Butterfly Tears

by Zoë S. Roy

  As soon as she walked into the structure and faced the walls, she felt depressed. In front was a reception room and on the left was a lounge for the staff. A door on the right led into a corridor with a wall on one side and rooms on the other. A female guard showed her the dining room, washing room and day room where inmates could play cards, watch TV, and read newspapers and magazines, such as The Globe and Mail, Kingston This Week, and Chatelaine.

  “You can take walks in the corridor except during sleeping hours. Every day from 2:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m. is free time outside of the building.” The guard led her to a cell. “Well, here you are. Any questions?”

  “No,” said Jiang as the guard locked her in. She saw a bed, a dresser, a chair, a sink, and a toilet. At that moment she realized she had lost her freedom.

  In the cell, she opened her suitcase, took her things out and put them into the drawers of the tiny dresser next to the bed. With permission from the police, she had brought along tapes of Chinese songs and a cassette player. Suppertime arrived just after she had finished putting everything away. She left the cell and followed the others into the dining room. At her table, there were only three other women prisoners.

  She took a plate with fries, boiled peas, carrots, and two pieces of ham. The others ate hamburgers with salad.

  “Why you inside?” one of the women asked. She was large, with stringy blonde hair and a blank look.

  Jiang did not realize the question was directed at her until a fork tapped on her plate. She answered reluctantly. “For harassment—”

  “Huh!” another woman grinned. “Terrific!” She had large, dark eyes with bushy eyebrows. When she spoke, her red lips glistened, and the smirk on her face said nothing bothered her. “I’m Michelle. Got a sentence of thirty-five days for beating up my husband. I’ll get a divorce when I’m out, in two days. He your boyfriend or ex?”

  Jiang shook her head, not wanting to talk about it.

  “Men are something bad. They harass you, you harass them back. Look here.” She pulled up her left sleeve and pointed at a dark scar. “That rat stabbed me. He deserved what he got.”

  Chuckling, Michelle patted the shoulder of the older woman next to her, who didn’t respond at all, her eyes empty. “This here is Rosa, a single mom. Got herself a little girl. Got herself a good education but no job. She tried to drown her daughter in the river, so she’s got to go to court tomorrow.”

  “What happened?” Jiang gasped. “Why would she do such a thing?”

  “Husband beat them both. Then he started touching the kid.”

  Jiang trembled. “What happened to her child?”

  “Given to a guardian.”

  Lost in thought about Rosa’s poor little girl, Jiang wondered what kind of future that child would have.

  “Joan,” Michelle had trouble pronouncing Jiang’s name. “You do Tai Chi? Maybe if I know that, I can punch back…”

  “Tai Chi is not like martial arts. It’s just exercises.”

  “Is that right?” Michelle rolled her eyes.

  Jiang nodded. “What would you have done if you were Rosa?” she asked out of curiosity.

  “I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t have taken the easy way out.” Michelle looked hard at Jiang. “I would ask for help from a women’s shelter.”

  Jiang returned to her cell after supper. She could not stop thinking about Rosa’s daughter. She picked out a tape, and inserted it into the cassette slot and pressed the play key.

  “I Want to Have My Own Home.” This had been one of her favourite songs. It brought to mind her dream of the once sweet childhood home she had known before her father died.

  After the Revolution ended with Mao’s death in 1976, entrance examinations for university were re-established. Jiang passed the exams and had the opportunity to enroll in a university in a city far away from home. She never returned home.

  Despite the awareness of her mother’s profound regret, Jiang found it hard to be close to her mother. She had heard many such stories of betrayal that had happened between lovers, husbands and wives, siblings, children and parents. They had been told that to be a loyal revolutionary to Mao, one must sacrifice their own family members who had different opinions and/or who talked against Mao and the Communist Party. In her last year at university, her mother came to visit. She had developed insomnia, her pale and wrinkled face looking older than her actual age. Over and over, her mother repeated, “I did not realize, I did not realize…” Jiang found it hard to be sympathetic. After her father’s death, her mother was dead to her, too. She felt like an orphan.

