Chu Ju's House (6 page)

Han Na went about with red eyes and so sad a face, I could not bear to look at her. Several times she went to the door and peered out as if Quan might return, but there was no returning of Quan. She rolled up Quan's mattress and put it away, but she left his bowl on the table and there it stayed, a small bit of him, day after day.

In spite of her sadness she let none of her tears fall onto the rice seedlings. Han Na was up early in the morning, and by daybreak we were in the paddy attacking the weeds that grew faster than the rice and, had we not pulled them out, would have choked the rice to its death. Early in the mornings
a mist hung over the paddy, so wading into the paddy was like wading into the clouds. Then the sun punished us. The only shade was the two moving circles made by our hats.

It was the time of the rains, and every afternoon a warm rain would fall, making little dimples on the water. When the rice grew to cover the water, the rain fell on the rice plants and they sprang up into a thick green mat.

Han Na was sad, but it was not all sadness. A little frog would jump out at us and I would see a smile come over Han Na's face. The frog would go into her bag and its tender flesh would make our rice tasty that night.

Often Han Na would tell me to rest. “You are not used to such work. If Quan is not going to work the land when I am gone, what is the use of breaking our backs to save it?” Still, Han Na worked on. I saw that it did not matter how the land tired her out. It
was her land, and every
mu
was precious to her.

The work was hard but I was not unhappy. Han Na was kind, sharing with me all that she had. After our evening rice we would sit in the courtyard, where there was a breath of air, and look out at the green patchwork of rice paddies and beyond the paddies at the hills where the clouds gathered. Often Han Na would tell me stories of the land.

“My family has always worked this land,” Han Na said, “but long ago all the land belonged to a very rich man and they worked for him.”

Han Na's grandmother had told her of the great house in which the rich man lived. “The women were dressed in the finest silks, and around their necks hung jade and pearls,” Han Na said. “Their feet were cruelly turned back on themselves and bound until they were no larger than a child's hand. They could only totter about and had to be carried everywhere. The landlord kept strange animals,
monkeys and tigers. He had more wives than he could remember. The Revolution took the land from him, but not before putting him and his whole family to death. We have some of his land now,” Han Na said, “but we must wade in his blood to grow our rice.”

Even more wonderous to me than Han Na's tales was the rice itself. Though my back never ceased to ache, I thought how happy Ba Ba would be to see the rice plants spring up, green and tall in the paddies.

While I marveled at the rice growing before my eyes, Han Na grew weaker and lived only for Quan's letters. It was a month before the first letter arrived.

Han Na had me read Quan's letter several times, trying to find comfort in his words, but there was little comfort in the story of a son lost in a large city with no friends and no work and perhaps no roof over his head or food to eat.

Another month went by, and Quan's next letter told of work and a room he shared with several
other laborers. In the letter after that there were yuan notes wrapped in paper. “Buy a little meat to keep up your strength,” Quan wrote to his mother, “and a new quilt to take the place of the worn one.” But Han Na carefully put the yuan, still wrapped in its paper, into the chest where she kept her few clothes.

Once a week Han Na sent me into the village for salt or noodles or on some other small errand. The journey was pleasant, for the path into the village wandered among the rice paddies and I rejoiced in standing upright all day. I would stop here and there to compare the crops of the other paddies with our crop. I worried if another crop was further along than ours, and I was pleased if our crop was taller and thicker. I would exchange a word with the other farmers and learn from them. One farmer showed me a new way of planting the rice seedlings. “You throw the seedlings,” he said.

“Won't they float away?” I asked.

“No. The weight of the small clump of dirt that clings to their roots will settle them into the earth. It is much faster.”

In the village the streets were crowded with bicycles. You had to step carefully, for the people of the village threw their refuse out of their doorways onto the walks, and there was much spitting. Also there was the smell of nightsoil coming from the privies behind the houses and shops. The holes beneath the privies were shallow so that the men who collected the nightsoil for crops would have no difficulty. Train tracks ran through the village, and if I was lucky, I might see one of the great beasts as it came to a screeching halt to unload or pick up passengers. Many of the trains rushed along without stopping, for our village was not an important one.

If I went early in the morning, I would be
in time to see the villagers at their martial-arts exercises. Drums and gongs were sounded and the villagers practiced making war with clubs, swords, pitchforks, and even umbrellas.

