Where Waters Meet, page 9
Father’s file was eventually sealed in a big brown envelope and put away in a cabinet to collect dust, waiting for a new set of hands spawned by a new revolution to unseal and disturb it.
The day Father came home from the last round of interrogation, the only part keenly alive in him was his stomach. Sitting down at the dinner table, quiet as usual, he wolfed down two huge bowls, both filled to the brim, of the steaming-hot egg noodles Mother had freshly prepared. Yuan Feng could smell, across the table, the odor of his body, unbathed for days, and of his mind, too long in disuse, growing rotten and foul. She didn’t speak, but the loathing in her eyes said it all.
“A living dead,” she said to Mother, with all the cruelty of a fourteen-year-old, when they were alone in the kitchen clearing away dirty dishes. Mother stared at her in a stupor of hurt, then hurled the dish towel against the wall. With a dull smack, the towel stuck to the wall like a battered flag, water dripping, pit-a-pat, onto the dirt floor, forming a small, dark puddle.
“Do you think he wants to live, like this?” Mother blurted out, in an undertone. “He wanted to die when he came back from Korea. I begged him to live, for me, because I wanted a child. Where do you think you’d be without him, eh?”
Yuan Feng felt a tingling chill traveling down her body, all the way to her toes, shaking her with a new awareness of the weight on her life: the original guilt.
9.
Father hung on for another year, thinner than air, drifting around in a gray zone of subexistence. During the last few months of his life, people at his workplace no longer paid any attention to him. He was half-invisible; even the wind sweeping through the street would bypass him, for lack of interest. Mother noticed, one sultry summer night, that Father no longer needed a mosquito net, as the insects were repelled by the rancid smell of his blood.
However, he managed to shock them—his wife and daughter—with his last act before death, leaving one final, indelible mark on Yuan Feng’s memory. A dead cat bouncing, in the words of the commonfolk, or the final radiance of a setting sun, if one chose to be melodramatic.
Father died in the winter of 1968, three days before the New Year.
It was a gloomy day, turning to snow in the afternoon, a rare event for a subtropical city like Wenzhou. Was it a sign from heaven, Yuan Feng would later wonder, to mark Father’s farewell to this world? Not even forty-two years, a brief life of dramatic rise and fall. Tragicomic, as one might say.
The snow was getting quite heavy towards the evening, the city soon losing its color and contour to a fluffy cover of glistening white. Onto the streets, houses disgorged kids, most of whom had never known snow before, now having one hell of a time running around throwing snowballs, generating a dreadful racket. Mother was out there too, helping Yuan Feng and two of the neighborhood girls build a snowman.
Every now and then, Mother would pause and simply watch them play, overwhelmed by the mere fact of their young, exuberant existence. This cursed year is finally coming to an end, she thought, savoring a moment of peace so rare that she felt almost dizzy.
A neighbor, who happened to be a photographer, took a picture of the girls and their half-finished snowman. This picture had miraculously survived a long succession of years and moves, following Yuan Feng—or Phoenix as she later came to be known—all the way to Toronto. Every time she laid eyes on it, now turning brown and fuzzy, she would almost automatically recall the day it was taken.
It was the day she lost her father.
Father got home around the usual time but dinner was late, as Mother and Yuan Feng had just returned from their wild excursion in the snow. He went straight to his own room, lighting his first cigarette of the evening. Smoke crept out of the door that was left ajar, a signal to announce his mute presence.
“Did you get wet from the snow?” asked Mother from the kitchen, while fanning the stove to boost the fire for the rice.
Father mumbled something back that they didn’t quite catch, but neither of them pressed him further. Silence fell, a silence they had got so used to by then.
Suddenly, Mother felt the growing weight of her fan and became aware, a moment later, of a shadow cast on her hand. Looking up, she saw a man emerging from the space between the kitchen and the eating area where the lamplight was dim. She jumped as if seeing a ghost, remembering that this was the man who had followed her in the vegetable market a while ago.
“Who are you? How did you get in?” Yuan Feng paused in the middle of peeling carrots, her brows knitted with suspicion.
