Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party

by Ying Chang Compestine

  How could they just leave him to die? Father almost lost his life to save him. Would they come back to arrest the man? Suddenly, the man spoke, in the perfect Mandarin of someone from Beijing. “Please! I’d rather die my way than let them kill me.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You need food and dry clothes.”

  Father placed the writer’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to stand. He was tall. A white shirt clung to his chest, and his blue pants were barely held on by a leather belt. I noticed that on his long face, one of his eyes was larger than the other.

  “No, no. Leave me alone. I’ll only bring you trouble.”

  “Don’t worry. We live nearby.” Father motioned me to help.

  I lifted the writer’s other wet, sticklike arm over my shoulder.

  It had never seemed to take so long to walk home from the river. As we crossed the wide Six-Port Revolutionary Road, we had to wait for a tractor loaded with live chickens to pass. A group of people in blue uniforms followed on bicycles. VICTORY SHIPPING GROUP was printed on their jackets. They slowed down their pedaling and cranked the bells on their handlebars at us. For a frightening moment, I feared they would get off their bicycles and pull the writer away. His wet arm now felt as heavy as an iron bar on my shoulder.

  Once we turned into Red Horse Alley, leading to the back door of our courtyard, the air reeked of gasoline and fried garlic. Families squatted beside front doors while eating dinner. When we passed, they stopped chewing and stared.

  As soon as we were in our apartment, the man spoke again. “I am Ji, the antirevolutionary writer they spoke of—”

  Father put his hand on the writer’s shoulder. “It’s not important. Rest. I will get you some food and dry clothes.”

  Since everything was rationed, we didn’t have much to offer. I ran to our kitchen, climbed on a chair in front of the pantry, and found all the shelves empty. Standing on tiptoes, I peered deeper inside. There! A small package.

  Carefully, I removed the oiled paper wrapping.

  Father asked, “What’s that?”

  It took a moment before I could speak. “It’s d-dried shrimp.” I tried hard not to cry. “Mrs. Wong gave them to us.”

  Father hugged me. “It’s okay, my dear. Everything will be fine.”

  I closed my eyes and wished that when I opened them again I’d be sitting at our dinner table enjoying a feast with Mother, Father, beautiful Mrs. Wong, serious Dr. Wong, and brother Niu.

  Father put a spoonful of loose tea into a mug and filled it with hot water from a dented red thermos. I held the mug with two hands and brought it to Mr. Ji.

  The sun broke through the clouds, leaving a long shiny patch on the living room floor. Sitting at the dinner table, he now wore Father’s clothes. Two middle buttons on the shirt were undone. When I put the tea in front of him, his dull eyes continued staring at the strip of writing on the wall—BOURGEOIS SYMPATHIZERS.

  I ran back to the kitchen. Father was about to empty a bag of dried noodles into a pot of boiling water.

  “Wait, Daddy.” I opened our rice jar and dug down. “Remember, Mommy always says old ginger helps to prevent a cold?” I fished out a wrinkly piece. “Put some in his noodles.”

  “Smart girl,” Father said in English. He chopped up the hardened ginger. I dropped the pieces into the water and then poured in the noodles. At last, I sprinkled in a handful of dried shrimp. Father smiled at me. Only then did I notice he was still in his wet clothes.

  “Daddy, you’ll catch cold. Go change.”

  “No hurry, Ling. Let’s first serve our guest.” He poured the noodles into a big bowl and carried it to Mr. Ji. I followed with a pair of bamboo chopsticks and a spoon.

  “Sorry we don’t have anything better to serve you,” said Father.

  “I am leaving now. It’s dangerous to have me in your home.”

  “Please eat.” Father set the bowl before him on the table.

  I put the chopsticks and spoon next to it.

  Mr. Ji’s eyes shifted between Father and the bowl of steaming noodles. He touched the chopsticks but didn’t lift them.

  I wondered if he was hungry. Had he eaten a big meal before walking into the river?

  “Please eat while it’s still hot,” urged Father.

  Tugging gently on my sleeve, Father led me to the kitchen. He whispered, “I’m going to change. Give Mr. Ji a moment to himself.”

