“Is that where you learned English?”
“I knew a little from my uncle who did business with waigorens. But it wasn’t until I got to Oxford that I became fluent.” He looked at Lili. “It was a magical time for me. My whole world had opened up as I discovered the tradition of the greatest men of science — Hypocrites, Aristotle, Galen. In order to read from their original writings, I studied Arabic, Greek, and Latin and spent all my spare time in the historical archives. I found that even though the earliest Egyptian medical papyri were replete with ritual prayers and spells against demons, a more rational, empirical practice had also developed. This involved the use of drugs derived from plants — castor oil, senna, colchicine, even opium. It became clear to me that the future of medicine lay in the discovery of new drugs.
“One day I met a Chinese scholar who claimed that the Chinese pharmacopoeia was the most extensive of the older civilizations. I began to comb the stacks for anything from the ancient dynasties. That’s how I stumbled on the quest for shou.”
“Longevity,” Lili said, fingering her necklace.
“Yes, I came across a two-thousand-year-old account of a physician who had ministered to Emperor Qin. He kept a diary, documenting events of the day. Since it was written lyrically, most scholars passed it off as bad literature, not science.”
Lili smiled, easing her tension and acknowledging the humor.
“Emperor Qin was a man obsessed with immortality. He sent explorers throughout the world in search of potions. They were to find an island called Penglai. Legend placed it beyond the eastern ocean, beyond the impassable wind and mist where phoenixes, unicorns, black apes, white stags supposedly lived amid magic orchards, strange trees, and plants of jasper. If they returned empty-handed, Qin cut off their heads.”
It sounded like a fairy tale.
“Most never returned. In fact, they say the Japanese are descendants of one such group of explorers. A few did come back, boasting they’d found the secret.”
“I take it they all lost their heads.”
“All but one,” Ni-Fu said. “It seems one young man returned with a species of butterfly — probably from South America. It had iridescent wings and an unusually long life span. The emperor bred these butterflies in captivity, hoping to learn the secret of their longevity. But the creatures died once they were caged. Qin ordered the young man back to the countryside with the remaining butterflies, instructing him to return once he had discovered the secret.”
Lili was on the edge of her seat. “What happened?”
“In the caves north of Xi’an the butterflies survived, but did not live extraordinarily long. Then one day the young man noticed that after a few had eaten the leaf of a particular herb, they remained in the caterpillar stage for much longer than those that ate from other trees. Convinced this herb held the secret, he returned to the emperor with an extract. Unfortunately, it only gave the emperor diarrhea. The writings state that the young man disappeared into the hills and was never heard from again.”
“So there was no secret?”
Ni-Fu continued without responding to her question. It was a long story. He would reach the end soon enough.
“The account only described the herb, but did not give its name or reveal its content. Before discarding it as pure folly, I wanted to do some research. My professors had other ideas. They insisted I spend more time with my patients, less time in the library or the laboratory. I dropped the project, completed my medical studies, and remained another two years as a fellow in the department of pharmacology. It was 1937, and Hitler was rising to power. Everyone sensed that war in Europe was inevitable, so I returned to China.”
Ni-Fu’s silence forced Lili to prompt him. “What happened?”
“It was to change my life forever.”
The cadre was hidden deeply in the shadows just outside Lili’s room. Chi-Wen walked right by him without realizing he was there. And he didn’t notice the young man following discreetly ten steps behind.
Fascinated, Lili listened.
“Nowadays Yan’an is just an out-of-the-way market town. But in 1937, it served as the headquarters of the Communist Party. Of the ninety thousand who began the Long March, fewer than half reached Yan’an. Then, as now, the summers were miserably hot and many sought sanctuary in the cave dwellings up in the dry loess hills. Ravaged by the two-and-a-half-year trek through central and western China, Mao and his followers set up camp, planning to rest and reassess his political and military strategy.
“It happened that I had also set up camp in one of those caves. I avoided the Communists. My only interest was to find the secret. For months after returning to China I searched the area described in the ancient text until I finally came to Yan’an. The hills were covered with the herbs I had read about. I studied them and used them to treat the peasants who came to me when they were ill. I made qingmuxiang from the root of Aristolochia debilis as an antihelminthic, haifenteng from Piper futokadsurae for asthma and arthritis, cha-tiao-qi from the leaves of Acer ginnala for acute dysentery, and the root barks of Pseudolarix kaempferi for fungal infections. But I still had not found the one herb I was looking for.
“One day I was digging in the hills when a soldier from Mao’s army abducted me at gunpoint. I expected to be killed on the spot; instead he led me into a cave where I came face-to-face with Mao himself. Despite the hot summer day, Mao lay on his cot, covered with blankets, shaking from fever. It was clear why I had been brought there. One of the peasants had told the soldier I was a doctor. I was warned that my failure to save Mao would mean death not just for me, but also for that peasant’s family.”
Ni-Fu stopped to sip his tea.
“Malaria?” Lili ventured.
Ni-Fu nodded. “Yes, that was my diagnosis. The problem was finding cinchona bark from which to make the quinine.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The tree is not indigenous to China. Spanish priests were said to have brought some to this country from the Andes, though who knew where? I tried to explain, but the soldier gave me three days to return or the peasant along with his wife and daughter would be shot.”