“Well, your door isn’t locked. Who am I? You’d better ask your mother.” The man smiled forth a greeting, with an air bordering on familiarity. “I bet she remembers me, Little Tiger, the errand boy, but not so little anymore.”
“No, I don’t know you,” replied Mother, a slight tremor in her voice.
“Come on, Fumie, you’ve got to remember me, you and your sister, after what they did to me.” The man invited himself into the kitchen, splaying his right hand before Mother, three fingers missing, their stubs dark with craggy scars.
Turning away from the gruesome sight, Yuan Feng let out a whimper, but was immediately shushed by Mother.
“I don’t have a sister,” retorted Mother, eyes cast sideways, increasingly uneasy about having lied in front of her daughter.
“Yes, you do. Sachie, that’s her name,” the man insisted.
The pot started to boil, the broth spilling over, sizzling noisily on the brim of the stove, permeating the room with the fragrance of half-cooked rice.
“What do you want from me?” asked Mother feebly. Her fan dropped to the floor but she didn’t bother to pick it up.
“With my hand, it’s a right hand too, I can’t get any job. I’ve lived like a beggar for years. You can surely lend me a hand,” the man said, pleading.
“Do I look like somebody loaded? I don’t even have a job.” Mother stood up, moved the peeled carrots over to the cutting board, and started chopping.
“I’ve done some digging. Your man served in the army, has a government job. For sure he can spare a few pennies, for an old friend like me.” He put extra stress on the word old, as if it were too flimsy to stand on its own.
“Leave him out of it!” roared Mother, throwing herself without the slightest warning against the man, who, blindsided, staggered and nearly fell but quickly regained his equilibrium, grabbing Mother by the wrist to keep her still.
“Calm down, Fumie. I’ve lowered myself to begging, you sure don’t want me to tell your daughter . . .” He stopped short as he felt a nudge on the small of his back. Turning around, he saw a man, tall but hunched, with graying hair smelling faintly of engine oil and cigarettes. As they locked eyes, sizing up each other, he saw the tall man’s eyes melting like wax in a blaze of wrath.
The thing the tall man was holding against him was an ax, Little Tiger soon realized. He began to shake, soaking in his own cold sweat.
“If I see you again, this is what you get.” The tall man swung the ax at the dinner table with the force needed for a sledgehammer. With a loud thud, its pinewood top—worn smooth by years of use—swallowed the grave insult, suffering a raw, gaping wound.
The intruder’s eyes, nearly blinded by the flashing blade of the swinging ax, darted away, skipping around the room aimlessly before finding Mother’s. He looked at her imploringly, petrified and deplorably lost.
“Get out!” Mother hissed between her teeth, motioning him towards the door.
The man, taking his cue, leaped away as fast as he could, leaving an echo of hurried footsteps in the snow-covered street.
Mother doubled over as if in searing pain, burying her face in her hands, a trembling mess from head to toe. Father rubbed his hands hopelessly after trying in vain to help her up.
“Gone, Chunyu, him, safe, all past.” Father muttered the string of words, blurred and incoherent, as much to himself as to Mother, waiting for a response that never arrived. Neither Mother nor Yuan Feng noticed his disappearance, quiet as usual, back to his own room.
Silence returned, not the same one, though—nothing would be the same after Little Tiger. This new silence, like liquid cement, seeped in, filling every crack the commotion had caused.
Yuan Feng slowly emerged from the corner and began to chop the carrots left by Mother on the cutting board. The knife slipped, paring off a small piece of skin on one of her fingers. She stuck the wounded finger into her mouth and sucked it, a bit salty and metallic, the taste of blood. Gagging with disgust, she spit out the saliva, dipping her finger into a basin of water intended for rinsing the sliced carrots.
A thin red thread appeared in the water, dancing and swelling into a coral-colored stream, then blossoming into a pink flower. She couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the wild images the bloody water conjured up in her mind. A setting sun, a blotch of spilled tomato juice, a petal falling from a blooming peony, a blushed cheek, everything but the glistening cold knife blade that had bred them.