  As the years went by, Jiang’s youth slipped away. Like a brook, she flowed from the East to the West. To her, women needed husbands, just like rivers running into the sea. Her childhood home had included a husband, and then a child.

  For Jiang, a woman without a husband was nothing.

  ***

  She changed the tape after the first one stopped. Listening to the familiar Chinese music soothed her. Her sorrow blurred and receded. A deep voice resounded:

  Stars move across the sky

  The path shines under moonlight

  The hill no longer looks high

  Childhood vanishes from my sight

  She sighed and thought: Rosa’s little girl will grow up and become an adult. Maybe she will forget what her mother tried to do to her.

  The Yangtze River joins the sea

  I sail to another river

  A question rises in me

  Where is my harbour?

  She could feel the yellow currents pushing against the Yangtze River as she listened to the song echoing in the room.

  Later that night as she lay on her cot, listening to the thunder cracking in the sky, she envisioned a black swirl in the long, dark river through which a lonely sailboat passed. She tossed and turned. The following day, Jiang’s head was heavy from a sleepless night. During the prisoners’ free time outside, she walked into the surrounding gardens. When nobody was looking, she slipped into the back yard and jumped easily over the small, unguarded fence, not far from which was the St. Lawrence River. She trudged to the river and stepped into the shallow water. The sunlight danced on the surface, and the water felt warm to the touch. Shuffling along, she waded into the middle of the river. She thought she could see her father’s face smiling then frowning. The river’s currents swamped her legs, then her waist. The image of Rosa holding her daughter in the water flashed in her mind. When the currents reached her torso, she found it hard to hold herself up. The sound of the waves struck at her ears. She could hear Rosa’s little girl crying. Michelle’s words also resounded: “I wouldn’t have taken the easy way out.”

  Hours later, Jiang awoke in a hospital bed. She could not help but laugh hysterically. Then she cried. In her mind only endless and soundless white waves pushed around her. Jiang’s head spun, and her body shook. Then, she disappeared into the water.

  Herbs

  Some herbs are robust. Snow Lotus can survive at –20˚c to –30˚c, and Common Horsetail can root itself in the sand. I wish I were a hardy herb.

  — An excerpt from Yan Tan’s Diary

  WITH PERPLEXED EYES, she looked out the window from her seat on the plane. The clouds over the American Continent floated up and down, just like her mixed thoughts. She massaged her forehead as if she were trying to erase an unpleasant memory.

  The plane bounced and landed on the runway at Boise Air Terminal in Houston. Fast-moving passengers had already retrieved their carry-on baggage and were ready to leave their seats, but Yan was reluctant to give up the sense of freedom she had felt since the plane left China. Just then, an idea flashed in her mind: I’m free now; I can go wherever I want! Excited by the idea, she made a sudden decision not to go to the International Language School in Houston that her husband had insisted she attend. He’d said that if she learned to speak English
better, she would be able to help him more with his business. Just the thought of it made her legs weak.

  When the man next to her stood up and put the strap of a travel bag over his shoulder, she smoothed her dress and rose, too. Taking her suitcase from the overhead compartment, she followed the others and left the plane with a new resolve.

  When she lined up with a luggage cart at the Custom’s exit, she detected a placard held by someone with Chinese characters: Yan Tan. She hastily turned her cart around and followed another crowd of arriving passengers out through another exit.

  An airport coach waited outside the entrance of the hall. She approached it and asked the driver, “Excuse me, sir, does this bus go downtown?”

  “Yes. Get in, please.” Noticing she was alone, the driver stepped down from the bus to help load her luggage. She had no idea where she was going or what she was going to do. Sitting on the bus, she remembered reading about the city of New Orleans, its culture, diversity, and its beauty, which attracted an influx of tourists.

