Letters in the Jade Dragon Box

by Gale Sears

  They arrived at the ferry dock and Wen-shan’s uncle purchased two tickets. There was a little chop in the water of Victoria Harbor, but Wen-shan didn’t give it a second thought. She had taken the Star Ferry from Hong Kong Island to Kowloon, Hong Kong, many times—times when the water was smooth and sparkling, and other times when the wind whipped it into whitecaps.

  After a few minutes’ wait, Wen-shan and her uncle boarded the ferry and found seats inside the upper cabin. While he read his Chinese newspaper, she looked out the window and let her mind drift. As the ferry turned, she had a view of a portion of the central business district with scooters, buses, and people all moving in an endless flow. Bamboo scaffolding was everywhere, surrounding new construction like birdcages. Progress. One of her teachers called it a necessary blight. Wen-shan shrugged. Well, people have to live and work somewhere.

  She thought of her uncle’s house. It sat on the lower slopes of Victoria Peak with lush vegetation surrounding it and a modicum of lingering quiet. But Central Hong Kong was expanding rapidly, pushing more and more structures up the mountainside. The solid stone buildings of the early British takeover were giving way to concrete, steel, and glass. Wen-shan remembered a time when she could stand at their front gate and see an unobstructed view of the harbor. Now she could catch only a glimpse of the blue water through gaps between the finished and partially finished skyscrapers of downtown. Progress.

  “Uncle?”

  A rattle of paper.

  “Uncle?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you get off the ferry at Kowloon, do you feel funny?”

  He scowled at her. “What do you mean?”

  Now the question seemed foolish and she didn’t want to ask it.

  “What do you mean, Wen-shan?”

  She swallowed. “I mean . . . well . . . you step onto land that is connected to mainland China.”

  “So?”

  “Mainland China. Where you were born; where I was born.”

  The paper rattled again. “Silly question.”

  “You don’t ever think about it?”

  “No.”

  Wen-shan felt her uncle’s cold rebuke and turned her face to the window. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, she stood and maneuvered past him. “I’m going out on the deck.”

  As she stood at the railing, looking at Kowloon, Wen-shan chided herself. She should have known better than to try to get her uncle to say anything about China. He spoke to her very little as it was, and never about the great land that stretched out beyond Kowloon and the New Territories. She searched her own meager memories, but most of those were only slivers of images that made her stomach hurt or came as nightmares. Perhaps it was the same with her uncle.

  A child stood with her mother at the railing. She giggled as the ocean breeze tugged at her lightweight coat and tousled her dark hair. Wen-shan moved farther forward on the deck. She needed space to think about Mr. George Riley Smythe and his unusual invitation. She’d never been in the home of a British gentleman and wondered how different it would be from a Chinese home. She was nervous about making some mistake in etiquette. The only other British person she knew well was Mr. Pierpont, the owner of the furniture store where her uncle worked, and he was well-tempered and always smiling. Perhaps Mr. Smythe would be like that.

  The boat’s mournful horn sounded as they neared the dock, and Wen-shan quickly returned to her seat to fetch her schoolbag. Her uncle had put away his paper and was just standing when she reached him.

  “We must not be late,” he said.

  “No, of course not.”

  They moved with the crowd down the stairwell, off the ferry, and out onto the crowded streets of Kowloon.

  Note

  Kowloon, Hong Kong: Located on the Chinese mainland, the city sits opposite Hong Kong Island.

  Chapter 3

  Wen-shan and her uncle stood in front of a wrought iron gate, peering in at the large stone house and shaded yard. They checked and rechecked the address before finally deciding it was the residence of Mr. George Riley Smythe. The property was adjacent to King’s Park, which Wen-shan found very appropriate. She was angry at her uncle for making her come to such a fancy place in her school uniform. Besides, her shoulders hurt from having to carry her heavy bag. They had walked all the way from the ferry station, making several wrong turns before finally arriving at their destination, so Wen-shan was tired, hot, and cranky.

  “Well, are we going in?”

  Her uncle had his hand on the gate latch, but wasn’t moving.

