Butterfly Tears

by Zoë S. Roy

  The room was quiet and empty as if there were no human beings present. But my mind was fully occupied. One of the stories I’d heard from my nanny when I was a child stirred in my head: a black cat leapt over a coffin and made the corpse inside rise. Would Mao climb out of his crystal casket? I wondered.

  It began raining outside. The earlier breeze was now a forceful wind. The indoor light looked like a blinking eye as the door to the auditorium swung open and then shut with each gust of wind that whipped around the building. I imagined a dead man climbing out of a coffin on the stage and jumping down to chase me. Where could I go? I asked myself. Should I run around the chairs or escape from the auditorium? I thought it might be better to stamp my feet on the floor and shout: You are dead! You can’t come out of the coffin.

  “Have you heard any news about Beijing?” Jade unexpectedly broke the silence.

  Taken aback by her question, I shook my head. “No.”

  “Baton’s gone out.” She pointed to the door, her voice barely containing her excitement. “The Communist leaders in power have no future.”

  Is it safe? I glanced at the door and didn’t see Baton. “The joy belongs to the people!” I hastily recited a verse from one of the Tiananmen Poems that I had heard through the grapevine. Even though the government had banned these poems, the people had spread them across China by word of mouth after the Tiananmen Incident in April. The government had suppressed the mass congregation in Tiananmen Square that had gathered to commemorate the late Premier Zhou and to criticize Mao’s closest associates.

  “I was in Beijing at that time, on Chang’an Avenue,” Jade had much to say. “I found bloodstains in the cracks of the concrete tiles.”

  We exchanged whatever news we had; news that was quite different from what the newspapers reported. When Baton returned we sank back into speechlessness. Only the rain and wind filled the lifeless night.

  ***

  A week later, the school returned to its routine. As usual, on Saturday afternoon all the teachers met in the main office for a weekly political meeting run by the school leaders.

  After reading out loud an important article from the People’s Daily, Long Face’s gaze fell on the audience. “Teachers! Comrades! We ought to watch the new motion and direction of the class struggle in our school!” he repeated a passage from the article word for word. Finally he announced, “Some people have verbally attacked our Party’s central leaders!”

  Everyone in the room eyed one another in shock. We all knew that if a person was caught making unfavourable comments about any of the government’s central leaders, he or she would have committed an anti-revolutionary crime and would most certainly be imprisoned.

  “It was Jade and Lotus!”

  My mind went blank. White spots appeared in front my eyes, and I felt dizzy, as if a stick had struck my head. I’d already heard about the arrests of people who talked against Mao’s associates.

  “Lotus!” Jade called out. “Did we attack the central leaders?”

  My lips moved, but I was wordless until Pearl tugged the back of my blouse and urgently whispered, “Say ‘no’!”

  Finally waking up from my confusion, I stood up and firmly said, “No, we did not!”

  “Principal Wang, we need witnesses,” Jade said. “Who heard us?”

  “Alright.” Long Face hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to hide the identity of the informer, but in order to convince the audience, he was forced to confess. “Baton heard your vicious attacks.”

  “Did anyone else hear us talk that night?” Jade turned to Baton. She asked in a firm tone, “Baton, who else can prove what you’ve accused us of?”

  “I can,” Baton answered in a weak voice.

  “One witness isn’t enough.” Jade looked directly at Long Face. “Chairman Mao said, ‘If you haven’t conducted an investigation, you have no right to make any assumption.’ Principal Wang, why don’t you ask other teachers?” She turned to the other listeners. “Has anybody ever heard Lotus and I discuss the central leaders?”

  “Never!”

  “Lotus seldom talks,” said one.

  “Maybe Baton got it wrong,” said another.

  At that moment, I noticed Long Face’s puzzled eyes and Baton’s speechless, half-opened mouth.

  As the meeting finished, my jumping heart returned to its place. Jade and I had survived that round of political accusation.

  ***

  Near the end of September, Pearl and I went frog fishing again. The rice paddies looked the same, although much had changed in the past weeks. Mao’s death was like peeling paint on a house, eventually revealing its original colour.

  “Pearl,” I asked as I pulled a tiny puff of cotton from the bag and tied it to the end of the line of my fishing rod. “What program are you going to apply for if the entrance examinations for universities are re-established?” We’d been trained to teach in a two-year post-secondary program, but we never had a chance to go to university. I hoped that now we might get that chance.

  “Mathematics!” she answered, without taking the time to think. “Why? I thought you loved literature.”

  “People in arts have lots of trouble with politics.” Pearl whipped her fishing rod over the rice plants. The cotton puff looked like a moth falling slowly and softly into the plants. “What about you?”

  “I’d like to try archaeology. I like the idea of discovering ancient remains and bones.” At that moment, I felt a twitch on my line. A bite from a frog! I yanked my rod sharply. Whoosh! A frog hung awkwardly on the line swinging in the air. My other hand stretched to grab it before it had a chance to wriggle off the line. I caught the little creature, its mouth exposed as it struggled.