  I waited until Father returned to the kitchen in dry clothes. Together, we went to the living room.

  Mr. Ji stood up immediately, the bowl in front of him now empty. He grasped Father’s hands and said slowly, “They can kill me, but not the truth.”

  Father nodded and said, “Promise me you’ll live.”

  “I will try. But dark clouds have concealed the sun for too long.” Mr. Ji didn’t let go of Father’s hand until they reached the door.

  I ran to the window and watched him walk into the sun.

  Shortly after Mr. Ji left, Mother rushed into the house as if running from a flood. She whispered between heavy breaths, “The whole hospital is talking about you two saving an antirevolutionary writer.”

  “Did we?” Father winked at me.

  With my mouth and eyes opened wide, I smiled at him. “We did!”

  “Ai yo!” said Mother. “You are two melons on the same vine.”

  I felt proud to be from the same vine as Father. I love you, brave Daddy! I whispered to myself.

  Would I Ever See Him Again?

  The winter months seemed endless. Cold and hungry, days and nights mixed together. Father didn’t get his wish to return to surgery. To keep warm, he dressed in layers of old jackets under his long blue hospital coat.

  What would it take to end this misery? When we looked at the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge by candlelight, Father whispered, “Never give up hope, my dear. Life can’t go on like this forever. Someday we will be free of this injustice.” Father hid the picture behind Chairman Mao’s portrait again.

  But it felt like it had already gone on forever.

  To celebrate Christmas Eve, Mother made dumplings stuffed with onions and soybeans. Although I missed her juicy pork-cabbage filling, I was happy to have enough to eat. I felt cheerful in our brightly lit apartment. It had been weeks since we last had electricity. The windows around the apartment were covered with a layer of white mist from cooking.

  After helping Mother take the dirty dishes to the kitchen, I tiptoed to the door that separated our home from Comrade Li’s. Flattening my face against the crack at the hinge, I saw that it was dark inside.

  Father sat in his chair, where the slashed leather was now patched up with white bandages. His eyes followed me. I shook my head. With one finger, he tapped his ear. I pressed my ear to the door.

  A week before, Comrade Li’s room had been dark. Father and I thought he was not there. As we got ready for our English lesson, Mother came home and told us that she had seen Comrade Li walk out of his dark apartment toward the bathroom.

  I made sure I heard no breathing or the floor creaking on the other side before I shook my head again.

  As part of this week’s English lesson, I was learning to sing “Red River Valley.”

  Outside, soundless lightning streaked the sky. In the distance, a boat passed and blew its horn.

  Father nodded. I walked toward him and sang quietly.

  As you go to your home by the ocean,

  May you never forget those sweet hours

  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. Father tapped his fingers on the armrest and joined in with his deep voice.

  That we spent in the Red River Valley.

  A dog in the neighborhood began barking. All of a sudden, footsteps drummed on the stairs. Father stood. Mother ran in from the kitchen.

  Our door was kicked open. Six Red Guards stormed in holding fighting sticks. I held Father’s hand tightly and couldn’t help trembling.

  It took a minute for me to believe my eyes! Niu was among the
m. He wore a Red Guard uniform and held a wide belt with a shiny buckle. His glasses were gone—perhaps to look less bourgeois. Squinting his eyes into small lines, he roamed around like a hungry dog sniffing out a bone.

  “Search every corner.” He swung his belt around in the middle of our living room. The Red Guards ran in all directions. The noise of sticks smashing furniture, breaking dishes, and tearing clothes came from all directions. “You”—he pointed at Father without looking at him—“are under arrest for sympathizing with the antirevolutionary writer.” Spit flew about as he spoke, and he sounded nervous. He didn’t address Father as Uncle like he always did. His face was bloodless, and tiny beads of sweat oozed on his stubby nose.

  Father’s eyes met Niu’s, but Niu quickly turned away. It reminded me of the time when Father caught him using his scalpels to cut out paper turtles. Father let go of my hand, took off his watch, and stuffed it into Mother’s pocket. “Trade it for food,” he said in his low, firm voice.

