by Amy Tan
My mother sailed through the room exuding confidence, though she had none just an hour before, when she was reading the newspapers. She smiled and dispensed assurances.
“I know for a fact, and from a reliable, highly placed source, that the new Republic is using the antiforeign fuss as a temporary ploy to unify the country. Consider this—the officials who worked under the Ching will still hold their positions under the Republic. That’s already been announced. So we’ll still have our friends. And besides, why would the new Republic oust foreign businesses? Why would they cut off their own hands and be unable to take from the money pot they’re so fond of? This will all blow over soon. It’s happened before. Look at the history of past brouhahas of this sort. Western foreign trade came back in even greater numbers and with more profits than ever before. All will settle into place soon enough. But it will require an adjustment at first, fearlessness coupled with foresight.”
A few of the men murmured in agreement. But most looked skeptical.
“Calculate how much money foreign businesses bring into China,” she continued. “How could the new government be hostile toward us? I predict that after holding back our ships of fortune, they’ll welcome us back and make the treaties and tariffs even more favorable. If they’re going to stamp out the warlords, they need money to do that. Ours.”
More grumbling followed. My mother persisted with her cheerful attitude. “Those who stay will be able to pick up the gold in the streets that the doubting Thomases left behind. And it will be everywhere, yours for the taking. This is a time of opportunity, not of fears or useless scruples. Gentlemen, plan for a richer future. The new path is laid. Long live the new Republic!”
Business, however, remained slow. The gold in the streets lay where no one dared to pick it up.
The next day, my mother ceased all efforts to reinvigorate her business. A letter had arrived just before we were supposed to have a belated birthday lunch at a restaurant. When I reached her door, I heard her talking in an angry way. I looked around and saw no one. She was talking to herself. When I was younger, I had been frightened to hear her babble. But nothing terrible ever came of her moods. Her spells were like someone beating a rug. She purged herself, and then everything quieted inside her again.
“Damn your cursed heart!” she said. “Coward!”
I thought her anger had to do with what had happened to the emperor.
“Mother,” I said softly.
She startled and turned to me, clutching a letter to her chest. It was in cursive writing, not Chinese characters.
“Violet, darling, we cannot have lunch right now. Something has come up.” She did not mention the letter, but I knew that was the reason. She had done the same thing to me on my eighth birthday. This time, however, I was not angry, only anxious. It was again a letter from my father, I was sure of it. The last one, six years ago, told of his recent death, which was the reason I then knew he had been alive all those years when she had said he did not exist. Whenever I had brought up the subject of my father, she cut me off with the same answer: “I’ve told you before—he’s dead and your asking again won’t change that fact.” The question had always set her off, but I could not help but ask it, because the answer had changed before.
“Will we have lunch later?” I knew the answer but wanted to see how carefully she answered.
“I have to leave to meet someone,” she said.
I would not let her get away that easily. “We were going to have my birthday lunch today,” I complained. “You’re always too busy to keep your promises to me.”
She showed only a small amount of guilt. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I have to do something, and it is urgent and very important. Tomorrow I will take you to an extra special lunch. We’ll have champagne.”
“I’m important, too,” I said. I went to my room and went over what had just happened. A letter. Another birthday lunch put aside. Who was more important?
When I heard her leave, I stole into Boulevard and entered her room through the glass French doors. The letter was not in the drawer, not under her mattress, not in her pillowcase, not in the canisters that held hard candies. Just when I was about to give up, I saw the top of it sticking out of a volume of poetry on the round table in the middle of her room, where she and Golden Dove sat as they went over the business of the day. The envelope was made of stiff white paper and was addressed in Chinese to Madame Lulu Mimi. Below, in English, it said in neat, flowing script: “Lucretia Minturn.” Lucretia. I had never seen that name used as hers. Was it really her name? The letter was addressed with yet another name I had not heard used for her:
My Dear Lucia,
I am released from obligation and am at last able to provide what is rightfully yours.
I return to Shanghai soon. May I visit you on the 23rd at noon ?
Yours,
Lu Shing
Who was this Chinese man who wrote in English? He had called her by two different names: Lucretia and Lucia. What was he returning?
Before I could study the letter further, Golden Dove walked in.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“I’m looking for a book,” I said quickly.
“Give it to me,” she said. She took one glance at it and said, “Don’t tell your mother you saw this. Don’t tell anyone, or you will regret this the rest of your life.”
My suspicions were right. This had something to do with my father. On the twenty-third, I feared, my life would change for the worse.
ON THE TWENTY-THIRD, the house was abuzz with news that a certain visitor was expected at noon. I was hiding in the middle balcony, watching the hubbub below. I was supposed to study in my own room, and not in Boulevard, and was under strict orders from my mother not to come out until she said I could. She also told me to put on my green dress, which was one of my best day dresses. I guessed that meant I would meet this man.
