The Invisible Valley

by Wei, Su; Woerner, Austin;

  Through the morning mist the faint clang of the work bell drifted up from camp, barely audible and carrying a hint of melancholy. It had been a long time since Lu Beiping had heard that sound.

  —What’s up? Lu Beiping demanded. Chu, what’s going on?

  Chu wouldn’t give him the time of day.

  In the heat of the September afternoon Lu Beiping had, as usual, driven the herd to the old groves near the second bend of the creek, only to find that his shady haven had been reduced to a ragtag posse of disheveled trees leaning at drunken angles. He hollered the animals into a decimated grove rimmed by a lace pine windbreak, set them free to graze, and ducked away for a quick visit to camp. Of the latex collection station that had once stood at the trailhead nothing remained but a few forlorn studs. Skylights had been ripped in the roofs of almost all the cookhouses that surrounded the workers’ quarters, and everywhere Lu Beiping looked he saw ragged cowlicks of torn thatch, exposed beams, and shattered roof tiles blanketing the ground. Yet the camp’s atmosphere was bustling and festive, like a village in the wake of a market fair. Children milled impatiently near the mess hall, holding an assortment of bowls and pots in which to receive their share of celebratory beef—Judas’s meat, carried down from the gully where he met his end. Those workers who had families were busy repairing the damage to their cookhouses, and the camp resounded with the calls of men shouting from roof to roof as they mended thatch. Lu Beiping, clomping into town in his big black boots, drew surprisingly little attention; normally, the return of the foreman’s “ghost son-in-law” would have set off waves of whispers and stares. From behind the hutch that housed the blackboard gazette Lu Beiping heard the sonorous voice of the foreman, probably leading a political training session for Party members, reading aloud a report from the Agrecorps Daily Dispatch with all the soulful gravity of a funeral oration. As he walked toward the old warehouse that served as the re-ed dormitory he saw that the building had lost much of its tiled roof, and the open spaces had been covered with tarpaper. The few re-eds he met greeted him perfunctorily, then hurried back into the dorm. Puzzled by this, Lu Beiping went into his old room and found Chu lying stomach-down on his cot, elbows propped on the wooden crate he used as a footlocker, writing something. He didn’t look up when Lu Beiping walked in, just kept scribbling away with sullen determination.

  Too familiar with Chu’s moods to risk bothering him, Lu Beiping opened his rattan chest, which Chu had pushed into the far corner, and fished out two shirts and a few more books. As he tidied the chest’s contents Chu continued to ignore him, and finally Lu Beiping’s irritation got the better of him.

  —Well, fuck you too! he snapped. How about, “How are you doing?” How about, “I’m so glad you came back to see me after you almost got killed in the biggest fucking storm of the century!” Come on, what’s up? Wipe that sad-puppy look off your face and dignify my presence with a hello, or at least some eye contact, okay? Why don’t we start with that?

  Chu stopped writing. He threw a lazy glance in Lu Beiping’s direction, but did not reply.

  —Chu, what’s going on around here?

  —Why don’t you ask your pal the foreman? Maybe he can give you a straight answer.

  —Just tell me, alright?

  —No wonder you’re out of the loop, since you spend all your time up there on the mountain communing with nature like some kind of holy man. Lost to the world and all that shit, unconcerned with earthly affairs—the more agitated Chu became, the further he spun off into flights of verbal fancy, till finally, getting a grip on himself, he cut to the chase—Okay, here’s the deal. A man came from the Re-education Office in Canton yesterday. It’s official, there’s going to be a personnel call for trainees and students.

  —A personnel call? Lu Beiping said, still uncomprehending.

  —You’re kidding me! Chu burst out. Have you drunk some kind of magical elixir and forgotten about all your worldly cares? Then he explained in a slow, sneering tone: It’s a personnel call. For trainees—and students. A chance to get your ass, and your registration status, transferred back to the city. Do you get it? Or is your head still in the clouds?

  Lu Beiping sprang up as if his feet had been burned.

  —Really? How? Who? Who’s getting transferred? To where? How’s it work?

  —That’s what you should ask your father-in-law, Chu fumed. There’s a provincial quota. There aren’t many spots per unit, and they were supposed to be reserved for students like us who originally had urban registration status. But as soon as word got out the foreman pulled a fast one, said that anyone could apply as long as they’ve shown a strong commitment to local grassroots integration. So now only students who’ve “integrated themselves successfully” here on Hainan are eligible. They just announced it in meeting. In order to be considered, every re-ed needs to write an Integration Statement.

