Dear mother, dear Grandfather. Quietly weeping. How I miss you.
She touched the jade locket she wore around her neck.
Wear it always — so you will never forget — you are Chinese.
No, Mother, I never will forget.
Her finger outlined the perimeter. A circle. Just as Chi-Wen had said. It begins with a circle. The continuum of past, present, and future.
Thinking not of the past, but of the future, she turned from the window.
“Lili?”
Smiling at Chi-Wen. “You’re awake.”
“You’ve been crying.”
She dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It’s nothing.”
“How long did I sleep?”
She sat beside his hospital bed. “Since last night.”
“And you’ve been here all this time?”
“Of course.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember everything getting dark and then —”
“You fainted. One of Halliday’s bullets hit your left arm and tore through an artery. You bled enough to lose consciousness.”
Chi-Wen raised the full arm cast. “Why this?”
“The bullet also shattered bone. Your arm is broken.”
“Broken bones can be mended.”
Softly, “What about broken hearts?”
The silence between them was complex.
She gazed into his liquid eyes. Weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to define what she’d seen in them — a certain vulnerability, yes, but something more. Much more.
“You never told me how you got out of China.”
He shared his harrowing flight from Beijing to Macao and then his swim to Hong Kong.
Lili was deeply touched by his strength of spirit, his tenacity. “You’re going back, aren’t you?” As much an expression of her fear for him as an accusation.
“China is my country. That’s where I belong.”
“It’s too dangerous right now. Those CIA agents have let Lin go. Apparently the U.S. government doesn’t want to upset relations with Deng Xiaoping. If you return, you’ll be arrested or worse.” Her voice trembled.
“I plan to be very careful. Besides, the democracy movement is a success. You saw that. By the end of the summer we’ll oust the old-timers. Then it will be Lin and his cronies in jail, not me.”
She took Chi-Wen’s hand in hers. “Listen, I talked with my chief, Dr. Trenton. I misjudged him. He did work for the CIA years ago, but he broke ties with them after they tried to involve him in their dirty tricks. He never had anything to do with Halliday’s scheme. It was Dylan.” Gripping his hand tightly. “He’s offered me the geriatrics
fellowship in July.”
“Congratulations.”
“As long as I leave Hong Kong right away and complete my residency.”
“I see.”
“Chi-Wen?”
“Yes?”
“He offered you a job in his lab. You can study at night, finish college in the United States, and go on to medical school.”
He sighed. “A month ago, I would have jumped at such a chance.”
“And now?” Knowing his answer, yet afraid to hear it spoken.
“Now I must do what I believe is right.” He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed her fingertips. “Would you respect me if I did not?”
“Respect?” She wanted to shake him. “I’m talking about love, damn it! You and me. Yin and yang. Together. Always.”
“I feel the same way, my dearest Lili. But it is because of my love for you that I must stay in China and help the students.”
“Then I’ll stay with you.”
“No. You belong in the United States.”
“I thought you said I had become a true Chinese.”
“You always were. You just never knew it.” Chi-Wen was quiet for several seconds. “You are also an American.”
We are all on the path, but at different points along the way.
For a brief time their paths had crossed and now it seemed he was saying they could no longer remain at the same point. “So that’s our joss? To fall in love then never see each other again?” Her eyes misted, the thought too much to bear.
“To accept such a fate would be to accept the unacceptable.”
Smiling through tears, she acknowledged his paraphrase of her own words.
“No,” he said, “we’ll meet again. And I promise, when it’s truly safe, when the chaos is banished, you and I will march hand in hand through a changed China.”
“Promise?” she asked, searching his eyes for the truth.
“Promise.”
“Well, it better happen soon,” she pouted, embracing him. “Otherwise, I’m coming to get you.”
Two days later, Chi-Wen had recovered sufficiently to leave the hospital and drive with Lili to the airport. They sat together in a quiet corner of the International terminal, holding hands, each wrapped in their own private thoughts.
Dr. Trenton had arranged for a new passport and wired money for her ticket home and a change of clothes, so she was dressed in a red silk skirt and matching blouse with Mandarin collar similar to the outfit she’d worn at Fan’s home. A magical evening she would always remember
“Final call for flight four thirty-one to Los Angeles.”
“That’s you.” Chi-Wen stood.
Hope momentarily flared in her eyes. “You can still change your mind.”
He shook his head. “You know I can’t.”
“I know.” Lili came to him and embraced him one last time. “Good-bye, my love.”
“Zai jian!” He squeezed her tightly. “I love you.”
She didn’t want to let go, it was time to board. “How will I know you’re safe?”
“I’ll get word to you. Don’t worry, we’ll be together again. Your grandfather once told me the strength of the Chinese is our ability to hope. Otherwise we would not have endured over five thousand years.”
“I’ll remember that,” she replied, smiling through tears.
