by Ang Li
“It’s ironic when you think about it. The regime ruined your father’s life, but their policies, right or wrong, brought him new wealth.”
With a subtle gesture, she stopped her children from objecting to her interpretation of the turn of events.
“I came from a merchant’s family. Your maternal grandfather and uncles had foresight, and with their help, I learned to manage the land, property, and houses. I helped keep the family going on your father’s behalf so as not to add to his worries. And he could send you to study abroad when you were young. He was free to do what he wanted.”
Mother slowly stood up and turned to open a large, partioned armoire also made of purple sandalwood. Cameras and lenses filled all the spaces, ranging from early German models to recent ones from Japan, and all by renowned manufacturers.
“There are two hundred and thirty-two cameras in here. If you count the lenses alone, including those on cameras, there are two hundred and fifty-four.”
Yinghong nearly cried out in surprise at the sight of more than two hundred cameras, stored in an armoire that clearly had been made to Father’s specifications. The single piece of furniture took up a whole wall, and every space was crammed full with cameras and lenses. A coat of ash-white dust lay on the black metallic cameras. With so many types and models, they looked less like the cameras she was used to and more like ill-defined contraptions. Gathered in such numbers, they seemed to deconstruct the commonly accepted image of cameras, and had become strange and unrecognizable.
She went up to look for the Linhof she’d used, as well as Father’s favorite Leica M3 with its 50mm, 90mm, and 135mm lenses, but it was a fruitless attempt, as she found it impossible to tell one from another.
Closing the doors, Mother next led them to an inner room on the second floor of Lotus Tower, where strewn atop the cupboard, chest, and an old-style carved bed were all sorts of stereo equipment, from early hand-cranked models to models of 78 and 33⅓ revolutions, plus various types of speakers, turntables, and amplifiers.
“There are five turntables, seven sets of speakers, and three sets of amplifiers, plus thirty-seven of the early all-in-one stereo systems.”
The speakers were all roughly four to five feet tall, crowding the corners in sets of two, on top of which rested turntables and amplifiers. Some of the all-in-one systems were in boxes piled high; others had extended speakers and had been placed on the floor, lined up from the bed to the door.
Mother took up all the unused space, so the three children had to stay outside and crane their necks to look in.
She pushed open the long, latticed south-facing windows; the walkway lights were still on, dimly illuminating the two cars parked neatly in Lotus Garden.
“There are also the two Mercedes, one from 1953, and the other a later model, with aerodynamic lines.”
She then closed the window and turned around, a contented smile on her face to show she was pleased to have accomplished her task.
“I’m pleased that, until the day he died, your father was able to have everything he ever wanted and never had to worry.”
Now she turned to face her three children.
“At first I sold off the dowry that my parents had given me, but the money quickly ran out, so little by little I sold every piece of Zhu family property.”
Placing her hands together in front of her, she bent deeply and gave her three children a Japanese-style, 90-degree bow.
“I’m very sorry.”
Unable to stop her gesture, the three children got down on their knees before her. Yinghong began to sob.
“I know some of our relatives criticize me for letting your father spend money like this, but they didn’t see how he suffered each day in Lotus Garden with nothing to do.” For the first time that night, Mother choked on her words. “His whole life was gone, so how could I watch him suffer with nothing to keep him occupied?”
She bent forward to help her children up.
“The orchard, the land, and other properties were all sold to outsiders, except for this garden, which is connected to the Zhu ancestral house. It was your father’s favorite place, the spot where he spent most of his life, but since I had to sell it, I asked my own brother to buy it.”
An unprecedented serious tone crept into her voice.
“I asked them to add a condition that, if in twenty years, anyone in the Zhu family could afford it, you would have first right to buy it back.”
Mother died in early autumn the following year, less than twelve months after Father. Yinghong was the only child with her when she passed away.
Within those months, Yinghong witnessed with her eyes how fast a garden can go to seed and how it is intricately connected to the vegetation inside.
After Father’s death, the flowers and trees, which had not been trimmed regularly to begin with, quickly overgrew, starting with the weeds spreading from the ground to the paths and quickly covering the flagstone paving. Mudan and Luohan cut the weeds back a few times, but the garden was crisscrossed with winding paths, and another would be overgrown by the time they finished weeding one nearer the house. Mudan had other household chores to tend to, and Luohan was getting too old to care for the plants in such a large garden.
She could almost see the vegetation growing wildly in front of her day and night; it grew any way it wanted, thriving and spreading its tentacles everywhere. And soon fallen leaves began to pile up.
Central Taiwan enjoys year-round greenery, so vegetation grows in profusion in all seasons, including fall and winter. At any given moment, buds sprout on trees, becoming fully formed leaves in a matter of days, only to fall to the ground before long, replaced by new buds that start the cycle over. Leaves fall twelve months a year, spring or summer, rain or shine; they drift softly to the ground in an everlasting cycle.