  “Not yet. Too early.”

  At one minute to five, he opened the gate, and they began their walk down the straight stone path to the front door. They reached the front stoop, and Wen-shan noticed that her uncle’s hand trembled slightly when he reached to ring the doorbell.

  “Do we take off our shoes?” Wen-shan asked. She didn’t see any shoes sitting on the stoop.

  “I don’t know.”

  As they were looking around for someplace to leave their shoes, the door opened and they were greeted by a tall, silver-haired man in a business suit.

  “Mr. Zhao? Miss Chen?”

  They nodded.

  “Welcome! Welcome! Come in. I am Mr. George Riley Smythe.” The man took her uncle’s hand and bowed. He then turned and bowed to her.

  Wen-shan was shocked that Mr. Smythe would answer his own door. With a home like this she expected to be greeted by a servant.

  They followed the tall man into his home and saw shoes sitting in the entryway. They immediately took theirs off and set them carefully on the rug.

  “If you will come this way,” Mr. Smythe said. He led them through a spacious living room containing a large sofa and leather chairs. Chinese bureaus, ornate lamps, and expensive-looking statues and bric-a-brac from many Asian cultures filled the space. Wen-shan barely saw a portion of the room before they were led out into a hallway. After passing several rooms, Mr. Smythe stopped in front of a door.

  “Here we are!” he said brightly, opening the door and taking them inside.

  This room was an office. Two walls were lined with shelves containing hundreds of books. The large window at the back of the room was open, and a fresh breeze moved the gauzy curtains that hung on either side.

  Wen-shan loved how the golden afternoon sunlight poured into the room and shimmered on the pale walls.

  Her uncle gave her a look that said “quit staring at things,” and she dropped the smile from her face.

  “Please, sit down,” Mr. Smythe instructed.

  Wen-shan and her uncle bowed and sat down carefully on the beautiful teakwood chairs.

  “In a moment I’ll have my cook, Mrs. Delany, bring us some tea and sandwiches, but first we have a little business to discuss.” He sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “I’m sorry that my wife is not here to meet you, but she’s gone off to the New Territories to hike around the mountains for a few days with friends.” He chuckled. “Not my idea of fun, I can tell you.” Mr. Smythe leaned forward with his arms on his desk. “Now, I will soon tell you the reason you are here, but first I must ask a few questions. Would that be all right?”

  Uncle Zhao nodded.

  “Very good.” He took out a notebook and pen, and Wen-shan saw her uncle sit straighter.

  “Where were you born?”

  “Guangxi province.”

  “The town?”

  Her uncle shifted in his seat. “Near Guilin. A small town on the road to the Dragon Back Terraces.”

  Mr. Smythe wrote in his notebook. “Did you ever live in Guilin?”

  “Yes. Our family moved to Guilin when my brother was four and I was two.”

  “And as an adult, when did you leave?”

  Wen-shan wondered how her uncle would avoid such a direct question.

  He brought his hands together and laid them in his lap. “I have been in Hong Kong many years, Mr. Smythe.”

  “Many years?”

  “Y
es, many, many years.”

  “Did you wear a black armband when Chiang Kai-shek died?”

  Another hesitation.

  “Yes.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Mr. Smythe, but Wen-shan was confused. The questions didn’t seem to make any sense.

  Mr. Smythe’s voice took on a tone of ease and lightness. “Mrs. Smythe and I have spent many years collecting treasures from mainland China.”

  Wen-shan could not keep up with Mr. Smythe’s disjointed conversation. There seemed to be hidden meaning in the words, but she had no idea how to make sense of them. She glanced over at her uncle; he was looking earnestly at Mr. Smythe, while keeping his hands calmly folded in his lap.

  Mr. Smythe stood. “If you will excuse me a moment, I would like to show you one of the treasures we’ve collected.” He went out the door, leaving Wen-shan to gawk. Her uncle remained silent.

  Wen-shan turned to look at the door. “He is a very odd man, isn’t he?” she whispered.

  “Do not judge something until you have seen the entire picture.”