  The disgusting scene of Baton at the political meeting popped into my head. I pictured him gaping at Jade again. I wondered whether Baton would’ve reported on us if he’d known about the boomerang effect – he couldn’t defend or support his accusation and so only humiliated himself. Would the frog have opened its mouth to get the moth if it’d known it’d be caught?

  “Lotus! Why don’t you put the frog in the bag? You almost killed it.” Pearl’s voice drew me back to the present.

  The frog in my hand closed its wordless mouth. Its eyes puffed and stared blankly into the sky. Poor thing! I thought. I loosened my fingers and it dropped to the ground. The frog kicked around and then disappeared into the plants. The ribbit of other frogs rose here and there.

  The sun remained in the high sky, and the rice heads had already become ripe. Once more, we threw in our lines, hoping to catch frogs in the rice paddies.

  A Woman of China

  A man by the age of thirty should have accomplished his goals.

  – Ancient Chinese proverb

  “MA … MAMA!” JUN CALLED out after waking.

  “I’m here, baby!” Ting stopped unpacking to pick up the little girl from the crib.

  In Ting’s arms, Jun looked around, noticing nothing familiar except her mom’s face. She mumbled, “Ho-mee. Ho-mee.”

  “Yes, this is our new home.” Ting chuckled. With smiling eyes, she gazed at her two-year-old daughter, wondering if she really understood the meaning of “home.” Their new home was impossibly cramped. It was a bachelor apartment allotted by her husband’s university, and cluttered with a double bed, a crib, a stroller, two bookcases, and a desk. Several shelves, attached to any available space on the walls, were lined with books, magazines, jars, and other containers of different shapes.

  After she set Jun beside the toy blocks on the bed, Ting continued opening the boxes and shelving their contents. She felt exhilarated about her new life. It was spring and she had just moved to Shanghai to rejoin her husband. She hummed as she pulled books out of the cardboard boxes. Her shoulder-length hair swung back and forth as she moved back-and-forth, shelving books. Later, she reminded herself, she would
hang a clothesline across a wall corner. The line would be important on rainy days when she had to hang her daughter’s cloth diapers to dry inside. She nicknamed the diapers of different colours and sizes, “Flags of a Thousand Countries.”

  Thump! Startled by the sound, Ting quickly raised her head and saw that Jun had tumbled from the bed as she tried to reach for a block that had fallen on the floor. “Oh my God!” Ting tried to control her voice and hurried to cradle Jun in her arms. The little girl opened her mouth to cry, but started giggling instead when Ting patted her back.

  “Sweetie, are you hungry?” Ting’s shoulders stopped shaking. Her hand touched Jun’s stomach.

  Jun nodded, her smile wide.

  Ting placed Jun carefully on the floor with a few of the toy blocks. She passed her a cracker and began mixing rice powder, minced pork, and shredded vegetables with water. She cooked the mixture and then placed the pot in a sink of cold water to cool.

  Not having a high chair, Ting settled Jun in the stroller and fed her. Jun grabbed the spoon from her mother and grinned, wanting to feed herself. Ting took another spoon and said in a sing-song voice, “You put one spoon into your mouth and I’ll put in the other.” Sometimes Jun pushed the spoon against her own cheeks or nose; at other times she would clang it on the stroller tray. Jun finished her meal – half of it decorating her face.

  Half an hour later, the door opened, and Ting’s husband, Dong, arrived from his day’s work at the university.

  “How was your day?” he asked, casting a glance at the crib after he laid his briefcase on the floor. “Is Jun still asleep?”

  “She just dozed off after eating, or rather, wearing a meal.”

  “You’re not done with these boxes, are you?”

  “Almost, but not yet,” answered Ting as she put another pan on the gas stove and began to stir-fry what was left of the pork with some fresh vegetables from the refrigerator. “Did you get any news from the daycare centre?”

  “No. But I asked one of my colleagues for help since his mother works there.” Dong patted his stomach. “We should get a spot any day now. How soon will supper be ready?”

  “It’s almost done.”

  Dong arranged a folding table in the small room for them to take their meal. They ate in silence, each lost in thought about what the future might bring.

  ***

  Several days later, daycare for Jun secured, Ting walked into an office building that Huangpu Daily shared with a real estate company. Along the narrow hallway on the fifth floor she passed rooms filled with desks and office workers. Sunlight squeezed in through white blinds and danced on the walls. Finally, she spotted the personnel office. Smoothing her skirt, she turned the doorknob and entered the room with a timid smile on her face. It wasn’t as hard as she thought to detail her qualifications to the welcoming face behind the counter.

  The personnel officer handed her the note on which he had jotted down some of her information and directed her to the manager of the Editorial Department in the office across the hall. She was feeling more confident and knocked sharply on the door.

  “Come in, please!” answered a genial man sitting behind a large desk, stacks of file folders in neat piles before him.

  “I’m here for the job opening,” Ting said as she entered the room and strode to the desk, handing over the note from the personnel officer.

  The manager stood up and shook hands with Ting. “Sit down.” He pointed to a chair, and picked up a tea mug from his desk. “You’re young,” he said, his eyes scrutinizing her. “So, you must have good eyesight.”