EPILOGUE
For democracy, for freedom,
We should not hesitate,
We should not be silent.
For the people, for China,
We should work together as one.
Do you understand?
Do you realize?
I may fall and never rise again.
— Lyrics to song written for the democracy movement, 1989
Beijing, China
Sunday
June 4
2 a.m.
It was a moonless night and Tiananmen Square seemed darker than usual. Flags and banners fluttered lazily in a gentle breeze. Student loudspeakers affixed to the Monument to the Revolutionary Martyrs blared the national anthem and the “Internationale,” while inside makeshift tents and canvas shelters classmates huddled together and sang, accompanied by the soft sound of guitar music.
Just outside a large green tent audaciously christened the “Democratic University,” Chi-Wen helped students prepare for resistance. They dipped facecloths and shreds of banners in buckets of water, then tied them over their mouths with surgical masks.
“This time, they’ll use more than tear gas,” someone ventured, “they’re going to kill us.”
“Impossible.” A young boy defiantly gave the victory sign.
“It’s possible,” countered another.
Chi-Wen had to agree. Foreign Minister Lin and his cronies had managed to wrest power from the moderates. In just over a month, the dream of a new China was coming apart. As he listened to the students solemnly pledge their willingness to die for the cause of freedom, he closed his eyes and thought of the last five weeks.
Using forged papers, he had sneaked back into China, plunging headlong into the democracy movement. And though he’d seen the ousting of Zhao Ziyang and the implementation of martial law, he’d also experienced the sense of tongxin — the same heart — with h
undreds of thousands of students and ordinary citizens who participated in sit-ins, rallies, and hunger strikes. On May 30, when the Goddess of Democracy was unveiled, he traveled with fellow dissidents to Beijing to see this symbol of defiance and hope, joining over one million people protesting in the streets.
Five days later, on a warm, balmy night, he stood alongside many of those same people, waiting for the army that few doubted would come — despite crude barricades thrown across many of the city’s intersections. Forty years earlier, Beijingers had gathered to cheer the arrival of the People’s Liberation Army — the patriotic force that liberated the country from the Japanese and the despised Nationalists. On this Sunday in 1989, the citizens were doing everything they could to keep the same army out.
Two a.m.
A volley of tracer bullets heralded the arrival of the People’s Liberation Army convoy at the square.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” an agitated woman shrieked. “You should be protecting the people, not hurting them!”
The soldiers stared back, some cradling AK-47 machine guns, others holding spiked whips, truncheons, tear gas, and cattle prods.
“You cannot do this! You have a conscience!”
The menacing column of tanks and armed soldiers were lined from the northeastern corner of the Great Hall of the People as far back as the eye could see.
“Look!”
Chi-Wen turned to see billows of smoke and flames pouring forth from the direction of Changan Boulevard — the street of Eternal Peace. Someone lobbed a Molotov cocktail at Mao’s portrait, eerily lighting his impassive gaze.
“Good, good!”
“Down with Li Peng!”
“Long live the people!”
What sounded like firecrackers popping mobilized the throng in the Square to rush toward the tanks. Chi-Wen found himself moving with the human wave, a prisoner of the crowd.
This time the sound was obviously gunfire.
“Bu yao pa! Don’t be scared! They’re only blanks!”
A sustained burst of bullets and a ricochet zinged off the ground near Chi-Wen.
“Fascists!”
A blood-curdling scream.
“They really are shooting people! This is no joke.”
Bicycle bells, ambulance sirens, helicopter rotors, frenzied cries of disbelief, and terror.
The troops were surrounding the Square. In the distance, flames silhouetted a tank as it rolled over an elderly woman standing in its way, crushing her.
“No! No! The People’s Army loves the people!”
Chi-Wen continued to move forward, his mind filled with the thought of Santiago’s determination to fight against the sharks until the end:
They have beaten me — I am too old to club sharks to death. But I will try as long as I have the oars and the short club and the tiller.
“Real bullets!” someone screamed. “Real bullets!”
The barrage of machine gun fire now continuous.
Beside Chi-Wen, a young boy dropped, his face covered in blood.
The lights on the Square went out and Tiananmen was filled with the sound of absolute chaos.
“Lili!”
Los Angeles, California
One month later
Only the soft ping of wind chimes disturbed the perfect silence. She stood facing him for a moment, then raised her arms. He followed the movement until their fingers touched, each bringing their arms back to their bodies in a slow, gentle circle.
Always remember the circle.
Her left hand gracefully sliced the air as did his right, nearly brushing their finger-tips. His body shifted, unfurling a sweeping arc with his right hand as he turned to face that direction, his left hand “grabbing air” to anchor the movement. Simultaneously, she executed the reverse image of each gesture.
Yin and yang.
