Letters in the Jade Dragon Box

by Gale Sears

  “It is one of the most perfect paintings I have ever seen,” Mr. Smythe said reverently. “Truly, Miss Chen, your grandfather is a master.”

  Wen-shan could not find her voice. She turned as she felt movement behind her, and she saw her uncle cover his face and collapse into his chair.

  Mr. Smythe was at his side in a moment. “Mr. Zhao, are you all right?”

  Her uncle did not answer.

  Master Quan spoke in his place. “It is many years to be without a brother.”

  “Of course. Of course,” Mr. Smythe said solicitously. “Quite understandable. I will call Mrs. Delany to bring the tea and sandwiches. That will help.”

  “Mr. Smythe,” Tai-lu said weakly, uncovering his face. “It is very kind of you, but I feel that Wen-shan and I should be going home. We have much to consider.”

  “Yes, Mr. Zhao. I understand perfectly.” Mr. Smythe straightened and moved to the door. “I will have my driver take you to the dock.”

  Tai-lu nodded. “Yes, that would be helpful.”

  After Mr. Smythe left, Wen-shan slowly rolled up the scroll and tied the ribbon.

  Master Quan reached for one of the parchments. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Wen-shan said.

  “These are letters from your mother.”

  A chill ran down the skin on Wen-shan’s arms.

  “They are numbered. See these little tags?”

  Wen-shan nodded.

  “Your mother felt it important for you to read them in order.”

  “Yes. I see. Thank you, Master Quan.”

  He handed over the letter and Wen-shan shivered. She felt as though a ghost had passed between them, and she looked quickly to the golden light still pouring in through the window.

  As she put the letter into the box and replaced the lid, Mr. Smythe returned.

  “The driver is bringing the car.”

  Zhao Tai-lu stood and moved to the desk. He bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Smythe.” He bowed again. “Thank you for all you have done.”

  He turned to Master Quan and bowed deeply. “Because of your great kindness and courage, you have brought honor to your family, Master Quan.” He laid his hand on the box. “This is a great gift.”

  Master Quan bowed. “Fortune smiled.”

  Wen-shan bowed to the scholar. “I hope someday you will come and tell us the story of your escape, Master Quan.”

  Her uncle nodded. “Yes, you are invited anytime, Master Quan.” He lifted the box, and Wen-shan could tell it was heavy.

  Mr. Smythe stepped forward. “Would you like help with that, Mr. Zhao?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Smythe. It is a joyous burden. Wen-shan and I will manage.”

  “I will show you out then.” He held open the door and Wen-shan and her uncle exited.

  Wen-shan turned back to look at Master Quan. He was slowly making his way to the window as the last rays of warm light flickered on the walls.

  Notes

  Media and postal control: One of the first things Mao did upon taking power was to seize all media outlets. Print firms, newspapers, radio, television and film production studios, and theaters were all placed under government control. “We need the policy of ‘keep people stupid’” was one of Mao’s famous quotes concerning the dissemination of information to the masses. The same went for postal control.

  Guilin: A city in the Guangxi province. It is an area known for its unique limestone peaks and has inspired artists and poets for thousands of years.

  Chapter 4

  Zhong Kui did not protect her from bad dreams in the night. Even when she called for him to save her, the only answer was the sound of rain—rain that made the stones slick and the darkness terrifying. She could still feel the small hands on her back pushing her along—still feel the cold breath of the qweilo as it floated into the shadows and grabbed her around the waist.

  Wen-shan opened her eyes and looked to the sunlit bathroom window, the frosted glass shimmery and white. She continued brushing her teeth. Variations of this dream had haunted her for many years, and as always, the day after such a night she was cranky and tired. She and her uncle had returned home from Mr. Smythe’s well after dark because her uncle had wanted to walk home after they’d exited the ferry and also because he’d wanted to stop for snake soup. Wen-shan did not argue. She loved snake soup, but for the taste, not because she believed the notion that it heated and stimulated the digestive system or that it gave a person extra strength.