  Mother broke out crying.

  “Please, Niu,” she begged. “We love you! Don’t take your uncle away.” Father stopped her with his eyes.

  Niu glanced toward the half-opened front door and smashed his belt down onto the dinner table. The large metal buckle left a deep scar. His shaking hand pointed to the portrait over the fireplace, and he shouted, “The only one who loves me is Chairman Mao!” He sounded like a kicked dog. His finger slid up the bridge of his nose to push up eyeglasses that weren’t there.

  Cold sweat soaked the back of my blouse. I bit my lip to keep myself from crying. The thought of them taking Father and making him disappear like Dr. Wong horrified me. If they took me with Father, at least I would know where he was.

  I stepped in front of Niu. “Take me, too. I was part of it.” I searched for friendship in his eyes, but I saw only anger.

  Father pulled me back by my arm. He whispered in my ear, “Take care of Mommy. Remember, GGB.”

  Niu stepped between us and handcuffed Father.

  Short Legs reported to Niu, “Comrade Wong, we can’t find any antirevolutionary materials.”

  “I will show you.” Niu turned and went to the radio. I gasped as he ripped out a handful of wires and tubes. He dropped them on the floor and crushed them under his boot. I knew this time that the radio could never be repaired.

  Niu looked around our living room and took a step toward the portrait of Chairman Mao, which hid the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Was he going to destroy the picture? I ran behind him and grabbed his belt forcefully. “Take me with my father! I am an antirevolutionary, too.”

  Niu turned and pushed me. “Get away from me.”

  I tripped and fell to the floor. Father came to help me, but his hands were cuffed. I quickly stood up and forced back my tears. I didn’t want Father to worry, and I didn’t want to appear weak.

  Pimple Face pushed Father aside. I saw pain in Father’s eyes.

  Mother broke into short, rapid sobs.

  “Time to go,” Niu ordered.

  Father gazed around the softly lit room as if to store each object in his memory. As he was pushed out the door by Pimple Face and Short Legs, he called out, “Be strong. Take care of each other.”

  I ran after them. Mother grabbed me at the doorway. There stood Comrade Li in the dim hallway, his smile lit up by his glowing cigarette. I slammed the door in his face. Mother went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

  I walked across the messy apartment, sat in Father’s chair, and hugged myself. Not until now did I let tears run down my cheeks, salty streams rolling onto my lips. Angry with myself, I wished I had thought of a way to make them arrest me along with Father.

  The days seemed so much longer without Father. In the morning, I could barely get up, knowing he wasn’t there. I missed his cheerful voice waking me. At night, I kept one of his old scarves next to my pillow, hoping his smell would bring him into my dreams. But the only dream I had was of people waving scissors at me. I longed for Father’s comforting words when I awoke from nightmares, fearing that the Red Guards would cut my hair like they did Mrs. Wong’s. Worst of all, there was no one I could talk to.

  Mother stopped criticizing me, as if she didn’t care what I did anymore. Working nights in the emergency room, she spent most days hidden in the apartment. She walked like a frightened cat, making no sounds, freezing in the middle of her movements. Before letting me leave for school, she hid behind the kitchen curtain, rubbing the third button on her jacket continuously, and inspected the courtyard as if she expected someone waiting there to take me away.

  I knew better than to tell her that a week ago Gao and Yu attacked me in the middle of narrow Flower Alley. They broke my pencils and tore up my Chinese dictionary. They would have torn up all my books, too, if a woman hadn’t thrown dirty water at them from her doorway. She yelled, “Noisy brats! Take your fight elsewhere.”

  The hospital had stopped paying Father’s salary. Without his income, Mother and I had to make everything last longer, especially things that were rationed: food, soap, toothpaste, sugar, cooking oil, even toilet paper. We could no longer afford to buy candles on the black market.

  After Mother went to work at night, I stayed near my bedroom window, writing and drawing by streetlight. On scrap paper Mother brought home from the hospital, I wrote down things I wanted to tell Father. I used the English words and phrases I knew. It made me feel as if he was right there with me.

