Letters in the Jade Dragon Box

by Gale Sears

  “Would you come up and unroll the final scroll?”

  She stood and moved to her uncle’s side. She was trembling, and she willed herself to be calm, but to no avail. Her uncle handed her the scroll, and she untied the ribbon and opened it. She held it out for everyone to see. Her grandfather had painted a large man—a party official—in his Mao jacket and hat, scowling down at a petite girl with a round moon face. The girl had long braids and wore a blue padded jacket—the same blue padded jacket which sat in a box in the closet. The girl’s face was guileless as she held up a picture of Chairman Mao to the irascible official.

  Many were fascinated by the subject matter, and everyone commented on her grandfather’s undeniable skill, but it was Jun-jai who discovered the heart of the painting.

  “That little girl is you, isn’t it, Wen-shan?” he asked tenderly.

  Wen-shan nodded. She didn’t see people’s reactions because she was staring at the painting, the way her grandfather’s brilliance had captured not only her features, but her feelings. She remembered. She remembered the smell of the canteen, the sound of murmuring voices, the look on her mother’s face when she went to give back the photograph. Her mother’s face. She remembered. Tears came. Wen-shan handed the scroll to her uncle, and ran to her bedroom.

  • • •

  Wen-shan waited until the house was silent before she came out of her room. Her uncle was asleep in his chair, his scriptures open on his lap. She crept to the kitchen to get herself a drink of water and momentarily felt guilty for not being available to help with the cleanup. The dim sum baskets were gone, and the plates cleaned and stacked nicely; even the floor was mopped. Li-ying and Jun-jai had probably pitched in and helped. Even Mr. Pierpont might have picked up a plate or two. It had been such a nice evening. Why did she have to ruin it with silly emotions? Wen-shan chided herself because she knew it would have been impossible to control her feelings once she’d seen that painting. And it wasn’t just the few additional memories it conjured; she saw her grandfather’s love for her in every brushstroke. She saw the truth of the painting.

  Wen-shan secured her glass of water, checked the kitchen one more time, turned off the light, and headed for bed. As she stepped into the front room, she saw that her uncle was awake. She walked over and stood by his chair.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle, for ruining the evening.”

  “You did not ruin anything, Wen-shan. It was a wonderful evening.” He took her hand. “Are you all right?”

  She sat on the sofa. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help clean up.”

  “I don’t care about that. I want to know how you are.”

  She sat for a long time looking at the water in her glass. “I feel sad. Sad because that was the last painting. Sad because I miss them so much.” She put down her glass. “Does that make sense?”

  “Of course. I feel the same.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  A band of pain tightened across her chest. “I just want to know if they’re all right. I just don’t want to be so sad.”

  Her uncle set his scriptures on the side table. “Would you like to have a prayer together?”

  “A prayer? Will that help?”

  “I think it might.”

  “Will you say it? I mean I’ve been to church a couple of times and I know to bow my head and everything, but I don’t know if I could say it.”

  “Of course.” He gave her a slight grin. “I need the practice.”

  Wen-shan felt embarrassed as she bowed her head, and it seemed like it took her uncle a long time to begin, but when the words came, they were quiet and simple, and she felt warmth surround her. She also felt her fear being pushed back. It was like someone was standing between her and the anxious thoughts about her mother and grandfather. The band of pain eased, and she took a deep breath. When her uncle said “Amen,” she repeated the word easily.

  Wen-shan looked up at the same time as her uncle. “Thank you, Uncle. I do feel better.”

  He nodded. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Get a good rest, because tomorrow is yard work and you will be very busy.”

  “To make up for not helping tonight?”

  “It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Uncle.” She picked up her glass of water and stood. “Good night, Uncle.”

  “Good night, Wen-shan.”

  She headed for bed. “Would you like me to make breakfast in the morning?”

  “It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

  Notes

  Mirrors and scissors: Superstitions were prevalent in the lives of peasants in rural China. One such superstition was that if you place a mirror and some open scissors over your doorway, it would protect the house from wandering ghosts. The ghosts would be frightened away by their own reflection, but if that didn’t work, the scissors would fall and cut any ghost that tried to enter.

  Dim sum: Dim sum are baked or steamed dumplings filled with a variety of savory and sweet fillings.

  Chapter 27

  When Wen-shan walked into the kitchen the next morning, she found her uncle already there, eating a bowl of cornflakes. She stood staring at him, unable to speak. He held out the bowl to her and shook his head.

  “Too Western. You make breakfast while I get dressed. Heat up the leftover dim sum. I will need good food to get rid of that taste.”

  He passed by her, and she burst out laughing. Her heart felt light as she puttered around the kitchen, setting the table, and steaming some of the leftover dim sum. When her uncle returned to the kitchen, she had everything ready. Her uncle said the blessing on the food, and Wen-shan’s mouth watered as she smelled the savory little dumplings.

  Her uncle smiled. “See, much better than cornflakes.”

  “I’m just hungry this morning,” Wen-shan defended.

  “Well, you had better eat a good breakfast. You will need your strength today.”