  Why does good eyesight matter? Ting asked herself. For taking photos, perhaps? She answered, “Yes, sure,” and sat up straight.

  The director smiled, placing his mug back on the desk after taking a sip of the tea.

  “All right. I can offer you a job as a proofreader.” Nodding, he looked beyond her to the door.

  “But, Sir,” Ting’s throat was dry when she spoke, “I have several years experience reporting and editing at a weekly newspaper.”

  “Such a position is not available here.” He eyed the door again. “I see from this note that you have just moved to Shanghai. It’s impossible to find an equivalent position when you transfer to a big city. Think of proofreading as something good. You don’t have to always be on the run and you can spend more time with your family, especially with your child – if you have one.” His voice was firm.

  Ting raised her eyebrows. Knowing she had no other choice, she said, “Okay, I accept the position.”

  The manager stood up, “Good. You can start right away. I’ll take you to the office where you will be working.”

  As they entered a desk-filled room, Ting detected a change in the atmosphere. The workers’ heads, like black mushrooms, rose and peeked out over stacks of paper. They responded to the manager’s introduction, greeted Ting politely, and then each mushroom head dropped, one by one. Silence shrouded the office as a middle-aged woman gestured at Ting. “Come on in. This is your desk,” she said briskly, placing some work in front of her. After the manager left, the mushroom heads reappeared. Pleasant chatter flowed across the paper stacks. Ting sat down and began her first day proofreading freshly printed sheets.

  At the end of the day, she boarded a crowded trolley bus that had standing room only. She positioned herself in front of a window so she could see Nanjing Road West, the most prosperous commercial area in Shanghai. Neon lights on the glass doors and windows of stores cast shimmering rays of light on the bustle of shoppers coming and going. Ting blinked her eyes in order to tell real people from mannequins.

  ***

  Ting hated to have her ambition buried in proofreading, but she enjoyed reading. Whenever she had spare time, she read novels and poetry and sometimes even academic and scientific journals. At lunch, she read a report on housing in Shanghai, written for the 1987 International Year of Housing. Eyes wide, she stared at the photo accompanying the piece. “Have you seen this story about the shabby and crowded living conditions in a suburb of Shanghai?” she asked her colleagues. “I can’t believe this old man has lived in a two-square metre room for thirty years.”

  “Mine isn’t much better. We are a family of four and we live in a small apartment that is about thirty-two square metres,” the person at the next desk responded.

  “This is reality in Shanghai,” another sighed.

  Ting fell silent, thinking: My living space is much bigger than that poor old man’s. It’s five square metres per person!

  Every evening, after she finished cleaning up and taking care of the laundry and tucking her daughter into bed, she immersed herself in books. Sometimes, she even read books in English using a dictionary. Once in a while, Dong would tease her. “You live more like a student than I do.” Dong was studying part-time for his doctoral degree while teaching a course in Chinese history.

  Ting considered taking graduate courses as well. She thought that with a Master’s she might have a better chance of getting a job as a journalist again. She picked up some information about advanced studies in journalism at the university and discussed the possibility with Dong. “I think I can pass the entrance exams for the graduate program.”

  “What do you mean?” Dong asked, looking at her as though he hadn’t understood what she just said. “Who will take care of Jun if you go to school?”

  “She can still go to daycare during the day and we can take turns looking after her in the evenings, so that we both have time to study.”

  “No. It’s not good for the kid. She needs a mother.” Dong was insistent.

  “But I need a career,” Ting said quietly, her eyes fixed on his.

  “I know what’s in your head. But it’s impossible for both of us to develop careers. Otherwise, neither of us will come along.”

  “Why can’t I try?”

  “You know why.
You’re a woman.”

  “And what’s the matter with that?” Ting said, barely able to hide the annoyance in her voice. “Are you suggesting women are inferior?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m as smart as you are.”

  “Men are more easily accepted in society,” said Dong, a wry smile on his face. “Listen, it’s a man’s world not a woman’s world. ‘Mankind,’ remember, not ‘womankind’!” Dong smirked. “Only when a man has distinguished himself can his wife be honoured.”

  “I don’t believe in Confucian tradition.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s a fact.”

  Ting’s eyes dimmed. She realized what Dong said was partly true. She did not know of any successful marriages that involved careers for both the husband and wife. A hard-working couple had to sacrifice family life for a man’s career. She remembered the ancient Chinese proverb: A man by the age of thirty should have accomplished his goals. And a woman of China was expected to support her husband’s ambitions and help him achieve those goals.

  As a mother, Ting also had a duty to think about her daughter. Pity for her daughter began in the labour room once the nurse announced, “It’s a baby girl!” The love that grew afterwards was always huddled in the shadow of that pity. Ting hated to think that Jun might experience the same obstacles as she had. She understood that women had to climb over more barriers in order to stand alongside men at the same level. With a clear picture in mind of the obstacles Jun would face, she resolved to raise her daughter with care and ensure that she would be well-educated. As a wife, she also truly hoped her husband would succeed in his career. For these reasons, she convinced herself she had to give up her desire to further her own education.