Noon came and went, and the minutes ate slowly into the day. I listened for announcements. None came. I crept into Boulevard. If anyone found me here, I would say I was searching for a schoolbook. I placed one under the desk, just in case. As I had hoped, my mother was in her office, just on the other side of the French doors. Golden Dove was with her. Mother was bristling, sounding as ominous as the rumbles that precede lightning. I could hear the threat in her voice. Golden Dove spoke back to her in a soft consoling tone. The exact words were clumps of sound. I had taken a risk in coming into the room. It took an hour before I had the courage to press my ear to the glass.
They were speaking in English. More often than not, their voices were too low for me to make out their words. Soon the pitch of my mother’s anger rose sharply. “Bastard!” she cried. “Family duty!”
“He’s a coward and a thief, and I don’t think you should believe anything he has to say,” Golden Dove said. “If you meet him, he’ll tear your heart in two again.”
“Do we have a pistol in the house? I’ll shoot him in the balls. Don’t laugh. I mean it.”
These snatches of words added to my confusion.
Dusk came, and I heard the voices of servants calling out for hot water. A manservant knocked on my mother’s door and announced that a visitor had arrived and was waiting in the vestibule. Mother did not leave her room for ten minutes. As soon as she did, I pushed the French doors open an inch, and moved the bottom of the curtain slightly apart. Then I hurried to my hiding place in the middle balcony overlooking the Grand Salon.
Mother walked down a few more steps, then stopped and nodded to Little Duck, who stood by the velvet curtains.
Little Duck drew back the curtain and called out, “Master Lu Shing has arrived to see Madame Lulu Mimi.” It was the same name as the man who had written the letter. I held my breath as he stepped through. In a short while, I would know if this man was who I thought he was.
He gave the immediate appearance of a thoroughly modern gentleman, possessing the carriage of the highborn, erect yet at ease. He wore a wel
l-tailored dark suit and shoes so well polished I could see the gleam from the balcony. His hair was full and neatly cut, smoothed down with pomade. I could not see his face in detail, but I judged him to be older than Mother, not young but not too old. Over one arm, he held a long winter coat and, on top of that, a hat, both of which one of the servants quickly took away.
Mr. Lu glanced casually about the room, but not with the wonderment of most first-time visitors in coming to my mother’s house. Western style had become the norm in most first-class houses and even in the respectable homes of the wealthy. But our house had had decorations found nowhere else: shocking paintings, voluptuous sofas with tiger skin upholstery, a lifelike sculpture of a phoenix standing by a giant palm tree the height of the ceiling. The man made a slight smile, as if none of this was a surprise.
Puffy Cloud came over and crouched near me. “Who’s that?” she whispered. I told her to go somewhere else. She didn’t move. I was about to learn who this man was, and I did not want Puffy Cloud beside me when I did.
My mother resumed walking down the stairs. She had chosen an odd dress for the occasion. I had never seen it before. She must have bought it yesterday. The dress was no doubt the latest fashion—Mother wore nothing less—but the shape was not suited to my mother’s habit of flying around the house. It was tightly fitted peacock-blue wool, which accentuated her full bust and hips. The skirt was cinched at the waist, as well as at the knees, preventing her from walking in more than slow, regal steps. The man was patient and looked at her the entire time. When she reached him, she gave no effusive welcome, as she did with other men. I could not hear her exact words, but her tone was flat yet quivering. He made a slight bow that was neither Chinese nor Western, and when he raised himself slowly, he looked at her solemnly, and she abruptly turned away and began walking back toward the staircase at her hobbled pace. He followed. Even from this distance, I could tell her expression was precisely what she despised seeing in the face of any of the beauties. Chin tipped slightly up. Arrogant. Eyes half lidded and looking down over her nose. Disdain. The man acted as if he had no awareness that she was less than amiable. Or perhaps he expected it, was prepared for it.
“Wah!” Puffy Cloud said. “Cultivated. And lots of money, too.” I flashed an angry look to make her be quiet, and she, being seven years older, showed her usual resentment of my reprimands and returned a sour pout.
I was not able to see his features well, but I felt there was something familiar in his face and was nearly faint with nervousness. Was this man my father?
When they were about to ascend the staircase, I crept away. I hurried to Boulevard and hid under the bed. I would have to remain there another fifteen minutes when dusk turned to dark, and I would not be noticed behind the break in the curtains. The floor tiles were cold, and I regretted that I had not pulled a quilt around me first. I heard the office door open, followed by my mother’s and Golden Dove’s voices. Golden Dove asked my mother what refreshments she should bring. Usually, depending on the guest, there would be either a selection of fruit or English butter cookies, and tea. Mother said none was needed. I was shocked by her rudeness.
“I apologize for the lateness,” the man said. He sounded like an Englishman. “The mobs are tearing down the walls of the Old City and the roads are impassable. I left my carriage and went by foot, knowing you were waiting. It took me nearly three hours just to reach Avenue Paul Brunat.”
Mother did not reply with any appreciation that he had made this great effort to come. They moved toward the other end of the room. Even with the French doors ajar, their words were now too faint to understand. His low voice flowed smoothly. Mother’s was terse and choppy. Every now and then, she would eject a loud comment: “I doubt that very much.” “I did not receive them.” “He did not return.” All at once, she shouted: “Why do you want to see her now? How long has it been since you cared? You sent not a single word or dollar. You wouldn’t have cared if she and I had starved.”
