by Gale Sears
He met her at the doorway.
“What are you doing here, Jun-jai?”
“Looking for you.” He stepped toward her. “Are you all right?”
“How did you get here?”
He looked toward his scooter.
“No, I mean what are you doing here?”
“Your uncle called me. He wanted me to look for you.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s worried about you.”
“But . . . but he’s not even home from work yet.”
“He came home early when he heard you were sick.”
Wen-shan looked at the sun and noticed that it had dropped toward the western horizon. “What time is it?”
“After four.”
“But how did you know I’d be here?”
“Li-ying said you two like to come up here sometimes.”
“So, she’s in on this too?”
“Wen-shan, she said you weren’t at school today.”
“Can’t a person take a day off without everyone going crazy?”
He put his hand gently on her shoulder. “Wen-shan, are you all right?”
She didn’t answer.
“Your uncle said that one of your mother’s letters was lying on the floor when he got to the house.”
She turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it, Jun-jai.”
“Of course. It’s none of my business,” he said in an even tone.
Wen-shan softened. “It is your business, Jun-jai. You’re my friend. I just can’t talk about it right now.”
“Fair enough.”
She smiled at his Western slang. “Thank you for understanding.”
“I’d better get you home before your uncle sends out the police.” He pulled her toward the scooter.
She pulled back. “On that? My uncle would never let me ride that.”
“Actually, he said if I found you, I had his permission.”
“Really?” Wen-shan was shocked. She figured her uncle would be so angry with her that she’d have her privileges taken away for a month, but instead he was letting her ride on a scooter?
“And I’m a very good driver, so you don’t have to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.” Actually, she was—a little.
He showed her where to sit and then got on in front of her. “Be careful of your bare feet. Keep them up on the floorboard.”
She was glad she didn’t have to walk home. Her feet were raw and tender. Running for so long without shoes had not been a good idea.
Jun-jai started the engine. “You’ll have to hold on to me around the waist.”
Wen-shan felt heat rise into her face and was glad Jun-jai was turned forward so he couldn’t see her foolish embarrassment. She placed her hands lightly on either side of his rib cage, but when he put the bike in gear and started off, she quickly wrapped her arms around him.
• • •
Five minutes later, he dropped her off at her front gate.
“I’ll find Li-ying and tell her you’re safe.”
“What a big bother I am,” Wen-shan said.
Jun-jai turned off the engine. “No, you’re not.”
She glanced at the house then back at him. “Thank you for bringing me home, Jun-jai.”
“Of course. Are you going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. I think my uncle is going to be upset with me.”
“I think he’s worried more than anything.”
“Wen-shan?” Her uncle stood a moment on the porch before moving down into the garden.
“Oh, dear, he’s coming over.” She called out, “I’m here, Uncle. I’m fine. Jun-jai brought me home.”
Her uncle came to the gate. “Thank you, Jun-jai.”
“I was glad to help.”
“And you drove carefully?”
“I did.”
“He did, Uncle.”
“Good.”
Jun-jai started the engine and smiled. “And now I must find Li-ying.”
“Please, tell her I’ll see her at school tomorrow.”
“I will. Good-bye, Mr. Zhao.”
Her uncle bowed. “Good-bye, Wei Jun-jai.”
Wen-shan shaded her eyes and watched the black scooter as it moved down the street and turned the corner. She wished that Jun-jai could have stayed longer; she was not eager to face her uncle alone. She took a breath and turned to him.
He was looking at her with great tenderness and holding open the gate.
Chapter 25
Her uncle made her iced peppermint tea and offered her good-fortune buns for dinner. She was not really hungry, so she only ate two. He also gave her some soothing ointment to put on the soles of her feet. He talked very little, and whereas before Wen-shan would have found that irritating, now she found it soothing to her jangled nerves.
She sat with her legs stretched out on the sofa and a pillow behind her back. She read a magazine while her uncle read his scriptures. She didn’t want to break the peaceful feeling, but there were questions bothering her—questions that needed answers.
“Uncle?”
He put his finger on the verse he was reading. “Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Ming-mei?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you met her at the orphanage.”
“I didn’t meet her.”
“Then how did they know to call you to pick me up?”
“I’ve told you this story.”
“I don’t remember anything except that you picked me up at the Catholic orphanage. How old was I when you told me the story?”
“Eight or nine.”
“And that was the last time you told it to me?”
“Yes. You were not one to ask questions.”
She gave him a frustrated look.
“I know, Wen-shan, I’m sorry. I did not know anything about children.”
“So tell me now. I’m asking.”
He closed his book. “There is not much to tell. The orphanage called and told me that they had my niece’s little girl in their care and that I was to come and pick you up.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, they said I had to bring documents to prove that I was Zhao Tai-lu, and some sort of stuffed animal to give to you when we met.”
“My toy rabbit.”
“Yes.” He set his scriptures to the side. “You were born during the year of the Rat, but I didn’t think that would be a very happy toy.”
Wen-shan chuckled. “If I’d been a boy, I probably would have loved it.” She adjusted her pillow. “Go on with the story.”