Lili shuddered. “How awful.”
“Mao believed power grew from the barrel of a gun.” Ni-Fu spoke with uncharacteristic bitterness. “For two days and nights I hiked up and down the mountainside. My effort seemed futile. Perhaps it was joss or just plain good luck. I finally discovered a trail to the highest part of the hills. There under the moonlight, I found the tree. I peeled the bark and dried it quickly to prevent the loss of alkaloids. When I returned to the cave, I made a final extract for Mao. In a week his fever finally broke, and in another two he regained his full strength.
“While Mao convalesced, I was kept close by. I finally met the peasant’s daughter.” Ni-Fu still remembered the first time he saw Qing Nan. Long black hair flowing like a silken coat over her shoulders, her gentle smile and her sparkling black eyes betraying an independent spirit. So much like the young woman seated beside him now.
“Your grandmother was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” The memory swept over Ni-Fu like a giant wave. He missed Qing Nan so much.
Her arms around him, Lili hugged him gently. “Tell me about her.”
“She was nineteen and not yet married — a tragedy for a poor family that valued a woman less than a cow or ox. They couldn’t afford a dowry and she was too old to sell as a concubine. If Mao’s men had killed her, there would have been no mourning. As a captive, she listened to the Communists speak of equality for men and women. She decided if she survived, she would leave her family and live alone.”
“You mean she wanted to join the Revolution?” Lili asked.
“No, she was too spiritual to be a revolutionary. And like me, she wasn’t interested in politics. The opportunity to experience another side of life excited her. She was eager to learn and I was a willing teacher. I also longed to share my secret. I remember her face when I told her of the butterf
ly. She smiled, took my hand, and led me to a cave I’d never seen before.
“Growing up, she’d spent hours alone in those caves; knew their twists and turns by memory. She said to possess the secret, you must become the secret. On a ledge deep inside, she showed me what I could never find on my own: a Sedum sepaea plant, exactly as described in the monograph. Camouflaged beneath a leaf was a butterfly pupa, smooth and elegant, hanging by a silken pad. I could see its well-developed wings through its translucent cuticle. Oddly, it was already summer and the pupa still had not completed its metamorphosis. That’s when I first thought I was really onto something. Strange, something in the plant seemed to slow its progression to adulthood.
“In order to test my hypothesis, I needed a real laboratory. By then, Qing Nan and I both knew we had to be together. We were married in those hills; Mao gave his blessing, so I was allowed to return to Shanghai along with my precious butterfly specimens.
“It was late 1937. The Japanese were at the gate. Shanghai’s days of glorious excess were being blown away, leaving the stench of defeat in the hot summer air. Death and disease were everywhere. Corpses lined the boulevards and hutongs, while rats and dogs feasted. I joined the overworked doctors at the Shanghai University Hospital, treating the wounded as best we could in makeshift surgical suites in overcrowded corridors. Although I could only grab a few hours here and there for my research, I’d followed the butterflies through several cycles. I knew my theory was correct. Meanwhile, Qing Nan worked tirelessly as a volunteer, stopping only to give birth to your mother in nineteen thirty-nine.”
Lili remembered the picture of her mother and grandfather — how happy they’d looked together. “And your brother?”
“His business flourished until 1941, when most of the city’s foreigners were interned by the Japanese so he could no longer trade with them. He became involved with the Guomindang. By 1945, when Japan was defeated, he was a lieutenant in Chiang Kai-chek’s army.
“While the Japanese occupied China, our people lived on wheat chaff or warehouse scraps. Some were constipated, others had diarrhea. When they were near death, the Japanese often buried them alive. Once the Nationalist troops arrived, people expected life would be better. Instead they suffered inflation and rationing. A family of four had to survive on a grain allotment for one. Inflation was so high that a lifetime’s savings might buy just a single kilo of rice.
“In April 1949, one U.S. dollar could be exchanged for 3.75 million Chinese yuan. Chinese money was worth less than the cost of printing it. Financial chaos merely fueled the corruption and greed of politicians and entrepreneurs. When the first columns of the People’s Liberation Army entered the city late in May, the prevailing attitude was overwhelming relief.”
“How did you feel?”
“Certainly the old China needed change. For most, the Communists brought new hope. I was more skeptical. To me, Communism was neither better nor worse than other systems. It was devised and implemented by men and therefore corruptible.”
“And Grandmother?”
Ni-Fu sighed. “That same month, Qing Nan died giving birth to our son. I was numb with grief and then word came that my brother had been killed. Your mother was all I had left. I didn’t want to lose her too.”
“So you sent her to America,” Lili said, beginning to appreciate Su-Wei’s feelings for her father and China.
“I had to.”
“Why didn’t you go too?”
Ni-Fu’s laugh was sardonic. How could he explain his feelings at the time? “I loved China. I wanted to help build a new country. Looking back I suppose we were naïve to believe that the Communist Revolution would help China’s progress. Yet this belief led many of us to remain here in those years.”
“I understand,” Lili said, thinking of Fan Zhou’s deep love for China and her desire to serve her country.