Two partners performing the stylized reflection of the other, beginning together, sweeping apart, then coming together throughout the entire sequence of tai chi. The reflected dimension of perfectly mirrored timing and distance between two moving bodies.
Balancing despair and hope.
As they turned and advanced, whirled and retreated, struck and parried, joining every neuron, bone, and muscle into a finely integrated whole, time and distance between them disappeared.
Lili and Chi-Wen.
For a moment together again.
Movement and stillness.
A perfect balance.
Lili reached out, expecting the brush of fingertips, feeling nothing.
Chi-Wen!
The image vanished.
Don’t leave me!
Only the deafening sound of the chimes remained.
Sitting bolt upright in bed, Lili tried to hold back her sobs. Bathed in sweat, she trembled. For nearly a month it was always the same. Since the massacre at Tiananmen Square. Night after night she’d watched the news reports of the violence in China, never knowing whether Chi-Wen had survived. So far, there’d been no word. And as the days dragged on, she was losing hope.
The sound again. But not wind chimes. It was the insistent buzzing of the doorbell.
She climbed out of bed, grabbed her bathrobe, and walked into the living room. “Who’s there?”
“UPS.”
She opened the door.
“Lili Quan?”
“Yes.”
The delivery man handed her a small package. It was stained, dog-eared, and carried a Hong Kong stamp.
Oh God!
“Could you sign here?”
Lili hurriedly scribbled her name on his clip board.
“Have a nice day.”
She slammed the door shut. Hands shaking, she tore off the wrapping. It was a well-worn copy of The Old Man and the Sea — the one she’d given to Chi-Wen in Shanghai. Her heart pounded as she flipped through the pages, searching for a message. She found it: two thin, folded sheets of paper wedged inside. One was a letter from Chi-Wen.
Dearest Lili,
If my friends in Hong Kong manage to get this to you, you will understand I have survived Tiananmen Square. I cannot tell you where I am, only that I am safe. The democracy movement is not dead. It has only gone underground.
I send you a poem from your grandfather. I had to hide it when we escaped from Xi’an in case we were caught. He asked me not to give it to you until you were safely in America. Read it carefully. And remember what I told you in Hong Kong. Your grandfather was right.
All my love,
Chi-Wen
He was alive! She wanted to cry with relief. Dear God, he was alive!
She unfolded the second paper he had sent her, recognizing her grandfather’s beautiful calligraphy. Unfortunately she could read Chinese only slightly better than she could speak. Yet Chi-Wen’s letter insisted the poem bore an important message.
Read it carefully. And remember —
She pulled her Chinese-English dictionary from the shelf.
“To a Chinese,” her grandfather had told her, “each ideogram is like a musical scale, or a pattern of given notes on which a composer may make variations within the chosen key. It is possible to put every expression into the characters of these ideograms.”
Like a puzzle, Lili thought, studying the forms. A message from beyond the grave.
Slowly, painstakingly, the words emerged and she began to translate:
Stop the water and seize the river.
Take hold of the air and possess the sky.
Such foolish struggle.
To seize the river, become the river.
To possess the sky, become the sky.
To possess the secret, become the secret.
Become the secret, become the secret, Lili repeated to herself. Nudging her memory. What did it mean? For several minutes she stared at the beautifully styled letters, trying to recall her grandfather’s exact words.
For months I searched the area described in the ancient text until I finally came to Yan’an.
Mao and h
is followers set up camp.
Your grandmother smiled and led me to a cave I’d never seen before. She said that to possess the secret, you must become the secret. On a deep ledge inside the cave she showed me what I would never have found on my own.
Lili removed her locket from around her neck and studied the picture of Qing Nan. Only when she looked very closely did she see what she’d missed before. The pieces had just come together and the irony almost made her laugh. The terrible responsibility she thought had been lifted, was now thrust upon her again
To possess the secret, become the secret.
In the picture, Qing Nan stood in front of a cave. Of course. Another copy of Grandfather’s formula was still buried in China! That had to be it. Somehow it made perfect sense. Her grandfather recognized that man might not be ready for shou now. But perhaps someday.
Your grandfather once told me that the strength of the Chinese is our ability to hope. Otherwise we would not have endured over five thousand years.
Chi-Wen must have figured out the significance of the calligraphy. That’s what he meant in his letter. A second copy would represent that hope. Now she knew where it was buried.
She removed Ng’s lighter from her pocket, flicked it, and held the poem to the flame. As all traces of the ideograms disappeared, she made a promise: Someday, Grandfather, Chi-Wen and I will return to China and find shou.
Hope. I will remember.
She turned sideways to stare at her reflection in the hallway mirror. This time she didn’t turn away as she studied the slight swell of her belly. In a few more weeks it would be impossible to hide. Her heart filled with joy. Yes, little one, it will be okay. Smiling, she thought, I am Chinese.
It is Chinese to hope.
Rabbit in the Moon Page 36