  A mantel clock sat on one of the bookshelves, and Wen-shan heard it ticking in the silence of the room. Her stomach grumbled, and her uncle cast her a critical look.

  “I’m hungry.” Her stomach grumbled again. “I can’t help it.”

  The door opened and Wen-shan and her uncle looked over.

  Into the room came an old man who, if standing straight, Wen-shan knew would have been shorter than she was. He was wearing the long dress of the scholar.

  He lifted his wrinkled face, and when he saw Zhao Tai-lu, he smiled.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Uncle Zhao moaned as he stumbled forward to take the old man’s hands. “Ah, Master Quan . . . Master Quan.” He bowed low several times and Master Quan patted his hand.

  Wen-shan looked at Mr. Smythe, who was standing in the doorway, smiling broadly. Her attention returned to her uncle, who continued to say Master Quan’s name. He seemed to be on the verge of tears. It was very odd behavior.

  “How . . . how is this possible? How are you here? Guilin is far.”

  Master Quan chuckled. “In my old age I grew wings.” He studied Tai-lu’s face. “And you? How did you escape?”

  Her uncle smiled. “I grew fins.”

  Mr. Smythe brought a chair and set it for Master Quan. “Please, sit.”

  As her great-uncle led the venerable gentleman forward, Wen-shan stood.

  “Master Quan, this is my great-niece Chen Wen-shan.”

  Wen-shan bowed low and Master Quan bowed also. His eyes crinkled with delight as he took her hand. “This one looks like her mother.”

  Wen-shan stepped back. “How do you know my mother?”

  Mr. Smythe was at his desk. “Sit, everyone, and I, with the help of Master Quan, will try to explain.”

  Wen-shan felt as though someone had poured icy water through her veins. She sat without knowing that she’d done so. She was barely aware that Mr. Smythe was talking.

  “It is better that you do not know the details of how Mrs. Smythe and I smuggled this treasure out of China.” He smiled at Master Quan.

  The old gentleman tapped the side of his head with his finger. “They are very smart people, and they have lots of moles digging, digging, digging information for them.”

  Mr. Smythe chuckled. “We do. In my capacity as curator of arts and antiquities, I have many contacts and some influence.”

  Master Quan chuckled at that.

  Wen-shan’s legs were jumping, and she put her hands on her knees and pressed down. “Excuse me, sir. May I ask how Master Quan knows my mother?”

  Her uncle’s face clouded, but Wen-shan didn’t care. No one had spoken of her mother for ten years and now a stranger came who carried a story of her on his lips.

  Mr. Smythe nodded. “Zhao Tai-lu, I believe it is your story to tell.”

  Her uncle looked at the floor. Wen-shan knew he did not want to tell the story, but that he could not disrespect the curator of the Hong Kong Museum of Art. Reluctantly, he began.

  “Master Quan was an art teacher at the university in Guilin. He was my brother’s favorite teacher. Mine as well.”

  Wen-shan sat forward. “Your brother? You mean my grandfather?”

  “Yes, your grandfather, Zhao Tai-lang.”

  “The Zhao brothers were very talented artists,” Master Quan said. “But this one decided to go into the military. He wanted to be in Chiang Kai-shek’s army.”

  Wen-shan stood to quiet her jumping legs. “You said I look like my mother, Master Quan. When did you last see her? Why hasn’t she written me for ten years?”

  “Wen-shan, sit down.”

  “No, Uncle! I want to know. I want to know about my mother!”

  Mr. Smythe’s mellow British voice washed over the tension. “Of course, that is the most important thing. That is why Master Quan and I have been searching for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Smythe and I brought Master Quan out of Guilin almost a year ago. Over the years, he has helped us to save many art pieces from destruction.”

  Master Quan shook his head. “Not as many as I wanted.”

  “And then came the inevitable time when his life was in danger. That’s when we gave him a pair of wings to fly to safety.”

  Wen-shan tried to stay calm. “What does this have to do with me and my uncle? I want to know if my mother is alive.”

  Master Quan looked directly at her. “When I left Guilin, she and your grandfather were alive.”