  Wen-shan gave him a half smile and ate another dumpling. Actually, she was looking forward to working in the garden. The days were cooling, so it would be nice to be out in the fresh air and exercising her body.

  The telephone rang and her uncle went to answer it. She heard a few words but most of the conversation was muffled. She thought it might be Mr. Pierpont asking her uncle to come in to work, but when her uncle returned to the kitchen, the puzzled look on his face indicated something much more interesting.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  “I have something to tell you that might cheer you up for the entire day.”

  “What?”

  “That was a telephone call from Mrs. Smythe. It seems that the function they attended last night was a dinner with the board of directors of the Hong Kong Museum of Art and Antiquities.”

  “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Be patient and you’ll see.” He cleared his throat. “It was an important dinner because they were honoring Master Quan.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!”

  “But that is not all.”

  “Oh?”

  “It seems that during the evening, Mrs. Smythe suggested that the museum host an exhibit of your grandfather’s paintings at the museum next month.”

  “An exhibit?”

  Her uncle nodded. “And the board said yes.”

  Wen-shan was dumbfounded. “But they haven’t even seen grandfather’s paintings.”

  “It seems the board of directors has a very high opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Smythe’s art expertise.”

  Wen-shan thought of all the priceless art treasures in the Smythes’ home, and smiled. “Oh, Uncle, don’t you think it’s a great honor?”

  “I do.”

  Wen-shan sat with her chopsticks poised over a dumpling. She was thinking of the reactions of the people who would see her grandfather’s work: how they would wander on the pathway through the bamboo, find the strength in the cypress tree, and laugh at the silly rooster. Sh
e stopped. “Uncle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do we have to show the painting of me and the Communist official?”

  “No. I’m sure we can decide which paintings to send.” He pointed with his chopsticks to the dim sum on her plate. “Eat up now. Work is waiting for us.”

  • • •

  Wen-shan did not want to see another pair of garden clippers for as long as she lived. She stood under the warm water of the shower and let it wash away the dirt and ease her sore muscles. If she was feeling this sore and tired, she couldn’t imagine what her great-uncle was feeling. She turned and let the water patter onto her face. And what did her mother feel like when she came in from the rice fields? Suddenly Wen-shan saw her complaints as petulant and trivial. She picked up the soap and finished her shower quickly.

  Her uncle had fixed long noodles and pork for dinner. Long noodles for a long life. The two workers sat and ate and talked about their day. Sore muscles aside, it was an admirable accomplishment. The garden was now ready for the change of season, and even though in Hong Kong that wasn’t as drastic as in some parts of the world, the weather would be drier and cooler.

  Wen-shan finished her noodles and took her bowl to the sink.

  “I’d like to read another letter tonight, if you’re not too tired,” she said.

  “I’m not too tired.”

  After the kitchen was cleaned, Wen-shan and her uncle took their accustomed places for letter reading and Wen-shan opened the drawer. She brought out the two remaining letters.

  “We only have two left,” she said.

  “But we can read them over and over.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Little pieces of their lives.”

  Wen-shan nodded and untied the ribbon. As the scroll opened, she realized there were two pieces of paper. The one was like the other parchments on which her mother had written, but the second piece was coarse and yellowed by age.

  “Ah! Careful!” her uncle cautioned when she reached for the second paper. Wen-shan gingerly took the roll and handed it to her uncle.

  “Clear the table,” he instructed.

  She moved off the magazines and he gently laid down the scroll and began to unroll it.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “I think I do.”

  As the characters emerged, her uncle’s hand began to tremble. The scroll was the length of her arm, and Wen-shan helped hold one end. Hundreds and hundreds of names filled the aged parchment.

  “I’ve prayed for this,” her uncle whispered.

  Wen-shan was confused. “What is it?”

  “Better to ask who they are.” He carefully placed a magazine on his end of the scroll, and Wen-shan did the same.

  “These are the names of your ancestors, Wen-shan.” There was respect in his voice, and Wen-shan looked closer at the characters.

  “My ancestors? Where did all these names come from?”

  “They have been kept by a family scribe for generations, handed down from the head of the family to the next.” He traced his fingers lightly over the characters. “This is six hundred, perhaps seven hundred, years of ancestors.”

  Wen-shan shook her head. “But the Communists are against honoring ancestors. Why didn’t the Red Guards destroy this? They destroyed my grandfather’s paintings—why not this?”

  “I’m sure your mother hid this in the ancestral shrine, Wen-shan, and then placed it in the box when things got worse.”

  “She thought the names would be safer with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “She put a lot of trust in Master Quan, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. Your mother was very brave.”

  “You said you prayed for this. Did you mean that you prayed the names would come to us?”

  “Yes. I have always honored my ancestors, and when Mei-lan and I were studying about the Church, we were taught the principle of eternal sealing. It spoke powerfully to us.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that by priesthood power families can be tied together forever.”

  “Forever? You mean in heaven?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me to my mother?”

  “Yes. And your mother to your father, and they to their parents.”

  “To my grandmother who wove the blue cloth and had her feet bound?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you to Mei-lan?”