  Uncle Zhao had eaten his soup without speaking or acknowledging her, and she knew better than to ask questions when he was in such a mood. Letters from her mother lay in the box sitting inches from her on the restaurant table, and Wen-shan’s emotions had fought between curiosity and anger: curiosity about what the words would reveal about a stranger from a time and place she could not remember, and anger at that same stranger who abandoned her in the middle of the night.

  Wen-shan rinsed her mouth of toothpaste and looked at her haggard face in the mirror. She had caught the looks of many of the people in the restaurant, who were eyeing the box with curiosity and envy, and she was glad when her uncle had finally hefted the box and they’d headed for home. There was no discussion about reading any of the letters that first night. They were both exhausted and bed had been a refuge. But the fitful night’s sleep had brought her no relief, and she carried her scowl with justification.

  Wen-shan went to the kitchen to find her uncle cooking rice gruel and fish balls. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She went to the cupboard to retrieve her cornflakes. As they jingled into the bowl, her uncle grunted.

  “There is nothing good there for you.”

  “I like them,” Wen-shan replied, pouring more into the bowl.

  “So Western,” her uncle challenged.

  She liked Western, and she was grateful to Mr. Pierpont, her uncle’s boss at the furniture store, for supplying her with cornflakes, British biscuits, and marmalade. Her uncle thought all those things tasted bad and carried no strength.

  “You should be glad you have good food to eat in Hong Kong. We have much. In Taiwan, they eat bananas; in China, they eat banana peels.”

  Her uncle could bother her about cornflakes all he wanted—it just made her like them more.

  She sat at the table and put a big spoonful of flakes into her mouth. After a few crunches, she asked, “Why have you never spoken of Master Quan?”

  “Don’t talk when you have food in your mouth.”

  She swallowed. “Why have you never spoken of Master Quan?”

  “That was a long time ago. Too long to remember.”

  “No, you remembered many things when you saw him.”

  “Do not be disrespectful. Now, you must hurry to school.”

  “I want to stay home today. I want to read some of the letters.”

  Her uncle put a fish ball into his mouth and chewed slowly. “Tonight, when I get home from work.”

  Wen-shan opened her mouth to protest and then shut it. She remembered she’d agreed to meet with Li-ying after school to study, so it was no good arguing. It was no good arguing anyway. She finished her cereal and went to get her schoolbag. She tried to convey disinterest as she went out the front door, but her worry over the letters and the images of the nightmare rain followed her to school and throughout the day.

  • • •

  “Where did you go with your uncle?” Li-ying questioned as soon as they were out of school.

  Wen-shan looked around at her passing classmates. “Let’s start walking.” She headed for Li-ying’s house at such a fast pace that her friend had to run.

  “Slow down! I have long legs but I can’t keep up.”

  Wen-shan slowed. Part of her wanted to tell the story of traveling to Mr. Smythe’s big house in Kowloon, of meeting Master Quan, of being given the jade dragon box. But part of her felt stingy and secretive. Why should she tell Li-ying, who had lots of brothers and sisters and aunties and uncles? Would she really care about her one mot
her and one grandfather? Would she understand Wen-shan’s anger at an uncle who never told her anything about her family?

  “So?” Li-ying asked after they had broken free of the noise and jumble of the school yard.

  Wen-shan sighed. It was no use keeping the news from her friend, and since she hadn’t thought up a story to take its place, she pushed down her agitation and tried to speak as nonchalantly as possible.

  “We went to Kowloon.”

  “Kowloon? What for?”

  “Business.”

  “Business? Who with?”

  “Mr. Smythe.”

  Li-ying pushed her glasses up. “Who is that? Someone your uncle knows from the furniture business?”

  “No, not from the furniture business.”

  Li-ying stopped. “If you don’t want to tell me, Wen-shan, no worries. Don’t tell me.” She pushed up her glasses again.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just difficult to explain.” Li-ying stared at her until she continued. “A messenger came on a bicycle and gave my uncle a note.”

  “From Mr. Smythe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The curator for the Hong Kong Museum of Art.”