The fallen leaves were not much to see at first, unlike the deciduous trees in temperate zones, where they fall all at once, denuding the trees in spectacular fashion. Instead, the leaves here fell in small numbers, so no one paid much attention. But they quickly accumulated and, if not swept away soon enough, began to pile up, creating a sight of decay, a blanket of dry yellow leaves. Then they started to rot, lying atop the few remaining flowers, which now looked withered and desolate.
As leaves continued to fall, the trees grew even more vibrantly, with branches spreading and new leaves sprouting. Moss began to form in the shade under the trees; soon the red-brick wall was nothing but a dark-green patch. Even the tiled roof was taken over by weeds with gnarly roots that stuck on anything they came into contact with.
Looking down from the ancient vase-patterned window in Lotus Tower, she saw that the garden was reduced to a patchwork of green in many shades; even in the ponds that had so far escaped the shade of the trees, the lotus and lilies were dying. The water congealed into a deep green, as if frozen over, and if you looked closely, you saw that duckweed had overtaken the surface, so tightly packed that it stopped moving.
It was on an early autumn day when the garden was lost to the greenery that Mother breathed her last, after giving her wish to be buried with Father.
“I’ve fulfilled my responsibilities. I’m free of all cares.”
She said before peacefully closing her eyes.
As expected, Lin Xigeng was elected director of Taipei’s Construction Guild, a confirmation to Yinghong that their relationship would continue, except that she had not expected to be carrying his child.
Lin reacted to the news of the baby in his usual manner.
“Great. We’ll have a child with the good genes from both families. He’ll carry the Lin surname, but would not be a disappointment to your Zhu family,” Lin pronounced with customary confidence.
He had five children, three boys and two girls, from two marriages, which to him meant that children were not special gifts from heaven. Too preoccupied with expanding his business, he had no time to think about inheritance, nor did he spend much time with his children. He was simply to
o busy. But he firmly believed that “they’ll come see me on their own when they’re old enough to take over some of the business.”
“Their mothers may not want them to be too close to you out of resentment, so it may be too late when they’re older,” Yinghong commented with concern, looking at the matter from a woman’s perspective.
“I don’t believe so. Children identify with a successful father. As long as I do well, they’ll want to be with me, no matter what their mothers say,” he replied with self-assurance. “Don’t worry. Facts will prove I’m right.”
Many years later, after they were married, she had an opportunity to see that he was right. In order to fight for what they believed their children deserved, his former wives not only did not drive a wedge between their children and him out of personal spite, but actually encouraged the kids to fight over favors from him. At the time, along with the continuing economic boom in Taiwan, the real estate business was experiencing another high. Lin Xigeng, known to have large landholdings in the Taipei metropolitan area, saw his total worth increase many times over.
Owing to Lin’s views about children, she knew, from the moment the pregnancy was confirmed, that the life growing inside her would bring her only defeat and worry.
I knew it was not yet time for Lin to get a divorce and marry me. He did not want another divorce, not because he had strong feelings for his marriage or any special affection for his wife and children. From his perspective, as long as he was serious, a relationship should proceed in a set formula: first, a woman, then find a place for her to live, deciding on the monthly allowance, followed by children. All these occurred in their designated order, and came to him all too easily. He would tolerate no disruptions in his daily life, particularly if that involved divorce.
No matter how successful and confident he was professionally, he could not bear to hear people gossip behind his back.
“Three marriages is a sign that a man can’t handle family affairs, so how could he be expected to devote himself to long-term business deals? He would never be a major player.”
People said things like that all the time.
I knew that on an island known to have constantly imported information and customs, a successful man who was acceptable to his peers usually had only one marriage (those who were single could give the impression of inconstancy). The women they had outside of marriage earned them envy and compliments.
I have yet to make him feel that I’m so indispensible that he must get a divorce to marry me. Before that happens, I could ask him to go through with it, but he would never consent, and worst of all, I would lose my current edge. At least, as of now, I haven’t moved into the house he set aside for me, and I live on what I earn. To him, I’m still someone he needs to court, not a woman he keeps.
It is imperative that I maintain the current condition. Once I become a kept woman, I’ll be doomed, no matter how much he loves me.
Yet, why do I harbor such deep fears? Will the day ever come when he finds me indispensable?
Eight days after she was sure of the pregnancy, Yinghong thought long and hard before telling Lin.
Though there were no signs of the pregnancy at that early stage, she presented herself to be a lethargic mother-to-be by asking for sick leave. When he came to her room, where the fragrance of flowers lingered, she was lying in bed, displaying her soft, alluring chest, framed by the white lace of her nightgown. Didn’t articles in women’s magazines, newspapers, and books all say that a woman evokes an unusual languid sexuality in early pregnancy?
Her sunken eyes were slightly closed under long lashes as she told him in a listless voice about her apprehension as a first-time mother, while holding his head against her still-flat belly.
He showed all the befitting signs of joy, saying he’d always wanted to have a baby with her. He would take all responsibilities, giving the child the proper surname and, of course, taking the best possible care of mother and child.
“You can ask for anything you want, as long as it’s available,” he said with confident generosity.
Yinghong smiled weakly and closed her eyes, now truly fatigued. Fear gripped her heart, for, from now on, there was no way out. What would tomorrow bring?