  —An Integration Statement? Lu Beiping said with an incredulous laugh. So that’s why you’re acting like such a sourpuss? You’re working on your Integration Statement?

  Chu glared at him tragically.

  —You laugh. Of course, everyone wants to go back to the city—integration my ass! But in order to be considered for the personnel call, you need to express your commitment to integrate in the countryside. It’s right there in black and white, they’ve got you by the balls. If you don’t make the cut, you’ll have no hope of ever getting back to the city—Chu flung down his pen—all because of your goddam father-in-law! What a jerk!

  —Hey, go easy on my old man, Lu Beiping joked, pulling a grave face. So that’s what the meeting this morning was all about? This personnel call business?

  —Of course not. That was just a footnote. The fate of our lives doesn’t mean shit to that man—Chu glanced out the window, then lowered his voice—You know what they were going on about, in the meeting? “We must raise awareness of the national outlook! We must pursue local integration with an eye to the national outlook!” A typhoon blows this place to hell, and they’re still blathering on about how great the “national outlook” is.

  Chu thrust the sheet of paper at Lu Beiping.

  —Come on, Balzac, help me out here. Write me a few good lines.

  —Screw you. I’ve left behind all worldly cares, remember? I’m going to do my best not to get embroiled in this business.

  —You don’t want to go home? Sure, suit yourself. One less piglet at the tits.

  —Who said I don’t want to go home? Lu Beiping said quickly. (In those days, Lu explained to Tsung, most re-eds had resigned themselves to lives frittered away in a remote backwater, had almost given up hope of returning to the comforts of the city. Who, offered even the faintest glimmer of such a possibility, wouldn’t flail for it like a drowning man for the rope, ready to seize it for himself even if it meant abandoning his comrades to the depths?) Still, Lu Beiping did his best to appear nonchalant, adding: All I meant was that I’d rather not get involved in writing pledges and statements and stuff. Better to not put anything on paper. I’ll just let my actions speak for themselves.

  —Wow, so you’re really not going in for the personnel call? Chu asked incredulously. Then, giving Lu Beiping a meaningful look, he added: If I were you, though, I’d put some thought to your future. You can’t spend the rest of your life holed up on Mudkettle Mountain, living as a kept man—

  —A what? Lu Beiping said, stiffening. Chu, what kind of bullshit—

  —I know nothing, Chu said drily. But there have been . . . rumors to that effect.

  —What rumors? Who says? Lu Beiping sprang up from the bed. Chu pulled him back down, grinning.

  —Hey, don’t panic. It’s nothing. But you should be careful, your old friend Gaffer Kam has got a very loose tongue. Right after you came into camp he showed up here at the dorm and gave us all a detailed intelligence report.

  —Fucking Kambugger! Lu Beiping burst out angrily, while
secretly feeling terrified. Chu picked up his ink-spattered paper and began grumping to himself like a man with a toothache:

  —“If I am given the chance to return to the city I will do so with the vigorous aim to deepen my local grassroots integration here on Hainan and thereby advance the solemn glory of the . . .” Oh, fuck this! Come on, you can do this so much better than I can! Just write me two sentences. Please?

  Just then there was a loud commotion outside the window.

  —Ration supp! Ration supp! Everyone get your beef!

  Chu leapt up, grabbed an enamel basin, and rushed out the door, where he almost collided head-on with a visitor who at that very moment was rushing in.

  —Oh, it’s you! Sorry! Uh . . . welcome! Chu backed into the room, his manner turned mincingly cordial: Come in! I wasn’t expecting to be graced by your presence.

  The visitor giggled.

  —Graced by my presence? Oh, I’m nobody special. But I hear our famous recluse is back from the mountains. I was just down at the mess hall, so I thought I’d pick up his share of beef and pay back a favor I owe him.

  In walked Fong. Lu Beiping went slack-jawed with surprise. She was carrying a tin lunchbox filled with chopped raw beef. Recalling how he’d picked up her allotment of pork scraps and frozen fish at the last ration supp, back when they were squadmates—how long ago that seemed!—he sneered:

  —Fancy your thinking of me, after all this time.