  Two days later at the City Bank in New Orleans, in front of the service counter for new accounts, she filled out the application form, signed her name, and deposited all of her $2,000 into her new account, which had aptly been advertised as a “Freedom Chequing Account.”

  ***

  Yan strolled past Jackson Square where the gothic structure of St. Louis Cathedral towered over the Pontalba Apartments. She wandered along Saint Peter Street. Bright and scorching sunlight emitted heat around her, but a breeze from the Mississippi River blowing through the Square brought cool air. Her short hair bobbed slightly as she walked. Looking at the buildings along the sidewalk, she glimpsed ferns, vines, and blooming morning glory climbing up the cast iron banisters. Various handicrafts were displayed on sidewalk stands under the shade of trees. A thought occurred to her: If I run out of money, I can do the same. She felt exhilarated when she imagined herself selling the handicrafts she had brought with her as gifts: a dozen pure embroidered silk scarves, two sets of sculptures of camels and horses made of tri-coloured glazed clay in the Tang Dynasty style, and more than a dozen necklaces of carved bone beads packed in delicate brocade boxes.

  She roamed the streets, all her senses focused on savouring the exotic atmosphere of the architecture, as well as the fragrance of cape honeysuckle, glory bower, and yellow cassia. Her excitement so overpowered her fatigue from the lengthy trip that she almost forgot her uncertainty in this new city.

  Later, Yan arrived at the French Market where the vendors’ stands full of various fruit attracted her. With delight, she looked over the exotic choices, some of which were unknown to her. She bought fresh figs, blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries. Then she touched a pale green, pear-shaped fruit and asked the vendor, “What’s this?”

  “Papaya,” the young woman answered, smiling at her. “It tastes great; try it.”

  Yan bought one and also picked up a few kiwis.

  She ate berries while she loitered about the market, the raspberries turning her lips and fingers bright red. Finally, she passed through the French Market and reached Le Café du Monde. Tourists in twos and threes were perched around the patio tables in the yard outside the café, appreciating the sunshine under umbrellas – umbrellas that looked as if large, white-and-blue striped mushrooms were blooming out of the concrete lawn. Yan asked for a café au lait and a beignet. Then, she found a seat and sat down.

  Nearby, two singers sang cheerfully as they played guitars. In the distance, a girl and a boy of about eighteen, in T-shirts and shorts, loped toward the café. The girl walked ahead of the boy, then hid inside a doorway, one finger pointing at him. The boy pretended not to notice her finger and passed by the door. Then, with mock surprise, he turned his head and grasped her finger. Then he pulled the girl out from the doorway and kissed her. The girl walked ahead of the boy again and repeated her trick. They seemed to enjoy the game, like children indulging in hide-and-seek.

  Watching them play prompted memories of her cousin. Yan looked out into the streets of New Orleans and saw another scene, from a decade earlier, unfold in front of her.

  ***

  A teenaged girl stood on the bank of a brook running through Peach Blossom Valley and stared at the float on a fishing line. Unexpectedly a rain shower poured down. She collected her fishing rod and rushed toward a tree.

  “Yan! It’s dangerous to go under the tree,” her cousin, Heng, called out. He was twenty-two, a senior student in the law program at the local university. Running up to her, he grasped her arm, “Let’s get some cover over there.”

  They reached a giant protruding rock at the edge of the riverbank and took refuge under it. Heng stood close to the edge of the rock to keep the rain off Yan. She couldn’t help but put her arms around his waist.

  She was shivering, despite his warmth, so she dropped her hands and murmured, “Heng, I’m a little cold.”

  He turned to her and gently took hold of her shoulders, “It’ll be sunny soon. You won’t feel cold anymore.”

  Yan raised her head and noticed his broad chest trembling under his wet shirt. His eyes were bright and intelligent, and his chin sported a light beard. She realized that he was not only her childhood playmate but also an attractive man.

  As a child, she used to ask him, “Be my friend forever?”

  Heng always answered, “Of course, you puppy,” with a smile, and then moved out of the way to avoid her fists.

