through our actions, so ... What you said is not right. I think . . .’
I laugh. ‘We’re stranded here in this ghost town listening to Chinese debate how to take action.’
‘OK, here’s concrete action! Listen to a recording of hog butchering in a packinghouse. “Killing” should be a course of action!’ Teng turns around and presses a button on the tape recorder in the back seat, adjusts the tape, then presses the button again. He turns around, picks up the little glass paperweight and shakes it.
The snow floats up in the paperweight. All around is pitch black. The snow on the Great Wall is white.
The sound of machines, people - deafening clatter from the tape recorder.
The clatter stops.
‘Our slaughterhouse slaughters 450 hogs an hour. The method we use is highly effective, the result of a combination of man working with machines.
‘But we also strive to make it as humane as possible.
‘Now, all of you who have come for hog butchering, please come with me. I’ll explain every step in the slaughtering process. Over there is a small gate. Those hogs over there in front of the gate, raising up their snouts and looking at us, it’s really funny, isn’t it? They’re ready to enter the slaughterhouse. First a number has to be stamped on the hog’s body. That little gate only allows one hog to enter at a time. Beside the gate is a board which blocks from sight the man who wields the club. On the head of the club are many tiny needles; those tiny needles, when dipped in ink, make up the numbers. When each hog goes by, the man behind the board stamps him with the club with needles on it, a number is thus stamped on the hog’s body. That number is stamped on its skin beneath the bristles. When the bristles are removed, by hot water, the number remains imprinted on the hog’s body. This is what we consider our most efficient point.’
The sound of machines, people - deafening clatter.
The clatter stops.
‘Now, these little fellas are going to take a hot bath. There’s a pool with hot water. The hogs soak in it, the bristles soften up and then are pulled out. Then the preparation before entering the slaughterhouse has been completed.’
The sound of machines, people - deafening clatter.
The clatter stops.
‘Now these little fellas are ready to enter the slaughterhouse. The method we use lessens the animals’ pain as much as possible. The hog is on that slope. We use a pair of electric tongs like the curling irons women used to use to curl their hair a long time ago. You poke them in the hog’s body. The hog is given an electric shock and it immediately blacks out and collapses. Someone above it lowers a hook, catches one of the hog’s feet on the hook and lifts the hog up.’
The sound of machines, people - deafening clatter.
The clatter stops.
‘Then a butcher raises a butcher’s knife and skillfully pierces the hog’s throat. He cuts right into the hog’s heart. The hog’s heart is very close to its throat. You could say the hog’s an animal without a throat. (Laughter.) That one stroke, you could say, is quick of sight, quick of hand, beautiful and solemn, just like a religious ceremony.’
The sound of machines, people - deafening clatter.
The clatter stops.
‘Now, the hog is hanging high in the air. The blood gushes down on the steel-ribbed, cement floor. The blood’s bright red; it’s very beautiful. That man standing on the high counter, wearing rubber boots, uses that thing in his hand, it looks like a broom, to sweep the blood into a gutter. He stands in the blood all day long doing that. He’s been doing it
for twenty-six years. When the blood flows out the gutter, it coagulates. Man can use coagulated blood to make all kinds of food products. The Scots like to eat pudding made from hog’s blood. The Chinese eat bean curd simmered with hog’s blood.’ The sound of machines and people combine into a deafening din, as if it will never stop . . .
‘Look! Teng!’ I point to the fields in front of us. After our car stops, the headlights have remained on, shining into the field. ‘There are many dots of light like lanterns in the distance. Do you see them? There, over there, they’re moving! They’re coming toward us! One, two, three, four, five, six, more than ten! There, there’re some more!’
We get out of the car and run toward the moving lights. They disperse, scatter in all directions.
‘Deer! The light’s from their eyes!’ I call out.
The deer race back into the trees on the hillside.
Teng and I walk into the graveyard. A statue of a black angel, wings outstretched, bends over protecting a grave. Teng strikes a match to light up the inscription on the tombstone:
‘Nicholai Vandefield 1805-1861’
The grass on the grave is tall, a little red flower has been placed on the grave.
The black silhouette of a barn looms on the horizon.
Teng and I lie down on the grass of the grave. I undress him.
How could I have done such a shameless thing with that nice young man, Teng? I probably was insane I don’t even recognise myself!
I hear my brain talking again, it seems like there’s another brain inside my brain. The two brains are separate, one talks the other listens. I’m very frightened I sing loudly to suppress the voice in my brain but it still goes on talking I don’t know what it’s saying. The voice is unclear, it’s as if it’s ridiculing me now I can hear it. It says: ‘You raped another man! You can’t get an abortion!’
I-po didn’t come. I called him over and over but no answer. Once it was Betty who answered I hung up. I want to tell him I don’t want to get an abortion. I must not sin again.