  Then, realizing that this remark had the wrong ring to it, he added, tacking hastily:

  —Why didn’t you pick up Chu’s portion as well, since you knew you were coming up here?

  —Heh! Chu cut in, chuckling obsequiously: Are you serious? Even the big man Fook doesn’t get this kind of treatment. I wouldn’t dare presume. Then, flashing a look of distaste at Fong, he asked her: So, have you written your integration statement yet?

  —Oh, I gave it to Sergeant Fook a while ago, Fong responded airily. Those things are a piece of cake to write.

  —A piece of cake? Ah, I see . . . Chu studied her for a few seconds, then winked at Lu Beiping. Alright, I’ll leave you two alone to talk. Time to go get my beef.

  Chu hurried off, snapping his fingers twice at Lu Beiping as he went out the door.

  The midafternoon sun threw a patchwork of shifting shadows on the concrete floor. Lu Beiping accepted the tin of meat from Fong, feeling the atmosphere in the room harden into awkwardness. This room was a strange place to him now—it didn’t feel like home, not when he stood in the doorway it didn’t, not even when he sat down on his own bed. If this exchange were happening in his hut he certainly wouldn’t have felt so at a loss for words, so lacking in self-confidence. Their “romantic history” was like a hard shell that he couldn’t get back inside of, and he felt foolish trying to stir the waters of their old friendship, standing here wracking his brains for something to say with a rigid smile clinging to his cheeks.

  —So . . . he brought out finally, wanting to kill himself: How have you been?

  —Much terrible! she crowed, imitating the voice of a Japanese soldier in a war flick, then burst into loud laughter. Lu, I’ll bet that during that typhoon, you weren’t thinking about me at all, right? But out at the reclamation site, sitting awake in our tents, what we girls talked about most was how tough it must be for you, all alone up on Mudkettle Mountain.

  —Well, I appreciate your concern, Lu Beiping said, his face relaxing as the awkward moment dissipated. You’re right, it was pretty tough.

  In brief he told her how he weathered the storm and the flood and helped Maria give birth to her calf. Naturally, he once more omitted the story’s most important character, Jade. When he got to the part about Maria, Fong giggled and said:

  —Foreman Kau mentioned that. He said you had to learn on the spot how to be a midwife!

  —The foreman told you that? Lu Beiping asked, suddenly suspicious. Fong . . . there must be some other reason you came to see me.

  Fong glanced out the window; then, abandoning all pretense of casual conversation, she got straight to the point:

  —Wing knows you’re back. He just came to see me.

  —Wing? Wing came to see you? Lu Beiping said, a shiver of alarm running through his whole body as he remembered his long-forgotten date with the foreman’s son. What did he want? Why’d he come looking for you?

  —He said you stood him up. He said that on the day of the typhoon he waited in Sector 4, just like you asked him to, till the creek started to rise and he got trapped on the other side in the wind and rain. He said he almost drowned.

  —Good god, Lu Beiping said, taken aback: So . . . why didn’t he come to see me himself? Why’d he pull you into this?

  —He knew you and I . . . Fong curled her lip, then gave a sniff of laughter. Wing said that his dad asked him to ask me to tell you . . .

  that you should put it behind you. That thing. Between you and him.

  —What thing? Me and who? Lu Beiping asked, feigning innocence. The image of the burnt grave marker flashed through this mind, and he wondered why the foreman, acting through his son, no less, would delegate Fong to settle up this mysterious affair between them. Why was Han’s grave marker such a sensitive topic that it necessitated all this subterfuge?

  —Lu, Fong sighed: I feel sorry for you, getting tangled up in this weird witchy stuff. I told you already, you really shouldn’t pry into their business.

  —What business am I prying into, for god’s sake? Lu Beiping burst out. Fong, do you know what it is? Why’s it such a big deal that he has to appoint you as a go-between?

  —I don’t know, Fong said coldly. And I don’t want to know. What’s it matter to me? God, Lu, you just don’t know when to stop. You know, I could just fold my arms and look on while you blunder around and get yourself into a world of trouble. This is their home, their turf! Do you think that you’re really some kind of son-in-law to the Kaus now, that you have a right to know every last detail of their lives? Lu, I . . . sheesh, what’s the point?

