A Map of Betrayal (20 page)

That evening I phoned Benning. He sounded cheerful, calling me Aunt time and again. That pleased me. His sister Juli must have assured him that I was not an impostor but a real aunt of theirs. Still, when I said I’d like to come and see him, he paused, his breathing audible. Then he said, “By all means, I’d love to meet you in person, Aunt Lilian.” He gave me his address and the directions, which were unnecessary because I knew Boston well.

I loved riding the train between DC and Boston, especially when the ocean came into view in Connecticut and when I saw swans cruising in lakes, most times in pairs. Even Baltimore could appear beautiful after snow, like an abandoned battleground swathed in white serenity. In China, whenever people asked me what the biggest difference was between their country and the United States, I’d tell them that America had a different landscape—simply put, the land is more suitable for human habitation and more abundant in natural resources. They might not have believed me, but I said the truth. Chinese land by comparison seemed overused and exhausted. I suggested they take the Greyhound across North America if they came to visit this continent. Then they might see how much China could benefit from keeping a good relationship with the United States and Canada, considering both countries’ vast natural resources and plentiful agricultural products.

Benning was standing outside when I emerged from the subway station at Quincy Center. He beamed, as if we’d met before (in a way we had—we’d exchanged photos via email). He came up and took over my small suitcase, saying, “Welcome, Aunt Lilian.” I was
struck by his resemblance to my father, the same kind of elongated smiling eyes, wide nose, round cheeks, and strong jaw. His legs were slightly bandy too, making him walk with splayed feet like his grandfather. He looked five foot nine, a bit shorter than Gary. He must have come directly from work, a brown leather briefcase hanging over his shoulder from two hooked fingers of his other hand.

He told me he had dropped “ning” in his first name, so I should call him just Ben. He lived by himself in an apartment building six or seven minutes’ walk from the train station. His unit had four rooms, and he insisted that I stay with him when I mentioned I wouldn’t mind spending the night in a motel. After I washed up and sat down in his living room, he said, “Aunt Lilian, for dinner, should we go out or eat in here? I can cook or order takeout.”

“Let’s go out. I did graduate work at BU. I want to see what Quincy’s like now.”

It was a cool day for late June, a steady breeze blowing from the northeast. My skin could feel the ocean as we ambled along Hancock Street toward downtown. The city had changed quite a bit—there were more Asian faces now. A few shop signs even displayed Chinese characters beside the English words. Small wonder I was told that Quincy was becoming Boston’s second Chinatown, but that seemed unlikely, because it was a city, sprawling in every direction and with four subway stations, and the Asian population was scattered everywhere, without a center. At most, some Chinese immigrants and expats might be settling in pockets of this big town. Ben and I decided to enter a restaurant that specialized in Taiwanese cuisine.

While waiting for our order, he told me about his life here. He’d been in the Boston area for a year and a half and had just gotten a green card, but he traveled a lot, going to Asia and Europe eight or nine times a year. “I might not be able to live here for long,” he said.

“Why?” I asked. “Don’t you like it here?”

“Love it. But my business is a branch of a state-owned company. I might get transferred anytime.”

He turned to speak Cantonese to a moonfaced waitress, who had greeted him in a friendly manner. I was impressed by his fluency in the dialect, and when the woman moved away, I asked him how he knew the language. “I lived in Guangzhou for a while” was his answer. I remembered that my father had complained in his diary that he couldn’t make head or tail of Cantonese when he visited Hong Kong. Once he observed, “They seem to call everyone a devil.”

Ben wanted to know how his parents and siblings were doing. I assured him that they were well but anxious to know what he was up to. While talking, I couldn’t help wondering how much he knew about my father. I hadn’t mentioned Gary to him yet, unable to bring myself to give him too much all at once. Our order came—he had steamed chow mein and I fish congee. We shared two dishes, sautéed green beans and orange chicken. I enjoyed such a simple, good meal and was glad to see that Ben wasn’t eating like a glutton. He said what he disliked most in China were banquets, which tended to be too wasteful. Indeed, I had noticed that some Chinese, particularly the nouveaux riches, identified lavishness and swank luxury with a high-quality life. Many young women wouldn’t hesitate to blow a whole month’s wages for a brand-name bag, a Louis Vuitton or Gucci or Kate Spade. They cared too much about appearances and price tags. I was often bemused by the way my young colleagues in Beijing spent money—“like running a tap,” in their own words. Given the pragmatic nature of the Chinese, they should have been more practical.