I knew she was talking about me. He had never asked about me, had never loved me. Bastard. I immediately hated him.
He murmured fast words I could not understand. They sounded frantic. Then I heard his voice loudly and more clearly. “I was devastated, tormented. But they made it impossible.”
“Coward! Despicable coward!” Mother shouted.
“He was with the Office of Foreign Relations—”
“Ah, yes, family duty. Tradition. Obligation. Ancestors and burnt offerings. Admirable.” Her voice had come closer to the door.
“After all these years in China,” he said, “do you still not understand how powerful a Chinese family is? It’s the weight of ten thousand tombstones, and my father wielded it against me.”
“I understand it well. I’ve met many men, and their nature is like yours, predictably so. Desire and duty. Betrayal to both. Those predictable men have made me a very successful woman.”
“Lucia,” he said in a sad voice.
“Don’t call me that!”
“You must listen, please.”
I heard the office door open and Golden Dove’s voice broke in. “Excuse me,” she said in Chinese. “There is an urgent situation.”
Lu Shing started to introduce himself in Chinese, and Golden Dove cut him off. “We’ve met before,” she snapped. “I know quite well who you are and what you did.” She returned to speaking to my mother in a more even voice. “I need to speak to you. It concerns Violet.”
“She’s here, then,” the man said in an excited voice. “Please let me see her.”
“I will let you see her when you’re dead,” Mother replied.
I was still furious but buoyed that he wanted to see me. If he came to me, I would reject him. It was now dark enough in the room for me to go to the French doors. I wanted to see his expression. I was halfway out from under the bed when I heard Mother and Golden Dove close the office door and walk into the hallway. Suddenly the door to Boulevard opened, and I tucked myself back under the bed close to the wall and held my breath.
“This is too hard for you to bear alone,” Golden Dove said quietly in English. “I should be there.”
“I prefer to do this on my own.”
“If you need me, ring the bell for tea. I’ll wait here in Boulevard.”
My heart turned over with dread. I would soon turn into a frozen corpse.
“No need,” Mother said. “Go have dinner with the others.”
“At least let me have the maid bring you tea.”
“Yes, that would be good. My throat has gone dry.”
They left. I took a big breath.
I heard the maid arrive, followed by the sound of clinking teacups and polite words. I eased my way out from under the bed and was shivering with cold and nervousness. I rubbed my arms and pulled a quilt from the bed and wrapped it around me. When my teeth stopped chattering I went to the glass doors, and peered through the curtain opening.
I knew instantly that this man was my father by my own features: the eyes, the mouth, the shape of my face. I felt a nauseating wave of resignation. I was half-Chinese. I had known it all along, yet I had also clung to the better side of ambiguity. Outside of this house, I would never belong. Another feeling crept over me: a strange victory that I had been right in believing Mother had been lying to me. My father existed. I had exchanged the tormenting question with the awful answer. But why did Mother hate him so much that she had refused to see him all these years? Why had she preferred to tell me he had died? After all, I had asked her once if he loved me, and she had said yes. Now she claimed he had not.
Mr. Lu put his hand on Mother’s arm, and she flung it away and shouted, “Where is he? Just tell me and get out!”
Who was he?
The man attempted to touch her arm again, and she slapped his face, then beat her fists on his shoulders as she wept. He did not move away but stood oddly still, like a wooden soldier, letting her do this.
She seemed more desperate than angry, and it f
rightened me, because I had never seen her this way. Whose whereabouts were so important to her?
She finally stopped and said in a cracked voice: “Where is he? What did they do with my baby boy? Is he dead?”
I clamped my hand over my mouth so they could not hear my cries. She had a son and she loved him so much she had cried for him.
“He’s alive and healthy.” He paused. “And he knows none of this.”
“Nothing of me,” Mother said flatly. She went to the other end of the room and wept with heaving shoulders. He came toward her, and she motioned him to stay where he was. I had never seen Mother cry so much. She sounded as if she had just suffered a great loss, when, in fact, she had just learned she had not.
“They took him away from me,” he said. “My father ordered it. They would not tell me where. They hid him and said they would never allow me to see him if I did anything to harm my father’s reputation. How could I go to you? You would have fought. You did before, and they knew you would continue to do so. In their eyes, you respected nothing about our traditions. You would not understand their position, their reputation. I could not say anything to you, because that act alone would have been the end of my ever seeing our son. You are right. I was a coward. I did not fight, as you would have. And what is worse, I betrayed you and justified why I had to do so. I told myself that if I submitted to their will, you would have a chance of soon having him back. Yet I knew that was not true. Instead I was killing what was pure and trusting in your heart. I was tormented by it. Every day, I have woken with that thought of what I did to you. I can show you my journals. Every day, for these last twelve years, I wrote one sentence before all others. ‘To save myself, I destroyed another, and in doing so, I destroyed myself.’”
“One sentence,” Mother said in a flat voice. “I wrote many more.” She returned to the sofa and sat vacant-eyed, spent. “Why did you finally tell me? Why now and not sooner?”