“I arrived at the orphanage and went to the office to fill out the papers. The Mother Superior was very thorough in her questioning.”
“Did she say anything about Ming-mei?”
Her uncle gave her a look. “Who’s telling the story?”
“Sorry.”
“She told me how you were dropped off.”
Wen-shan felt her uncle could have used different words other than dropped off to explain how she came to the orphanage, but she wasn’t about to correct him at this point.
“The Mother Superior said that early one morning a woman came to the orphanage with a little girl. The woman would not leave her name, but told the story of their escape from Guilin and conveyed the wishes of the girl’s mother that she be taken to Hong Kong and left in the care of her great-uncle, Zhao Tai-lu.”
“Ming-mei was as good as her word,” Wen-shan said.
“Yes.”
“Did the Mother Superior say what the woman looked like?”
“She did, because I asked her. She said she was a tall, slender woman with her hair put up into a bun at the back of her neck. She wore a simple skirt and a white blouse.” He hesitated. “I can’t remember if there was anything else. Oh, wait! The Mother Superior said she could tell that the woman had once been beautiful, but that a hard life had robbed her of her good looks.”
“That’s so sad, isn
’t it?”
Her uncle nodded.
“Why do you think Ming-mei didn’t want to stay and meet you? You know, to make sure you came for me and that you were a nice person.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want anyone to be able to find her. Maybe once she reached Hong Kong, she wanted to disappear.”
“That makes sense.”
“And I think she knew the nuns would make sure you were going to the right person.”
Wen-shan took a drink of peppermint tea. “I think I’ve remembered some things about the escape and the trip to Hong Kong. There was this big truck, and one time I think the ghost woman and I hid under these smelly burlap sacks.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. That could be a dream too. Most of it is a blank.”
“It’s understandable.”
“Were you nerveous to meet me?”
“The Mother Superior warned me that you were traumatized and would not say a word to anyone. When the assistant brought you out in the secondhand dress the nuns had given you, you looked like a sad little doll.”
“I remember that dress. Pale yellow with ducks on it.”
“You wore it for days until I got around to buying you some new clothes.” He looked into her face. “I remember the nuns were shocked because as soon as you saw me, you came right over and stood next to me.”
Wen-shan smiled at him. “I thought you were my grandfather.”
“I suppose we looked enough alike.” He let out a breath. “And then they handed me a box with all your old clothes, blessed us to have a good life, and sent us out the door.”
“That wasn’t very kind.”
“Oh, they were very kind, Wen-shan. You have to remember that they had many children to care for. Once they knew a child was with a family member, they could focus on the ones not so fortunate.”
“You’re right.” She took another sip of tea. “Uncle?”
“Yes?”
“Do you still have that box of old clothes?”
He stood. “I do.” He moved to the hall closet and retrieved a worn cardboard box. He handed it to Wen-shan.
She fought the tight feeling in her throat. “I used to look at these all the time.”
“When you were little. You haven’t looked at them for seven or eight years now.”
She opened the lid of the box and removed her threadbare padded jacket. She put it to her face and breathed in the smell. “It used to smell like the soap the nuns used to clean it, but that’s gone now.” She held up the jacket. “Look how small I was.”
“You were small.”
She brought out the black cloth shoes. “I know now that Ming-mei was the ghost in my rain nightmares.”
“And now you know why.”
“Yes.” She folded the jacket and put the articles back in the box. “Uncle?”
“Yes?”
“May we open another painting?”
“Of course. Are you up to it?”
“I think I am.” Wen-shan put her feet on the floor in preparation to stand.
Her uncle stood and patted her shoulder. “Stay, stay. I’ll get it.” He went to the cupboard and brought out one of the two remaining scrolls. When he sat in his chair, Wen-shan noticed that he’d chosen the painting not done on silk. This one was a piece of paper much like the cheap stuff used for writing the big criticism posters. The paper had been folded in half and then rolled into a scroll. Her uncle unrolled and unfolded the paper.
Two young communists stood in front of a large picture of Chairman Mao. The man wore a washed-out green uniform, while the girl wore a ragged blue jacket and a pair of loose-fitting pants. They were smiling the forced smile of Communism, and the girl held yellow Ginkgo leaves in her hand.
This one looks like her mother.
Finally Wen-shan spoke, her voice unsteady. “It’s my mother and my father on their marriage day.”
“Yes.”
She leaned closer. “I don’t remember her,” she said slowly. “She . . . she does look like me, doesn’t she?”
Her uncle laid the painting out on the coffee table and studied it carefully. “Yes. And you look like her . . . and a little like your father.”
“Do you think so?” Wen-shan stared at his face. “He’s not bad-looking, but grandfather made him look a bit scared.”
“He probably was.”
“My mother too.”
“I think everyone was afraid—waiting for the next campaign, or struggle meeting, or trip to the detention center. Their lives were in constant turmoil.”
“I wish I could remember her.” Wen-shan touched the yellow Ginkgo leaves. “I wish she could have had her dream to be a doctor.”
