Spider Eaters: A Memoir

by R Yang

  In the past, her husband died in poverty and despair. Now history mustn't be allowed to repeat itself in her family! So after a few sleepless nights, a red-eyed Aunty told her daughter that she ought to go to Taiwan, together with her husband. They did what she said. After they set off for the southern island, communication between mainland and Taiwan was cut off. When Aunty died in 1978, she had never received a single letter from her daughter. She had no idea whether she was alive or dead, nor did she know anything about what happened to the grandchild she dreamed of holding in her arms.

  After her daughter was gone, Aunty began to think about her son more and more. In the fourteen years after he graduated from elementary school, he spared no effort to help her support the family. At first he was a newspaper boy and an errand boy. Next he apprenticed and worked in a bicycle store. A few years later he became an assistant in a camera shop, because the pay there was a little better, even though it was much farther from home for him to walk. Finally he became a worker in Beijing zoo.

  From 193 5 to 1949, these were fourteen disastrous years for the ordinary Chinese. The Japanese occupation was followed by the largescale civil war. The prices of food and other necessities rose from month to month until in the end it shot up from morning to the afternoon. In 1949 a sack of banknotes could not buy a sack of flour. Numerous people were jobless. Many lost their homes. People starved to death in the street. Amid all this, Aunty's family not only survived but her daughter graduated from high school. All this would not have been possible, Aunty knew, had it not been for the tremendous effort and self-sacrifice made by her son.

  After 1949, there was no more civil war and the inflation was brought under control. Slowly people's lives returned to normal. But time was running out for Aunty's son to get married. At the age of twenty-eight, he never had a girl friend. Although he was not so ugly, he would not attract a young woman unless he had something else, such as money. Aunty knew that her son had not saved any money for himself. She worried about his future happiness, knowing romantic love between beauty and talent existed only in operas on the stage. In real life, marriage was a practical matter. She decided that she should help him.

  That was why Aunty went to Switzerland. The agreement she had with my parents said once they got her there she had to work for us for five years. By so doing, of course, she would make money, a lot of it, according to the Chinese standard of the time. But if it had not been for her son, she would not have accepted the job.

  In the past she had never been away from Beijing. The sound of an airplane scared her to death and all the trains, buses, and ships made her dizzy and sick. Now she was going to take all these to a foreign country she knew not where it was. She would have to live among foreign devils who were frightful and smelly, eat their food, and live in their houses. Listen to their language but not understand even a single word. And they would not understand her Mandarin Chinese. Aside from these obstacles, what Aunty feared most was that in Switzerland people might treat her like a servant, ordering her around, looking down on her. Once she'd left China, she would have to put up with everything. There was no way she could quit the job and go home. But all these fears put together did not carry as much weight as the future happiness of her son. So Aunty bade her son farewell and took off for Europe.

  In Switzerland, she worked hard and saved all the money. Four years passed, her savings in the bank grew to the equivalent of nearly two thousand yuan. Holding the money in her hand, she dreamed of the blissful day on which she would return home. She would give all the money to her son, and he would be happily married. The wife would be a gentle, loving young woman. At first, she'd be a little shy. Soon she would merge into the family as honey blends into milk. Thus thinking, Aunty fell in love with her future daughter-in-law. The next day she purchased an expensive Swiss watch for her future daughter-in-law, a Longines it was, and put it side by side with the one she had already purchased for her son.

  Just as Aunty was having such happy dreams and looked forward to the day on which my father's term of office would expire, fate played another dirty trick on her. In Beijing, her son suddenly came down with a mysterious illness. Later I heard people say that he probably got it from the animals in the zoo. As the doctors were unable to diagnose it, they could not help him. He died in just a few days.

  When the leaders of the ministry learned about this, they decided to keep it a secret from Aunty for the time being. They were afraid that if Aunty heard the bad news, she might not be able to work anymore. Then they would have to send someone else halfway across the world to replace her.

  A few months later Aunty was back in Beijing. She found her house empty. The neighbors and relatives were embarrassed when she asked them about her son. They did not know how to break the sad news to her. So instead of telling her the truth, they invented stories: her son was out of town. He went to the northeast. It was some urgent business. He would be back soon.

  But of course he never returned. Nor was there any letter from him. Staying home alone, Aunty grew more and more uneasy. A premonition oppressed her heart like a big snake. She was scared by the dead silence of the house. It was so empty, so cold. After a while, she decided that she'd stay at Nainai's home and go on working for us until her son came back. To comfort herself, she invented all kinds of excuses for her son.

  Then one night Aunty finally heard about her son's death. It was from a woman she hardly knew, a cook's help newly hired by Nainai. The woman never suspected that Aunty did not know about the death of her own son. Everybody else knew it. It was no secret. She was merely trying to offer her some condolence. But her words struck Aunty down like a thunderbolt.

  In the sudden blinding light, all became clear. There was no more doubt, and at the same time there was no more hope. Of course he was dead! What else could keep him from rushing back to see his old mother? The mother who had brought him up in widowhood with millions of stitches. The one who had just worked in a foreign country for five years to help him get married. Only death had the power to keep him away! She should have thought of it a long time ago!