  “Ah, that is an important position. What did he want with your uncle?”

  “Me and my uncle.”

  “You? What did he want with you?”

  Wen-shan began walking again. “If you will be quiet, Li Li, I will tell you.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Well, we had an appointment at Mr. Smythe’s big house in Kowloon. The note said he had information that would be of interest to our feelings.”

  Li-ying opened her mouth to speak, but quickly closed it.

  “Anyway, in his office he asked my uncle many questions, and when he was satisfied with the answers, he brought in a man—Master Quan—who was my great-uncle’s art teacher in Guilin.” She adjusted her schoolbag. “It seems Mr. and Mrs. Smythe work at sneaking people out of China.”

  This was too much for Li-ying’s curiosity. “You mean like smuggling?”

  “Yes. I think so—people and art pieces too.”

  “That is a great work,” Li-ying stated. Wen-shan noted the fierceness in her friend’s voice and knew she was thinking of her own family’s escape from China when the Communists took over after the civil war.

  “So, what about this teacher—Master Quan?” Wen-shan nodded. “Did he have news of your family?”

  Wen-shan smiled; she was glad for the excitement in her friend’s voice. “Yes, Li-ying. Master Quan brought news of my grandfather and my mother.”

  Li-ying’s hands flew to her mouth. “Ah! That is a wonder, Wen-shan! You don’t talk of them, but I know your thoughts must travel to the misty mountains in search of them.”

  Wen-shan swallowed her emotion.

  “So what did he tell you?”

  “It was not so much what he told us, but what he brought us.”

  “Something from your family?”

  “Yes. A box filled with my grandfather’s artwork and letters from my mother.”

  Li-ying stared at her. “Such a treasure, Wen-shan,” she whispered. “Have you read the letters yet?”

  “No, we will begin tonight.”

  Li-ying smiled, showing her crooked teeth without embarrassment. “And you will tell me a little about them?”

  Wen-shan nodded. “Of course. We’re friends.”

  They reached Li-ying’s home, and Wen-shan could hear the sound of her friend’s younger brothers and sisters playing under the banyan tree.

  Li-ying opened the gate. “Come, we must tell my mother all about it. She will eat it up like grapes on a hot day.”

  • • •

  Wen-shan had finished her homework, cleaned the kitchen floor, cut hydrangea flowers for the vase in the front room, and made her uncle’s favorite noodles. Now she sat staring at the box on the coffee table and daring herself to open it without her uncle’s permission. If he caught her, he would frown and then quote some wise saying from Confucius about patience. But Confucius wasn’t sitting here looking at the box that contained words from his faraway mother.

  Wen-shan traced her finger along the jade carving. The anger and confusion surfaced again as she tried to recall her mother’s face. “This one looks like her mother,” Master Quan had said. Did she? She didn’t remember much from when she was five—certainly not her mother’s face.

  Wen-shan jumped up. She’d heard her uncle’s footsteps across the courtyard and didn’t want to be caught staring at the box. She went to the kitchen and began rearranging food stuffs in the refrigerator.

  Her uncle opened the door and stepped inside. He called out, “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning the refrigerator.”

  He came to the kitchen. “Why are you doing that?”

  “It was messy.”

  “Did you make noodles?”

  “I did.”

  “I will wash, and then we can eat.”

  Wen-shan set the bowls on the table as well as the pickled daikon and the thin strips of pork and the fried vegetables in sesame sauce. She prayed her uncle was hungry and would eat quickly, but when the blessing on the food lasted the usual amount of time, and his arranging of meat and vegetables was done with the same slow precision, Wen-shan began biting her lips and trying to think of ways to calm her stomach. It was no good. As she raised the chopsticks to her mouth for the third time, the food stuck in her throat.

  Her uncle pushed back his chair, thanked her for dinner, and stood. Wen-shan nodded, picked up dishes, and turned to the sink.

  “Leave it until later. Let us look at the letters.”

  Wen-shan nearly dropped the dishes. She took a breath and set the bowls carefully in the sink.