• • •
After saying good-night to her uncle, Wen-shan gathered paper, pencils, and pens and took them to her bedroom. She threw all the articles onto her bed and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She was exhausted, but there was one thing she was going to do before she slept—she was going to write a letter to her mother.
She slipped into bed and went through the different kinds of paper and writing utensils until she found what suited her—a parchment-type stationery and a black pen. She was not the best at writing characters, but she hoped her mother could decipher the message.
She took a deep breath and wrote.
To my mother,
Master Quan has brought us the jade dragon box, and Uncle Zhao and I have been reading your letters. Grandfather’s paintings are hanging around the walls in our front room, and they bring us close to you. We also feel close to you because of your letters. We are so sorry for the sadness you have had to go through. I am glad that you wrote of the night I left Guilin with Wu Ming-mei. I have had bad dreams of that night for a long time, but I am much better now. I want to know how you are. Have you eaten today? Are you still in Grandfather’s house? Are you still working in the fields? Have you heard from my father?
I go to senior school, and one of my teachers, Mrs. Yang, is a very good teacher. It made me angry to think that anyone would write horrible big posters against their teachers. I have two very good friends, Song Li-ying and Wei Jun-jai. Uncle takes very good care of me. Sometimes I eat cornflakes for breakfast and Uncle says I’m too Western. You probably don’t even know what cornflakes are.
There is so much I want to tell you. I hope this letter gets to you. Are things better for you now that Mao Tse-tung is dead? I probably should not ask that, should I? I am sorry. Things are just very different here. We can ask as many questions as we want.
I will send this letter through Mr. and Mrs. Smythe. They are the people who helped Master Quan escape from Guilin. I hope somehow they can get this letter to you.
Your daughter,
Chen Wen-shan
Wen-shan read the letter over several times and made sure the ink was dry before she folded the paper and put it into the envelope. She put the address on the outside, and her name and address too. She laid the envelope on her side table and turned out the light. She drifted away in the enfolding darkness imagining scenes of her mother receiving the letter. In one scene, she watched as the postman stopped at Grandfather’s house and rang the bell at the front gate. Her mother would be picking peppers in the garden. She would look at the postman and frown, thinking that they never got mail. Then she would take the envelope into her hand, and when she saw the name and the return address, she would smile and laugh, shake the letter in the air, and run to tell her father!
That was a good dream.
• • •
Wen-shan, Jun-jai, and Li-ying stood on the stoop at Mr. George Riley Smythe’s mansion. Li-ying kept looking around at the well-manicured yard and the huge banyan tree hung with lanterns, while Wen-shan and Jun-jai focused on the wooden front door. Wen-shan smiled at Li-ying’s curiosity and thought of herself the first time she had been here with her uncle.
“Li Li, pay attention.”
“Sorry, Wen-shan. It’s just such a huge yard.”
“And
house,” Jun-jai added.
“Well, he’s an important person,” Wen-shan said, smiling at them. “But I’m more impressed by all that he and his wife have done for other people.”
Jun-jai nodded. “‘To be able under all circumstances to practice five things constitutes perfect virtue. These five things are gravity, generosity of soul, sincerity, earnestness, and kindness.’”
Wen-shan shifted her schoolbag. “I think Mr. and Mrs. Smythe and Confucius would have been good friends.”
Just then the door opened and Mrs. Smythe stood smiling at them. Li-ying jumped and Wen-shan stepped back. Mrs. Smythe was an imposing person. She was quite tall—almost as tall as Jun-jai—and she wore what looked like a safari outfit with a bright red, flowered scarf around her neck. Besides her clothes, there was a forceful energy about her. She thrust out her hand to Jun-jai.
“Mr. Wei, is it? Welcome! And which one of you is Chen Wen-shan?” Wen-shan stepped forward and received the same handshake. She turned to Li-ying. “And this is Miss Song?” Li-ying nodded and Mrs. Smythe bowed. “Welcome! Welcome! Come in.”
She led them into the foyer where they left their shoes, and then on through the sitting room and back into her husband’s office. Wen-shan, having been to the mansion previously, did not do as much staring at things as Jun-jai and Li-ying. She sighed as they walked into Mr. Smythe’s tranquil office with its pale walls and sunlit window.
“Sit everyone, and I’ll fetch my husband. I’ll bring some biscuits and sodas, too.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Smythe, that’s very kind,” Wen-shan said.
As soon as Mrs. Smythe was out of the room, the three began talking.
“That is a woman who can get things done,” Jun-jai said.
Wen-shan nodded. “Can you imagine her driving their jeep off to the New Territories to pick up a refugee?”
Jun-jai smiled. “I can.”
“Did you see all the art treasures in their living room?” Li-ying asked.
Wen-shan turned to her. “Master Quan told us they were wealthy art dealers in London.”
“I can believe it.”
They heard footsteps coming down the hallway, and they all stopped talking and sat up straighter. Mr. Smythe entered, and Wen-shan saw Li-ying take a deep breath.