Ben went on to say about banquets, “After three or four dishes you can hardly taste any difference in what follows. What’s the point of eating course after course? It’s just wasteful. I knew people who were nicknamed different types of gluttons, like Great Eater, Expert Eater, and Indiscriminate Eater. Without exception they
were proud of their nicknames. A genuine Chinese reform must start with the dining table.” Ben laughed, and so did I.

“The eating culture there bothered me too,” I admitted. “At some sumptuous dinners in Beijing I couldn’t stop wondering whose money we were spending. I once spoke with an official seated next to me at a table, and he said he would dine out five or six evenings a week. It was his job to accompany his bureau’s guests.”

“And the taxpayers would foot the bills, of course,” Ben said.

“So dining reform is a serious business, like political reform?”

“Number one priority to me, because most people, regardless of their ideologies, will support such a concrete change.”

When we were done with dinner, I waved for the check, but Ben was adamant about picking up the tab, saying I was his guest. I let him. He also asked for a doggie bag, which I appreciated. (Many Chinese, ostentatiously lavish, wouldn’t bother about leftovers at restaurants. The truth is that poverty and extravagance often go hand in hand.) Together Ben and I headed back to his apartment.

Over tea, I shared with him some photos of my father. One of them showed Gary hosing down his Buick Century. “So he had a luxury car,” Ben said, the corners of his mouth tilting up a little.

“He always drove a Buick.”

“I love American cars too, roomy, sturdy, and powerful. I have a Mustang.”

“A gas guzzler, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind.”

Most Chinese expats and immigrants would have a Toyota Corolla or Hyundai Elantra for a first car; Ben seemed to have unusual taste. In another photo Gary was blowing at the conical flames of candles planted on a cake, the smile on his face crinkling the corners of his eyes. Nellie and I were standing by, clapping our hands while singing “Happy Birthday.” Ben put down the picture and breathed a small sigh.

I took a sip of high mountain tea (one of my favorite Taiwanese
teas), amused that we were still using handleless cups like those in a Chinese restaurant. “You look sad,” I told Ben.

“Your mother had blond hair and blue eyes.”

“Her eyes were gray actually.”

“She was blond.”

“She and your grandfather made a handsome couple, in some people’s opinion. His American name is Gary, by the way.”

“I used to think he had lived a miserable life here, if not in destitution, and he sacrificed himself for our country.”

I didn’t know how to respond, unable to grasp what Ben meant. I managed to say, “He loved China of course.”

“Like him, I’ve been working hard for my country.”

“I hope you’re not a spy, though,” I said. He laughed.

Gradually our conversation shifted to patriotism, which seemed to have possessed some young Chinese, who often claimed they wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice themselves for their motherland. They insisted that their love for the country was unconditional, and many of them were proud of being nationalists. Ben and I couldn’t see eye to eye on this issue. I told him that I loved America, but not more than I loved my husband. I believe that a country is not a temple but a mansion built by the citizens so they can have shelter and protection in it. Such a construction can be repaired, renovated, altered, and even overhauled if necessary. If the house isn’t suitable for you, you should be entitled to look for shelter elsewhere. Such freedom of migration will make the government responsible for keeping the house safe and more habitable for its citizens. I went on to say, “It’s unreasonable to deify a country and it’s insane to let it lord over you. We must ask this question: On what basis should a country be raised above the citizens who created it? History has proved that a country can get crazier and more vicious than an average person.”

My argument caught Ben by surprise. He muttered, “Still, I love China unconditionally.”

“What if you have joined the church?” I asked. “A good Christian
must never place his country above God. According to Christianity, God created humans first, so a human being is more sacred and must come before a country.”