  Her uncle lowered his head. “Yes.”

  She laid her hand on his.

  “And great-nieces to great-uncles?”

  He gripped her fingers as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Yes.”

  “It is a wonderful principle!”

  “It is.”

  Wen-shan felt a thrill race through her body from the top of her head to her feet. “How? How do we do this great tying together?”

  Her uncle chuckled and wiped away the tears. “Tomorrow at church we will ask Mr. Pierpont. I think he is a master at genealogy.”

  “Genealogy?”

  “The study of ancestors.” He looked back to the parchment. “Mr. Pierpont will be thrilled with our good fortune.”

  Wen-shan unrolled the letter. “I wonder what my mother said about the ancestor scroll.”

  She read.

  I am sending the ancestors’ names into your hands. My heart feels strongly that they will be safe with you.

  I look across the table at my father and think that there are just the two of us and that my world is very small, but then I think of you and Uncle Zhao Tai-lu in Hong Kong, and then I think of a thousand ancestors in heaven, and I am changed into an empress in a royal court.

  Remember, you are never alone, my daughter. I think of you every day.

  Wen-shan stopped reading and took several deep breaths to calm her emotions.

  I think of you every day. Can you hear my voice, little daughter? Can you see my face? Look into the mirror. Perhaps we look the same. Perhaps your face is round and your eyes still full of wonder. Where is your little blue jacket? Where are your cries in the night? Know that I think of you as I cut the rice, or when I look at the moon, or when I see a blue butterfly. I go to the family shrine and burn the sweet flower incense. I pray to the ancestors to watch over you. Father says the ancestors are very clever and very good. He says they will guide your footsteps.

  Do not worry for us. Father and I have planned what we will do if the new man Luo wants to make an example of the artist. We will go at midnight when the moon is dark. We will walk into the mountains to Longji, to the Dragon Back Terraces where Father lived until he was four. We will seek out his relatives and beg to be taken in. I will learn to plant rice on the terraces, and Father will do what he can. He gains strength every day. Soon he will hold his own chopsticks again.

  I feel the ancestors are glad to be with you. Watch over them. They are country people and might be frightened of the city.

  Wen-shan and her uncle chuckled over her mother’s final thought.

  “I think your mother is teasing us.”

  “Do you? I think she actually means it.” Wen-shan’s gaze turned back to the ancestor scroll. “It’s nice to think they’re watching out for us.”

  “It is.” He carefully rolled the scroll while Wen-shan rolled the letter. She put them both into the drawer and stood. She stretched her back and grimaced.

  “Good night, Uncle.”

  “Good night, Wen-shan. Thank you for your work.”

  “You’re welcome.” She moved to her bedroom. “I can’t wait to see Mr. Pierpont’s face when we show him the scroll.”

  In the night, Wen-shan dreamed of her mother. She was walking the streets of Central Hong Kong. Cars honked when she tried to cross the street, and people bumped into her on the sidewalks. She was wearing her torn trousers and sweat-stained jacket. There was a dunce cap on her head and shame showed on her face. She kept asking people if they’d seen the little girl in the blue padded jacket, but no one understood her country dialect. She
sat down on the curb and cried. Suddenly there were many ancestors surrounding her. They picked her up and flew away with her. They turned into a flock of white cranes who flew back over the heavenly mountains.

  Wen-shan stirred awake. She took a drink of water and turned her pillow to the cool side. She would try to remember her dream. She wanted to share it with her uncle.

  Note

  Dragon Back Terraces: These terraced rice fields were built in the Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368). They cover an area of 66 square kilometers (about 16,308 acres) and are approximately 27 kilometers (about 16 miles) from the Guilin area. It is considered to be one of the most amazing sites in all of China.

  Chapter 28

  The display of her grandfather’s masterpieces in the Museum of Art and Antiquities was stunning. Someone had drawn a graphic interpretation of the heavenly mountains as a backdrop, and each painting was showcased on its own pillar. The central piece was her grandfather’s calligraphy: TRUTH. Large vases of bamboo were placed throughout the exhibit so it seemed as though you were walking through a forest.

  Wen-shan had been caught by the magic as soon as she’d entered the intimate exhibition hall. She was glad she had decided to wear her red cheongsam dress with the powerful dragons. She needed all the strength she could find. There was going to be a crowd of invited guests: their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Smythe and their friends, the museum’s board of directors, and business and city leaders. It was even rumored that the mayor of Hong Kong might make an appearance.

  Yes. She was glad she had dressed up. She was also glad that she and her uncle had this quiet time to view the exhibit by themselves before the crowds arrived.

  They stood together in front of the now-framed painting of her father and mother on their wedding day.

  Her uncle turned to her. “You look very nice, Wen-shan.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. You look nice too.”

  He smiled. “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “So am I. We are not used to these fancy parties.”

  Wen-shan giggled. “But it is good for us to be here. It is good for people to see grandfather’s paintings.”

  “Yes. Confucius says that the country with the most exalted culture will always yield the greatest power in the world.”