  Her uncle interrupted. “I apologize for my niece’s impatience.”

  “It’s perfectly understandable,” Mr. Smythe said calmly. “Wen-shan, your grandfather and mother could not write to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Master Quan looked at her sadly. “In Mao’s China, it is not possible.”

  Mr. Smythe concurred. “There has been little post in or out of China for a long time.”

  Wen-shan lowered her head to keep back her emotion.

  “But that does not mean that they did not think of you,” Master Quan said softly.

  “How do you know that?”

  Master Quan smiled. “I think it is time for us to show the treasure I brought for them. A treasure out of Guilin.”

  Mr. Smythe stood and moved to a cupboard located on the bottom of one of the bookcases. As he knelt down to lift something out of the cupboard, a breath of wind fluttered one of the curtains across his arm. As he stood, the soft white fabric slid away, revealing a wooden box in his hands. He brought it carefully and set it on his desk.

  Wen-shan stepped forward and her uncle stood.

  The box was large; the length of it was longer than both Mr. Smythe’s hands, fingertip to fingertip, and the width was only slightly smaller. The depth was Wen-shan’s hand, fingertip to wrist. There were metal latches on either side that connected the lid to the base.

  Her uncle moved next to her and reached out. “It is my brother’s brush box.” He ran his fingers along the aged brown wood, worn and polished by the hands of ten generations.

  “Look, Uncle, look at the top,” Wen-shan whispered.

  Embedded in the lid of the box was a green jade carving. As Wen-shan stared at the swirls and cutouts of the relief, a magnificent dragon emerged, coiling through the clouds.

  “Your grandfather wanted you to have this, Chen Wen-shan,” Master Quan said.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. He and your mother kept it hidden from the Com-munists despite great peril.”

  Wen-shan turned to look at the scholar.

  “He asked me, if I had the chance to escape, to bring the box to Hong Kong. He said I must bring it here and find you and your uncle.”

  “That was very dangerous for you, Master Quan.”

  “Yes, but here I am, and here is the box. Hong Kong is a big place, but one month ago we finally find you.”

  “A month ago?” Wen-shan frowned.

  Mr. Smythe picked up th
e narrative. “Your grandfather instructed Master Quan not to give you the box until Mao Tse-tung was dead—until it was safe.”

  “Safe? I don’t understand.”

  “Your grandfather does not know Hong Kong; he only knows Guilin, and there is much fear in Guilin.”

  Master Quan laid his hands over his heart. “He did not want you to suffer at the hand of Mao Tse-tung. But now, Chairman Mao has gone to his ancestors, and the box is yours—yours and your great-uncle’s.”

  Her uncle bowed. “Thank you, Master Quan, for risking so much to bring us this treasure.”

  Wen-shan noted the reverence in her uncle’s voice.

  Master Quan smiled. “Ah, but I think there is greater treasure inside box. Open it.”

  “Have you seen what’s inside?” Wen-shan asked.

  “I have not seen, but your grandfather told me. Open it. It’s all right.”

  The excitement in Master Quan’s voice made Wen-shan’s heart beat faster. She looked over at her uncle and he nodded. She undid the latches and put her hands on either side of the lid. Wen-shan felt the touch of the cool wood and imagined her mother’s hand resting there. She lifted the lid and set it on the desktop. Many silk scrolls and tubes of parchment lay tightly packed together, and each article had a ribbon tied around it.

  Wen-shan was aware of Master Quan beside her. He reached out slowly and touched one of the silk scrolls. “These are your grandfather’s paintings and calligraphy.”

  “May I see one?”

  “Of course. They belong to you and your uncle,” Mr. Smythe said.

  “Uncle?”

  He was silent and she could not read his expression. Nevertheless, he had not said no, so Wen-shan untied the ribbon and unrolled the scroll. A misty watercolor image formed in front of her. Through the pale green vegetation of spring and forests of swaying bamboo, the ancient dragon-spine peaks of Guilin lifted to the sky. A path skirted the Li River and disappeared into the cool shadows of the bamboo. Wen-shan felt like she was walking on that path, walking on paths she could not remember.