Ben stared at me. I went on, “See, patriotism has become a religion to you. That’s dangerous. Now, come to think of it—what if your country has betrayed you or violated some basic principles of humanity? Will you still love it unconditionally?” Seeing him wordless, I added, “Loyalty must be sustained by mutual trust. It’s a two-way street. To be honest, many Chinese are ardent patriots because their existence depends on the state. As a result, they cannot envision an existence outside their country, and to them, nothing can be bigger and higher than China, which is actually a historical construct. Two centuries ago if you asked the ordinary Chinese about their nationality, they’d go blank, because they didn’t even have the concept of citizenship. China has never been a fixed entity, and its borders have changed constantly. So have its ethnic groups.”

“You’re American while I’m Chinese,” Ben said, his upper lip curled a little as if my remarks irritated him.

“Don’t let nationality stand between us. We are family,” I responded, flinging up my hand and then scratching my temple.

He grinned. “Sure we are. I’ll always have you as my aunt.”

I realized Ben might be ignorant of China’s treatment of his grandfather. Reluctant to share the whole story with him at the moment, I said, “Ben, I want you to remember this caveat: ‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’ ”

“Is that from a philosopher or a sage?”

“Socrates. Please be aware of the forces around you and assess yourself constantly. Your grandfather was an intelligent man, but he didn’t examine his life carefully and lived blind as a result.”

“Okay, I will remember,” Ben said offhandedly.

Before going to sleep that night, I thought about giving him a full account of my father’s life, but I decided to wait. The truth
might be too upsetting to him, I thought, so I’d better disclose it gradually.

Around midmorning the next day, I went to Ben’s company, which was on the top floor of a small concrete building on Washington Street, near the public library. He had three employees, two women and one man. The man, screwdriver in hand and wearing an earring and a pink button-down, was at a desk working on a computer, its innards fully exposed. One of the female employees was a young Ukrainian named Sonya, whom Ben introduced to me as his girlfriend. She was slightly thick-boned but looked smart and energetic with straw-colored hair and hazel eyes. When we were alone again, I asked Ben what kind of women he was fond of. He seemed abashed. “Gosh,” he said, “you think I treat women as a commodity? That’s a capitalist mentality.” He gave a half laugh. “Sonya is somebody I can trust. When I travel abroad on business, I need a person to cover my bases.”

“It’s not easy to find someone trustworthy,” I admitted.

Sonya joined us for lunch at a noodle joint. I found that she used chopsticks more skillfully than I did; what’s more, she could use them with both hands. She said she was ambidextrous and could also write either way. I’d never met such a person before. Sonya grew more vivacious as we were conversing. She confessed she’d been “seduced” by Ben because he was a gourmet and used to take her to all the cheap but good restaurants. Ben protested, “Please, don’t be so forgetful. I’ve never been stingy to you. Didn’t our company help you apply for a green card?”

“I’ve been working my butt off for that,” she replied.

Sonya told me that her parents and two younger sisters were all back in Donetsk. She’d gone to Brandeis University on an international scholarship, and after college she decided to stay for a few years in the States. At this point she wasn’t sure how long she would live here, though she had applied for permanent residency. There was a possibility she’d go to Europe, to either the Netherlands or
Denmark, where she had relatives, to see if she might like it there. She spoke about emigrating as if it were as simple as changing jobs. I was impressed. Her life must have been full of adventures.

After lunch Sonya returned to work while Ben drove me to a yacht club behind a mid-rise tenement whose flattish, undersize windows brought to mind a jailhouse. He said he was going to give me a boat tour. He unlocked the gate to a private dock and strolled along the pier, taking me to the waterside. When we had reached the end of the dock, he leapt onto a motorboat, shouting, “Let’s have a ride!”

I followed him and jumped aboard. He took a Nikon camera out of his shoulder bag and strapped it around his neck. The boat rocked a little while a rush of delight ran through me. Ben started the engine, and we sped out toward the greenish ocean. The wind was rushing by, tousling our hair. I felt a sophomoric thrill and began letting out happy cries. Ben handed me a pair of mirror sunglasses, and I put them on. The subdued light at once rendered all objects closer.