  Fong spun on her heel and walked out the door. Then, looking back at him, she tossed her hair and said with a winsome smile:

  —I’ve changed a lot these past few months. But you—you’re the same as ever. I guess retreating into a life of contemplation hasn’t made you any less of a stubborn jerk.

  Lu Beiping’s gaze wandered to the tin of beef while he waited for her to finish.

  —Alright, Fong said, I won’t bother you anymore.

  She walked back inside, deftly tipped the meat into a large enamel jar that was sitting nearby, then strode back out, carrying her lunchbox. When she was just outside the door she paused again.

  —And you really should write that integration statement. This personnel call is going to be super competitive. Don’t pretend like it doesn’t matter to you.

  Fong hurried away, and once more Lu Beiping took note of the stirring contours of her backside. The afternoon work bell began to ring, sharp and forceful, its tintinnabulating knells settling like a fog over Mudkettle Mountain. As if it were not a rusty rail struck with a hammer, but the tolling of a palace gong.

  And he knew it was the foreman who held the hammer.

  As he drove the cattle back into the hills, Lu Beiping had a jar of salted raw beef weighing down his satchel and a fresh mystery pressing on his mind. Halfway up the trail Choi had cornered him and thrust a faded blue blouse into his hands. It was, or rather had been, aquamarine blue, which in those parts was often called “teasey blue”—a cheap, flashy color that was one of the few bright hues available to Cantonese country women in that puritanical age. Bringing her lips close to Lu Beiping’s ear, Choi said in an urgent whisper: Han was wearing this the day she died. Lu Beiping started as if he’d been nicked by a knife. Choi had found the shirt lying at the edge of her grove—it wasn’t true what they said, Han hadn’t died of malaria. She’d drowned
herself, naked, in the creek. Choi was the only one who saw her. The teasey blue blouse was a gift from her brother, Wing. Wing and Han, it turned out, had been sleeping together. But why she drowned herself Choi didn’t know. That year there’d been a malaria epidemic and lots of people had died, so this gave the Kaus a convenient cover. Where’d they bury her? Lu Beiping had the presence of mind to ask, even in his state of shock. Was it in the clearing next to Sector 12? Yes, that’s the place, that used to be Sector 11. It burned down in a grove fire not long after Han was buried.

  Tugging his satchel open, Choi stuffed the blouse inside and said: Keep this, hide it. I fear I’m in danger now. Then, having concluded her breathless story, she slipped off into the twilit forest.

  Thus, in this sudden and totally unexpected fashion, the riddle of Han’s death unfolded itself in front of Lu Beiping. The familiar bend of the creek, the little trail winding between the trees, now seemed inhabited by an eerie, sinister presence. While the daylight lasted Lu Beiping took a detour through Sector 12 and drove the cattle along the edge of the waste clearing. Already the fast-growing stands of henfeather grass had completely obscured the gravesite. As he forded the creek he noted that right where it passed near the abandoned grove it did, in fact, widen into a little pool. He remembered the “baleglen” and the jungle fire that nobody owned up to; probably Wing, burning some kind of secret offering here, had let the fire get out of hand and started the blaze by accident. Was this pool the very place where Han had died? The cattle, blissfully ignorant of its dark history, sloshed one after another into the shallow pool in their eagerness to shed the day’s heat. Even swollen in the wake of the typhoon, the water barely reached their stomachs. Gripped by a sudden, Kingfisheresque fear of calling down some terrible stroke of bad luck on his head, Lu Beiping hollered loudly to the cattle while a cold dread began to uncoil inside him.

  His voice echoed in the treetops. Lu Beiping clenched the satchel tightly under his arm, not daring to look at its contents.

  He knew that he’d walked into a minefield. The charred grave marker meant nothing to him, he could’ve thrown it away and not given it a second thought. But this blouse was different: It was a bond between him and Han, a physical legacy that tied them together, alive with memories, fraught with secrets. It was a keepsake. With such a thing in his possession, Lu Beiping couldn’t laugh off his link with Han as pure fiction, couldn’t pretend that the death of this poor country girl had no purchase on his soul. Maybe even, to make amends for the blatant way in which her death had been covered up, he owed something to her, bore her some kind of responsibility. And after Fong’s visit on Wing’s behalf this afternoon, he could hear, all too clearly, the approaching footsteps of the living.