  Her uncle sat in his chair and she sat on the sofa. It was odd. She never sat with her uncle in the evening as he read his paper or his scriptures or worked on the bills. She normally went to her room after dinner to do homework or watch television. The small black-and-white floor model was her prized possession. Mr. Pierpont had given it to her uncle as a bonus for a very good year at the furniture store. Her uncle did not want to take it, but since it would have been shameful to refuse a gift, he accepted it, and then gave it to Wen-shan with a stern warning.

  “No programs with rock and roll, and you can only watch a little after your homework is finished.”

  Her uncle sat with his hands folded in his lap, staring at the box, and Wen-shan wondered if he was nervous too. Probably not. He had been a soldier for Chiang Kai-shek.

  “You may open it, Wen-shan.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.” She knelt in front of the coffee table and undid the latches. Her uncle held the box as she removed the lid. Though it no longer contained her grandfather’s calligraphy brushes, there was still a faint smell of ink. There was also the hint of something floral. Wen-shan had not been aware of that scent at Mr. Smythe’s; perhaps it had been masked by the smell of books, leather, and furniture polish.

  Wen-shan took a deep breath and set the lid on the soft cushion of the couch.

  Her uncle nodded several times. “Mr. Smythe said the letters were numbered, so let’s take them out and lay them in a row from first to last. Then we can place them in the drawer in the coffee table.”

  Wen-shan obeyed, not daring to break the affable mood her uncle was showing. “And the paintings?”

  “Hand those to me.”

  Wen-shan took each parchment scroll, checked the tag, and began placing them in order. The silk scrolls she handed to her uncle. She worked silently until the box was empty. She peered inside and saw a small bud of incense. She picked it up and brought it to her nose, breathing in the soft scent of woodsy floral.

  Twenty-two parchments lay in front of her. Twenty-two attachments to a world of floating mountains, a silver river, and family.

  Her uncle laid his hands carefully on th
e silk parchments. “Confucius himself would call Master Quan a gentle man.”

  “Yes, Uncle. I agree. And a brave man, too.”

  “Yes. He risked much to bring us these things.”

  “Should we read a letter or look at one of grandfather’s paintings?”

  “Letter first.”

  Wen-shan’s heart fluttered. “Yes, Uncle.”

  She reached for the parchment labeled as number one, untied the ribbon, and unrolled the scroll.

  She fought the urge to cry as hundreds of delicate characters opened before her. She’d never be able to make such characters; her hands were too large.

  Her uncle leaned forward. “Do you want me to read it?”

  “No, no! I can. I will.”

  She took a breath and read.

  If you were near me, I would whisper in your ear of China—of home. I would tell of the Guan Di Peak and the Elephant Hill. We would walk together near the Li River and over the Flower Bridge. I would buy you dried plums, and I would braid your hair.

  But I do not know where you are. When you were a daughter of Guilin, your face was round, and in your eyes there were many questions. Your baby feet would kick the dust in the courtyard, and your laugh would fill my heart.

  Wen-shan hesitated. She glanced at her uncle, but his head was bowed. She began again.

  If you were near me, you would have lived through sorrow. Or maybe you would not have lived at all. You were too young to understand the need to send you to Hong Kong. So I will write you letters. Perhaps they will reach you in that faraway place. Perhaps they will soften the sorrow. Perhaps in these letters I can tell you why. For I will tell you of the turning of China, the beautiful land weeping for its children. I will tell you of the thousands of Gui that wail in the night. They have gouged a scar in the heart of China that will never heal. Here we hide everything: food, paper, ink, paintings—feelings. Paper is a treasure, so I will use it carefully to paint a picture of our life.

  Here in Guilin it is just father and me. Mother died many years ago, and Uncle Zhao Tai-lu, and his wife, Mei-lan, left for Hong Kong just as Chiang Kai-shek was retreating to Taiwan.

  Her uncle’s head came up at the mention of his wife’s name, and Wen-shan stopped reading to see if he would say anything. He was silent, so she continued.