“I was not a Communist,” Ni-Fu continued, “but those in the Party were impressed when I volunteered to go wherever a doctor was needed. Poor people need medicine under any regime.”
“And your research?”
“I put it on hold. There was too much else to do. Our new nation required great personal sacrifice. For several years I practiced the most primitive medicine in every tiny village and town between Shanghai and Xi’an. Then in 1952, another knock on the door. A soldier from the People’s Army placed me under arrest.”
“For what?”
“For being the brother of a Nationalist.” Ni-Fu’s smile was bittersweet. “In China, my child, no matter how far you go, you cannot outrun the shadow of your family. I was sent to prison without a trial. I would have died there, but for another piece of luck.”
“What happened?”
“One day, after almost three years, Chairman Mao arrived to inspect the prisoners. Somehow he recognized me. I was little more than skin and bones; my hair had turned completely gray. He demanded to know why I was being held. I’d saved his life once, he said, and therefore would always be his friend. Naturally, the prison commander, eager to ingratiate himself with the Great Helmsman, assured him he would correct the ‘mistake.’ I was released within the hour.”
Ni-Fu poured himself another cup of tea. “More?”
Lili shook her head.
“Mao had me treated for malnutrition. When I recovered, he came to see me. By that time I decided the only way I could ever complete my work would be to trust him with my secret. I told him as much about my theories as I dared. Mao immediately understood the implications. He was already sixty-two and there was still so much to accomplish. If he could only live another fifty or sixty years!
“He arranged for me to work at the Xi’an Institute. The medical director knew little medicine, but was a loyal Communist. If Mao wanted me to conduct my research in secret, he would comply. I was given everything I needed — my own laboratory, my own subjects. No one disturbed me. During the day I saw patients in the Shanaaxi Provincial People’s Hospital and taught science and medicine at Jiaotong University. At night I searched for shou.”
“And you succeeded.”
Ni-Fu nodded. “After many fits and starts. For years I assumed I needed to find the right dose of the herb from which the butterfly pupa fed, but as my subjects continued to age and die normally, I soon realized something was missing in the formula. If it hadn’t been for one of my research subjects, Nien Hu, I might never have stumbled on the answer.” He winced as he rubbed his jaw.
“Are you in pain, Grandfather?”
Though the uncomfortable sensation had begun radiating down his left arm, Ni-Fu refused to give in to it. Not yet. “It’s nothing,” he insisted. He had nearly completed his story. He wanted to finish. “Twenty years ago. Nien was the only one of the first group still alive. Though one hundred, she appeared as youthful and vital as if she were only sixty.”
“Perhaps she just inherited good genes.”
“I had deliberately picked subjects whose families had all died relatively young. No, it was something altogether different. Nien was a devotee of a certain school of tai chi. One day she repeated a story told by an ancient Taoist philosopher. Tsan-Tsu dreamt he was a butterfly, happily flitting from tree to tree. When he awoke, he could not tell whether he had dreamt he had become a butterfly or whether the butterfly had become him.” Ni-Fu’s ebony eyes locked with his granddaughter’s. “That story provided the solution.”
The frown creasing Lili’s face reflected her confusion.
“The answer was in the power of wu chi.”
“How?”
“Absolute nothingness achieved through certain tai chi movements reproduces the butterfly pupa’s metabolic state. That combined with a specific formulation of the herb eaten by the pupa turns off the body’s aging mechanism.” He pointed to the other room where thirty ancient souls stood perfectly still, as if in a state of hibernation. “Those people there — my butterflies — are living proof of shou.”
Lili wished Dylan were here. He’d been looking at the pro
blem from a typically Western point of view.
Somehow the MHC regulates DNA repair. By finding what turns these genes on and off, we might be able to control the rate of aging, prolong human life span to one hundred twenty, one hundred fifty, who knows how long.
Her grandfather had found the control mechanism using an Eastern approach. No doubt the complete explanation required a merging of these two views. But like many great discoveries, the ultimate solution to unlocking the secret of longevity seemed so elegant in its simplicity.
Unable to contain her excitement, she hugged Ni-Fu. “What you’ve accomplished is a miracle!”
Ni-Fu shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe that anymore. For many years I convinced myself that all the sacrifice, the years in prison, even the loss of Su-Wei — would mean something because I was helping my country.” He sighed. “Forty years later I admit my motives were not totally altruistic. Ego was part of it. To be the first, to do what no man had ever done before. I was obsessed with the passion and fervor of discovery.”
Like Dylan. “But there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Perhaps not, but questions of ethics and responsibility were far from my mind. The only issue was how. I can’t describe the excitement I felt. I thought I was on the verge of something that would save China. My secret would add years to our greatest minds. I never considered the potential problems.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the effects on an already overpopulated planet. In 1909, when I was five years old, there were two billion people on earth. Sixty years later, in 1969, there were three and a half billion — a 75 percent increase. Only ten years later, in 1979, the population had grown to 4.2 billion. In one decade, the number of human beings on earth had increased by seven hundred million, nearly the population of India. The total numbers are increasing faster now. Lili, we’ll end this decade with a world population edging over five billion, 20 percent of which is in China.”
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