  I had read in my history book that before Chairman Mao took over China, his underground Communists wrote secret notes with rice water and would later brush iodine on the paper to make the words reappear. I decided to try it. I filled one of my fountain pens with rice water and wrote and drew on whatever I could find: torn wallpaper, Mao’s instruction sheets, and the backs of envelopes. Once dried, the words were invisible. I planned to make them reappear when Father came home. All my poems were sad.

  Through the frosty window,

  I look upon the moon and ask

  Can my dear Father see you at this moment?

  Please send him home.

  Soon I had a pillowcase filled with invisible writing and drawings. I was glad I no longer had to destroy them.

  On Chinese New Year’s Eve, Mother set out a bowl of rice covered with vegetables and two golden pan-fried eggs. My stomach rumbled. It had been months since I had had an egg. I ran to get two pairs of chopsticks. But Mother had her own plans.

  “This is all for you,” she said as she lit the almost empty oil lamp. “I must go to work. I will eat there. Blow out the light before you go to bed.” She rubbed the button on her jacket as she walked toward the door.

  “But, Mother … .” I wanted to say, Please have dinner with me. I am afraid and lonely in the dark after you go to work. My pride stopped me from begging her. The hospital’s dining hall closed over the New Year holiday. Where would she find food to eat?

  “I’m late. Go to bed early.” Mother locked the door behind her.

  I waited until I heard her footsteps on the stairs, then ran to the kitchen window and watched her drag herself down. Outside, children cheered as fireworks went off. Next door, Comrade Li was hosting a dinner party. They shouted Chairman Mao’s quotations and sang revolutionary songs. The smell of fried dumplings wafted into our empty apartment. Our oil lamp gave out a faint orange light. The living room was as dark as a movie theater. I stared at Mao’s portrait above the fireplace. Mice scuttled above the ceiling, making scratching sounds. I envied the baby mice. They must have felt safe and happy to be with their parents. Tears rolled down my face.

  Last year, on Chinese New Year’s Eve, one of Father’s patients brought us fresh lotus roots from his commune. Mother made lotus soup with pig bones. She set our small coal stove in the middle of the living room and simmered the soup all day. The flavorful smell filled the apartment and turned all the windows foggy. During dinner, Father showed me how to stick my chopsticks inside the hollow bones to dig out the marrow. It wa
s delicious! That meal kept me warm the rest of the evening.

  Now we no longer had money to buy extra coal to heat the apartment. The furniture was icy to the touch. The heavy cotton jacket weighted me down, and the biting cold left my hands and feet numb.

  Seeing the eggs in my bowl cheered me up. Mother had even flavored them with soy sauce. Since food had been rationed, she rarely used the expensive seasoning. I longed to taste the crisp egg whites and sink my teeth into the creamy yolk. Not wanting to waste even the smell, I sniffed at them until my mouth watered. I took a bite and chewed extra long, keeping it in my mouth until the flavor was gone. They were the most delicious eggs I ever tasted.

  Outside the courtyard, a siren screamed. I stopped chewing, hoping they were not taking away someone else’s father. The fire in the lamp jumped a few times, then went out. I moved next to the window in my bedroom and decided to draw the girl in the sun hat on the blouse that Mrs. Wong had made for me. I kept it hidden between layers of my bed’s cotton batting.

  The streetlight threw tree branch shadows on my bed, as if spreading long ghost fingers. Peeling the top two layers back, I was shocked to find the blouse was gone. I searched my room and the whole apartment again and again, wishing magic would happen and my blouse would reappear.

  I thrust my arm deep between the layers under the cotton batting in Mother’s bed. I cried out with joy when my fingertips touched something. What I pulled out was white hospital bandages wound together into a long rope.

  I puzzled over what this was. A clothesline to replace the split bamboo rod? Or perhaps it was for tying up the winter blankets for storage over the summer. I put the rope back and wondered again about my blouse.

  Nobody had come to our home since Father was taken away. Where could my blouse be? A week ago, I had taken it out and admired it. Though it was too small for me now, it brought back so many happy memories.