  Maybe her son had tried to resist death in his last days? He could not die without seeing his mother one more time. He wanted at least to say good-bye to her and tell her to take good care of herself in the days to come. He wanted to apologize to her, for he had promised to support her in her old age and bury her after she died. Now all this had become impossible. Who would be looking after her when she was too old to work? He could not close his eyes! But death was too strong. His strength was exhausted. His mother was too far away. He could not hold out any longer. Despair seized him. His willpower collapsed. His soul drifted away from his body with a gust of wind. It flew across the ocean and over the mountains to look for her dreams, in which they would be reunited. But the world was so vast, and people's dreams were like millions of fireflies. He could not catch them. He had to go. So Aunty never got a dream from her son.

  I still remember the night I saw Aunty wailing and rolling on her bed. Her face was as white as a sheet of paper. Large tears rolled down from her eyes. Her voice was hoarse. Her hair fell out of the bun. Everybody in Nainai's household was in her room, trying to calm her down. At that time, I did not quite understand what had happened and why Aunty was crying. Before this I had never seen an adult cry like that. I was frightened. Perhaps that was why I remembered the scene so vividly.

  When I grew up and learned from Aunty and others about what had happened, my heart grew very heavy. In China, people liked to say "bringing up a son to provide for one's old age." In her life, Aunty had brought up both a son and a daughter. For this she had "eaten a lot of bitterness." Now her old age was near, there was no one to provide for her. Although my parents had promised to support her when she was too old to work, I knew that Aunty would not count on it.

  From 1958 to 1966 I slept in the same room with Aunty. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night and heard her deep sighs. I knew she was unable to sleep. Her
sadness touched my heart. But I did not know how to comfort her. Finally one night I went over to her in the dark, put my arms around her, and said gently: "Aunty. Don't you worry! When I grow up, I will earn a lot of money. I will support you and take care of you when you are old. I am your own daughter!"

  When Aunty heard this, she started to sob. Putting her arms around me, she said: "My good daughter! My dear daughter!" She had never called me daughter before. Nor did she dare call me that afterwards in front of other people. But I knew that in her heart of hearts she had taken me to be her own daughter from that moment on. This bond between us would last forever.

  II

  Beijing ioi Middle School

  Fifth grade was a turning point for me. I was eleven years old. One morning when I opened my eyes, I found that my mind, which had been thick and heavy like mud, suddenly became light and clear. It started to run like a mountain stream. The golden sun danced on it, accompanied by the silver moon, five-colored stars, and the rainbow-a miraculous moment. I woke up as Sleeping Beauty did. Even today I still can't tell what triggered the change. "The apertures of your heart opened" was Aunty's explanation. For the Chinese have always believed that intelligence comes out of a person's heart, as the twin sister of emotion.

  From then on mathematics became my favorite subject. The grades I got rarely went below ioo. The questions became so easy that I really couldn't understand why in the past they had frustrated me so much. As for my Chinese, some characters I wrote still had problems. That could not be fixed overnight. But by this time such mistakes had become less important. What really counted were the essays and stories we wrote, which depended on ideas and style.

  After I figured this out, my papers began to catch the fancy of our Chinese teacher, Mr. Wang. Once in a while he would read my paper in front of the fifty students in our class. He spoke with emotion and intonation, adding favorable comments every now and then. At such time, my heartbeat quickened and my cheeks were burning. I would lower my head to hide my smile, while my ears were wide open, like a pair of antennas, catching the sweet music, note by note.

  Amid such delightful reassurance that I was after all not so stupid, I reached the age of twelve. Suddenly I grew much taller. My breasts started bulging. Blood began to come out of me as it did Mother. In old China, this would mean that I had reached marriageable age. Perhaps a few matchmakers had already visited my parents and they had discussed my "lifelong big affair" behind my back.

  Or else perhaps Father had made a "belly engagement" for me before I was born. This was a time-honored Chinese custom: in the olden days fathers-to-be who were friends would point at their wives' protruding bellies and say: "If this is a girl and that is a boy, they will be husband and wife. She will be your daughter-in-law. He will be my son-in-law." Such pledges made by the fathers were almost as good as the engagement itself. A man who went back on his words in such important matters shamed his ancestors. Henceforth he would be despised by everybody.

  But I lived in new China. So in 1963, instead of doing needlework to get my dowry ready and praying to heaven for a decent husband, I had something else on my mind: the upcoming unified entrance examination for junior middle school. The examination was extremely competitive. Among some two hundred middle schools in Beijing, only four were considered at the very top. Two were in the city: Male Fourth Middle School and Female Middle School attached to Teacher's University. The other two were in the west suburb: Beijing rot Middle School and Middle School attached to Qinghua University. Although both were quite close to the big yard where we lived, somehow my classmates and their parents all set their minds on 1o1.

  This ioi, I was told, was not only the best middle school in Beijing, it was without equal in China. In this school, the teachers were chosen from among thousands of middle school teachers. They were the most experienced and worked most conscientiously. The facilities were the best. As for the students, they were the most ambitious and brilliant youths from all over Beijing, not just the west suburb. At the time more than 8o percent of the students were boarders.