  She would yell, “I’m not a puppy!”

  “Are you still cold?” Heng lowered his head and looked at her tenderly. A few raindrops from his hair dripped on her face; it tickled. When she put her hands on his chest, she could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the steady beat of his heart. He drew her close and felt her body melt against his, her breath quickening. Suddenly, he let her go. He paused for a moment and stepped back, then wiped the raindrops on her face with his finger. “The rain is over. Let’s go home.”

  ***

  After finishing her café au lait and beignet, Yan left Le Café du Monde. She walked along a path through a garden and detected a familiar scent. Looking around the garden, she discovered many pineapple weeds, each stem carrying a yellowish flower on top. When Yan was a child, she and her playmates used to pluck handfuls of these sweet-scented flower heads and sew them into two-inch square ragbags. They would play with the bags; each player would throw the bag up in the air with her palm up, then she would flip her palm down and try to catch the bag with the back of her hand. After that she would add one more bag and try to catch one after the other on the back of her hand until the pile grew so high she can no longer steady all the weight and the bags fell to the ground. The girls named the plant “fragrant bag grass.”

  Yan had always taken an interest in herbs. At university she majored in Traditional Chinese Medicine, and studied herbs extensively. She had come across the real name of the fragrant bag grass—pineapple weed—by chance one afternoon in the university library while researching another herb. She was surprised and delighted, all these years later, to find the same grass in a garden in New Orleans. She still remembered the entry for pineapple weed in The Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Herbs:

  “An annual herb, pineapple weed is probably a native of north-east Asia but it became established in North America before the nineteenth century. The cone-shaped flower head is yellow-greenish with a strong pineapple or apple scent when crushed. The flower heads are used medicinally.”

  In the garden outside Le Café du Monde, she plucked a pineapple weed flower. Its scent reminded her of her childhood and of her student life. A few salty drops touched her lips. She was not sure whether it was tears or sweat. Yan wiped her face with her hand as she raised her head. Watching people walk around, the sun hot on her face and shoulders, and hearing the different languages, she realized that she was alone in a remote country.

  ***

  S
everal weeks later, Yan found a job at a grocery store named Saigon Village. The storeowner was Chinese-Vietnamese. He had escaped from North Vietnam more than two decades earlier. She also found a small, furnished apartment that was near the store, so she could walk to work every day. In her diary she wrote: “I’ve travelled a long way to a faraway place, and never expected in America I would meet people from Vietnam who speak Chinese.”

  Yan worked as a cashier and also helped clean the shelves and put away goods. She was pleased to discover that the storeowner subscribed to a Chinese newspaper, The World Journal. When she had some free time she borrowed the paper and enjoyed reading Chinese. One day, after she finished reading the current issue, she skimmed through a pile of back issues.

  In the August 30 paper she found a “Seeking-Person” note: “Female: Yan Tan, 28, from Wenzhou City, China, is missing after her arrival at Houston Airport on August 16. If anyone has any information about Yan Tan, please call Mrs. Lee collect at (713) 555-4444. Reward offered.”

  Mrs. Lee was a business friend of her husband, Han Huang. Lee had arranged for Yan’s arrival and also for her accommodation in Houston. Yan imagined her husband’s shock when the Lee family informed him that she had never arrived. Vanishing was her ticket to freedom, the only choice she had to end her two-year nightmare.

  ***

  On a Saturday evening two years earlier, Yan’s husband asked her to go dancing with him.

  At the dance hall, he pointed at a man and said, “That’s Wu, the owner of the hall. He earns more than a hundred thousand yuan a month.” Han added, “Tonight, nobody’s going to leave without having fun. Yan, you should enjoy yourself too; don’t be a party pooper.”

  “Party pooper? That depends on whether I like it or not.”

  “You won’t know if you don’t try.” Han held her waist and pulled her to the dance floor. “Come on.”

  During a musical lull, they sat at a table sipping the drinks a young man had brought to the table on a silver tray.