“Who’s that man?” asked Yuan Feng.
“I don’t know,” Mother managed to say between half sobs.
“Why did he call you Fumie?” she persisted.
“I don’t know.”
Yuan Feng stopped asking questions, knowing she would get the same answer.
Dinner was finally ready, but Father didn’t come out of his room despite Mother’s repeated calling. Yuan Feng was sent in to check. The room was dark and dead quiet, her footsteps bouncing around the walls, startling her. Switching the light on, she saw Father lying in bed, foaming at the mouth, eyes shut tight, unconscious.
Hearing her scream, Mother burst into the room and tried to shake Father awake. Failing at that, she rushed out the door without bothering with her cotton-padded jacket, towards the community clinic two blocks away, hoping to fetch a doctor on duty.
Yuan Feng was left alone with Father and the shadow of death she was too young to recognize.
She sat at his bedside, holding his hand in hers, watching his body convulse slightly, his breathing growing more labored. A numbness washed over her, with no sense of sadness or fear.
“Pa, please wait for Ma, please wait.” She heard herself repeating, over and over again, the same words mechanically, as if going through a rigid drill in an English grammar class.
Suddenly, she sensed a slight twitch, a finger moving in her fist. Father’s eyes popped open abruptly, so wide that they seemed to have held all of her in them. “Blood, swear, your ma . . . ,” he mumbled, nearly unintelligible.
She was perplexed, only for a second, then suddenly understood. She leaned over, showing him her wounded finger that had been hastily bandaged, with a speck of dried blood on the gauze.
“Pa, I swear by my blood, I’ll look after Ma.” She squeezed his hand tight.
A dark cloud spread over his face, and his eyes dimmed.
Chapter III
THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG TEACHER AND TOSSING WATERS
Email from George to Phoenix, 2011.10.22 @ 22:17 Eastern Standard Time
Dear Nix,
Called your cell several times, it kept telling me the number is not in service. Called your room too, no answer. Guess you’re at Auntie Mei’s. Give me her number just in case, I need to hear your voice. The night is long and the house is big.
This blue, mopey man tried to kill time by reading more of your manuscript, but I had no idea what I was getting into. How much do I know you, Nix, if I know you at all? We’ve talked a lot about “the pearl” in your mother’s oyster, but little did I know that you have your pearl in your oyster too. Maybe we all have our own pearl in our own oyster. In searching for other people’s pearls, we might inadvertently open up our own shells. Revelation can be cruel. Reading about your earlier life hurts me A LITTLE, because of what you were put through, and also because I wasn’t there for you.
There is another layer of hurt I was debating whether I should tell you about. I’ve been made aware of the precarious position I am in: a pair of shriveled arthritic feet trying to fill some giant-size shoes. That handsome, young teacher came out so vividly in your writing: one can smell his charm from three miles away. He ushered you into the world of English. From the grandiose “long live . . .” to the small talk about weather, what an evolution! He opened your eyes and led you through so many doors that I wonder whether there are any left for me to open and for you to enter? I can feel the pain of your loss, the flinching and burning kind, as if it were just yesterday. Can anyone (except Job maybe) ever get over a loss like this? But you did.
Did you?
Please excuse my rambling. All I am really trying to say (and I don’t know how to say it properly) is that I hate myself for having missed so much of your life.
George
P.S. If your jet lag is still bothering you, just get out of bed and do something totally stupid. Watch a boring movie, read a computer manual, smell your stinky socks, whatever tires your mind out, then sleep will find you.
Email from Phoenix to George, 2011.10.24 @ 01:17 China Standard Time
Dear George,
Did I hear a little cry somewhere? I didn’t expect a reaction like this. Was there a trace of jealousy too? One never fails to discover new traits, even in an old dog. My dear dear old George.
Meng Long is my memory. I kept him alive for decades until I put him in words and lines, then I killed him. Writers are murderers: we give life and then take it away, in a most premeditated way. Did I say “we”? How shameless—I haven’t published even one book. The minute I put Meng Long in writing, he leaves me and becomes a part of whoever reads these pages, you included.