She had another option, which was to abort the baby without telling him, and pretend that nothing had happened. Their relationship would continue as before until the day came when he could not live without her. That was something she had thought of before, but the intimate connection she felt from carrying his baby convinced her that this might be a turning point.
But he expressed only his willingness to take responsibility, with no mention of marriage. Now she knew that, after she told him, she could not resort to aborting the baby on her own; if she insisted on doing so, that would damage their relationship. All she could do now was continue carrying the baby and get whatever she could out of a disadvantageous position.
She soon returned to work. The newly elected guild director was required to attend many meetings and do something to prove himself, in particular, negotiate with relevant government offices dealing with regulations and policies. Deftly utilizing the Zhu family’s old connections as well as the new web of relationships established through Lin’s business empire, Yinghong helped him obtain more lenient deadlines for construction companies, in cases involving urban space ratios. The new director thus was able to present his first, outstanding report card.
She worked day and night, in the office during the day, and at banquets at night. In the early stage of pregnancy, the baby in her belly was unusually dormant; she had no symptoms at all, no nausea or other signs of discomfort, and no changes in the appearance of her body. Sometimes she thought it might have been a misdiagnosis. Nothing had happened; she’d just had a mystifying dream that had lasted too long on the streets of Taipei, a city bathed in brilliant sunshine.
It was Lin who tried to get her to work less. He somehow got the idea that the child would be a girl, and promised Yinghong that he would give the little princess what she deserved, more and better than Yinghong’s father had ever given her.
His efforts made her wonder if she had been working doubly hard so the unformed fetus might lose its grip on her uterus and leave her body in a natural way. That, of course, would mean she could start over.
But she was not to have that opportunity. Imperceptibly and quietly, the fetus grew inside. It must have drawn nutrients from her, feasting on her life force, and ingesting her energy to grow and develop. And it went on day and night, not stopping. Yet she detected no change in her body; she knew the baby was still inside her only by counting the passing days.
She grew fearful.
Lin was preoccupied with the many tasks related to his new position as guild director, and some of the real estate operations fell to the domain of Masao. Yinghong had always shown respect to the older man, who had started out with Lin Xigeng early on and now owned a substantial share of the company. The only exception was that, privately with Lin, she jokingly referred to the tall, brawny man as a “pile” of Masao.
The real estate boom continued, with daily increases in pricing. Unhinged from all other economic indexes, housing costs, like the continuously rising numbers on the electronic board at the stock market, turned into a nightmare for most residents of the island nation. An average three-bedroom, 1,500-square-foot apartment was now priced above the lifetime earnings of a midrange civil servant.
Just as the real estate market was at its hottest, and real estate agencies were holding back available units, Masao began to sell those sites frozen by Lin earlier. Known to be cautious and given to playing it safe, he obviously sensed the latent danger in soaring real estate prices.
“It’s better to make less than to lose money,” Masao said resolutely, as he sat, more like “stuffed,” in Yinghong’s characterization, in the conference room.
Lin was noncommittal.
Yinghong thought she detected fear in Lin’s eyes. The timing for a real estate
sale naturally involved tremendous, tangible differences in the amounts of money made or lost, but it was also connected to a sense of accomplishment that came from the ability to judge correctly. Everyone in the business was speculating on housing price trends by taking the capital market and government policy into consideration. Everyone was a specialist in analysis, but no one could say for sure. Desire lurked in every pair of eyes, as they waited for the highest price before selling; then, once they sold, they hoped the housing price would plummet, in order to make up for the jealousy stemming from not getting enough money out of the deal and compensate for the frustration of bad judgment.
This time Lin did not say anything, so Masao went ahead with his plan after the meeting.
Within a short time, 90 percent of the sites were sold. The overall sales price didn’t go up dramatically, but individual cases continued to bring in high profits; the cost of housing was obviously stuck at a plateau, which meant it would not only not drop, but that another rising trend might be just around the corner.
As real estate prices soared, an island economy that was developed through international trade seemingly began to enjoy the full benefit of the wealth from foreign reserves. Within a year or two, those who owned houses or land saw their wealth increase two or three times, some as much ten. Looking at numbers, some people felt that their sudden wealth was simply too great for them to know what to do with it.
As for those in the real estate business, which helped created the boom, the assessments of their houses and land were so inflated they could hardly believe them. Everyone in the business was studying these numbers and the wealth they represented, hoping to increase the value to an incalculable figure.
Masao was under noticeable pressure, even though Lin had not made a comment. As the days passed, differences between the new and old sales reached several billion, which finally led Masao to get totally drunk at one company party.
It was at a seaside staff club Lin had designed. Amid the sounds of people outdrinking each other, Yinghong walked into the yard alone. The Indian summer was nearing its end, but it suddenly reasserted itself, and the seaside was stifling hot even at night. The Chinese-style garden, with its meandering wall, had eaves capped with small tiles. As moonbeams shone down on the eaves through spaces in the wall’s carvings, she thought she saw someone standing by the wall.