  So if I could gain admission to this middle school, a bright future was almost guaranteed for me. Three years' study in the junior section would give me a great advantage over those who got themselves into second-rate or third-rate middle schools. So at the next unified entrance examination, this time for senior middle school, I would have no problem regaining admission to ioi. Another three years, the gate of any university in China would open for me. The statistics were no secret: each year over go percent of the students who graduated from 1o1 went on to key universities and elite colleges such as Qinghua University, Beijing University, and Harbin Military Engineering College. Whereas in a second-rate middle school, sometimes only zo percent of the graduates could go to college. As for the third-rate schools, the percentage was so low that most students simply gave up.

  This kind of talk I heard day in and day out when I was in the sixth grade. Everyone was singing the same tune. My parents, other parents, the school principal, the teachers, and all the neighbors. It really brainwashed me into believing that the forthcoming entrance examination was a matter of life and death for me. If I failed to get into ioi, I would be doomed once and for all. No college education. No future. The glorious jobs such as scientist, doctor, engineer, professor, diplomat would all be beyond my reach. I would end up selling groceries, sweeping streets, repairing smelly shoes or dirty bikes. And it was all my fault! I knew it. Others knew it. The word SHAME would be branded onto my face. Never to be washed off.

  Such a prospect put a great deal of pressure on me. As summer drew near, lazy and arrogant as I was, even I began to study hard. Each morning without anybody urging me, I jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn. After a simple breakfast of Aunty's pancakes, I went to the schoolyard to learn the Chinese lessons by heart. Usually I'd arrive at around six thirty, and most of my classmates were already there. Each person had a favorite spot; mine was on the swing. From there I competed with others with closed eyes and a loud voice. Our chanting of the texts converged into a river that flowed far and wide in the cool morning breeze. In an hour and a half, the sun would grow hot and the school bell would ring. Classes started at eight o'clock.

  In mid-July, the decisive moment came. I charged headlong into the battlefield with a determination either to carry off the palm or to lay down my dead body. After that, a whole month of restless waiting. Sometimes I was very confident and painted rosy pictures in my head about a great future. Then suddenly doubts gripped my heart and I fell from the top of the rainbow into a bottomless abyss. I missed sleep at night and a lot of good humor by day. This state of mind, the Chinese called "fifteen buckets drawing water from a well, seven moving up and eight going down."

  As for my parents, although they pretended to be calm, I knew that they were as uneasy as I was. Then one day a letter arrived. It was the admission notice! Strange! Such an important letter was so small and looked so ordinary. Yet my life depended on it! I could hardly breathe when Mother eagerly tore it open. "Beijing ioi Middle School!" Tears of joy welled up in Mother's eyes. At that instant, a rock of a hundred tons that had been sitting on my heart turned into a thousand butterflies. They whirled around the room. They flew out into the sunny sky. The next thing I knew I was on my way to see my classmates.

  On that day I witnessed some of the happiest smiles as well as very bitter tears. It turned out that about io percent of the graduates from West Garden Elementary School were going to ioi. Not a bad record. The principal was smiling and very proud. The teachers, whom we went to thank, thanked us also because we had won honor for our mother school.

  Later when the good news spread, many neighbors came to congratulate us. Some of them used this as a good opportunity to brainwash their own children who were to take the entrance examination the next year. Aunty served them tea and candies. A big smile was on her face all the time. Later that evening she surprised me with a fancy pencil box that she had bought a while back an
d kept in a secret place. The next day, Father and Mother took me out to dinner and Father rewarded me with a novel, the original three volumes of Water Margin, which I had wanted. For the rest of the summer I was the star in our family once again. My parents and Aunty were all proud of me. Lian was eclipsed. Too bad. But there was nothing he could do except to wait for five years to have such a chance. Let us wait and see if he could get himself into ioi.

  On September i, I reported to the new school. On that day we each got a school badge, which had bold red characters against a shiny white background. From then on everywhere I went, I wore the badge. It always drew people's attention to me. Some looked at me with approval, others with envy, depending on who they were. That gave me quite a lot of satisfaction.

  Before long I discovered that ioi was just like the elementary school I went to. Here most students were from revolutionary cadres' families. The rest had parents who were scientists, professors, writers, and artists, since the Chinese Academy of Sciences and a number of key universities were all in this area. Some students even had parents who were famous nationwide. But they, I must add, were admitted to roz because they did well in the examination. As far as I know, in the early sixties, no one came to for through back doors.

  Even though the competition seemed fair, out of the fifty students in my class, only two girls were from workers' families and one boy was from a nearby village. The latter's name was Jin. For a year and a half, we shared a desk. As time went by I got to know him. Not really well, but probably better than others. For Jin was very quiet and seemed to have no good friend in our class.

  Perhaps it was because he was slightly older? Or was it something else that made him "a camel among a flock of sheep" in this group? His clothes, for example, were made at home, while ours were bought from stores. The patches on them did not give him the same air as they did the high-ranking officials' children, who in those days deliberately wore patched clothes to show off their families' plain living style. I had also heard that his family was unable to pay the five yuan tuition. Each year they had to ask for an exemption.