Wise men use their memory as if it were some sort of fertilizer. “We grow from our past experiences,” they would brag. I am a fool and I use my memory as if it were a pillow, to sleep and to dream on. If I ever need fertilizer, I run to Canadian Tire. Besides, I’ve done my growing, for the most part, anyway. Does it sound like consolation?
However, the idea of filling somebody’s shoes sounds vaguely intriguing to me: it keeps you in line. If I have to pick a vice to fight, I will choose complacency over insecurity, every time.
Did you add the area code when you dialed my cell? It’s a local number so needs area code. Auntie Mei’s number was left on the fridge door on a sticker (with a bunch of appointment dates), you probably overlooked it. Use her number sparingly, she hates to answer the phone—telephone fraud is rampant here.
I visit Auntie Mei every day. She is in good shape and keeps herself busy. It’s amazing to see the way she enjoys food—I remember you said the same thing about me when we first met. She talks about Ma and their young days, but on her terms only—she doesn’t like to be squeezed. The more I learn, the more I feel I’ve been left out of something important. I can’t figure out what’s holding her back. Revelation is indeed cruel, and truth is expensive. At times I wonder whether I can afford it.
It’s your Sunday, so call me now, I can’t sleep anyway. I have a feeling that somebody is in dire need of comforting, although I am supposed to be the one that’s bruised and heartbroken.
Nix
Email from Phoenix to George, 2011.10.28 @ 16:11 China Standard Time
Hi George,
I can’t call you since it’s your 4 AM, besides, the international airtime is a killer. But I really need to talk to someone before I explode. So I write.
I just found out that Ma and Auntie Mei have thirteen half sisters from the same father and one half brother from the same mother. Imagine the number of cousins! A day ago, I had none, now I have a kingdom. What math is this? Sounds like a weird story in Arabian Nights. Shake me awake. Remember you asked me why Ma was so alone and cut off? Only Auntie Mei holds the key to the answer. I am coming awfully close to it now, if my poor nerves can hold up. I’ve been diligently writing down everything she tells me.
I’ve booked a train ticket to Wenzhou tomorrow to arrange for Ma’s interment. Auntie Mei is getting edgy with the urn in her room (to be precise, in her closet).
Nix
Email from George to Phoenix, 2011.10.29 @ 19:49 Eastern Standard Time
Dear Nix,
I’m still recovering from the shock. Even Aisha can’t compete with you re: the size of the extended family now. There has to be a better reason for the cut off than just “do not like each other.” Fourteen siblings, that’s a lot of falling-out to do.
Part of me feels relieved hearing you talk about it—you were awfully quiet in Toronto, which worried me. Wondered what kind of bomb Auntie Mei would drop next. We were so engrossed in the subject on the phone that I forgot to tell you I’ve done more proofreading on your manuscript. Here I attach the finished part just in case you want to work on it further. Will talk more about it. Soon.
George
* Email attachment: Phoenix’s manuscript Teacher
1.
The post-Father era wasn’t much different from a post-war era, starting with a tallying of losses, what’s gone and what’s left, to be followed by a redivision of territory and a regrouping of resources. A new balance sheet.
Father didn’t take much with him, really: a presence at the dinner table, a scent of smoke and unwashed hair—not in its entirety, though, as some of it had already seeped into the pores of the plastered walls and needed a bit of time to dissipate. Of course, there was the loss of that small envelope containing his monthly salary, a minor detail, hardly a worry.
What he left behind was much more substantial, a house suddenly bigger (you’d hardly have noticed him taking up much space at all when he was around), a bed his daughter Yuan Feng could finally call her own, a silence to be broken at one’s will, and two sets of vocal cords growing bold and versatile, for bursts of anger, wails of grief, and occasionally, tunes mimicking the radio music.
Father’s death changed the math of all things—his past, his wife’s present, and his daughter’s future, the sum total of the three amounting to a new reality, grim and fuzzy. Father’s monthly salary had been forty-five yuan and was now reduced to a fifteen-yuan widow’s allowance until Yuan Feng turned sixteen, the legal working age.