I lingered among the shops. In one shop there were cages of quacking ducks. In another ribbons of live eels squirmed among the fish, and for a moment I was sad thinking of Wu and the boys and Yi Yi. There was a stall where keys were made and another where you could find bamboo hats in every size and shape. A doctor had set up a booth, and hanging on the wall of his booth was an acupuncture chart exactly like my ba ba's. My favorite place was the Morning Sun Noodle Shop, where noodles, longer than I was tall, were cut from endless rolls of dough. Han Na always gave me a few yuan for a bowl of the noodles nestled in a bit of fragrant broth. I sipped the long worms of noodles slowly, making them last, and then I would stand a bit by
the teahouse to look at the old men and their caged birds. I was fascinated to see how from a great distance the clever waiter directed the stream of boiling water into the cups. When I hurried home, I would tell Han Na all that I had seen in the village.

I tried to get her to go with me, but she would not leave the land. Though months had passed since Quan had left, I believe she still expected him to return, for often she would stand at the door, her hand shading her eyes looking into the distance.

One evening a man came walking toward us, and Han Na let out an exclamation and took a step toward him. Then she stopped. “It is only Ling.”

“Who is Ling?” I asked.

“The Zhangs live in the hills. Ling's ba ba was a friend of my husband's. Each week they played checkers together at the teahouse in the village. It is the Zhangs' water buffalo who plows our paddy each spring. Ling is a good boy, but he is a boy who
will do what he wants. His ba ba raises wheat, but Ling goes his own way.”

As Ling came closer, I saw that he was young, perhaps not yet twenty. He was as long and thin as a noodle. A wing of black hair fell over his eyes. He wore glasses, but behind the glasses his eyes were bright and questioning. He bowed to Han Na and looked at me with surprise.

“Ba Ba said there was talk in the village that Quan had left to work in the city,” he said. “My parents wondered how you managed the paddy on your own.” All the while he spoke, he looked at me as if he were trying to find a reason for my being there.

“What they say is true. He left in the middle of the fourth moon. We have letters from him.” In a proud voice Han Na added, “And money.” Seeing that Ling was still staring at me, she said, “This is Chu Ju. She came as Quan left. She takes his place
in the paddy.” Han Na gave me a sad smile. “She is my son now.”

Ling grinned at me in a friendly way, showing no surprise that I should appear to take Quan's place. He thrust a basket at Han Na. “Ba Ba sent this.”

The basket held a heavy bag of flour for noodles and five perfect peaches.

In a proud voice Ling said, “The peaches are mine.”

“Your young trees have fruit already!”

“Yes, and plums are there as well.” His smile nearly filled his whole face. “Next year I will have fruit to take into the village to sell.”

“Will you drink tea with us?” Han Na asked.

Ling shook his head. “Thank you—I must return.” He looked in the direction of the paddy. “You have no fish in your paddy yet?”

“Fish in the rice paddy.” Han Na laughed. “What nonsense is that?”

Ling's smile was gone and he looked very earnest. “No, it is not nonsense. I told Quan. When I was getting my own pamphlet on raising fruit, I saw one on raising fish. It said the agricultural agent will give you fingerlings, and the tiny fish will grow into carp. The carp will eat the weeds. Then you can harvest the fish as well as the rice.” He spoke as if he were reading from a pamphlet.

Han Na shook her head. “Those fish swim in your pamphlet. In the paddy they would never swim.”

I liked the idea of the little fish swimming among us in the paddy, eating the weeds. “Where can you get the tiny fish for the paddy?” I asked.

Ling, who had looked unhappy at Han Na's scorn, now smiled again. “In the village there is a government office. They got me my little trees, and they could get you the tiny fish, but it must be done in the early spring before the rice shoots are planted.”

Ling bowed to us and hurried away toward the hills.

“He is a good boy,” Han Na said, “but from the time he was a little boy, he had his nose in one of his pamphlets. What good can come from that?”

I looked at the five perfect peaches and thought if he had found the way to make such peaches in a pamphlet, that was surely good.

The rice had flowered, and now the grains fattened and turned to gold. “In another week we will harvest,” Han Na said, but before we could harvest the grains, the starlings came. As we walked to the paddy, we saw the sky was dark with the birds. Their hoarse shrieks pierced my ears and rattled my brain. Han Na ran at them, striking left and right with her hoe. “They will destroy us,” she wailed.

“We must have a scarecrow,” I said, remembering the scarecrow that was so frightening to me in our garden at home.

We took some old clothes Quan had left behind and stuffed them with paddy straw. On the scarecrow's head we put Han Na's old bamboo hat. At the sight of the scarecrow most of the starlings few off, but a few perched on the scarecrow, so Han Na and I took turns staying in the paddy in the early evenings when the birds fed.

As I sat alone at the edge of the paddy ready to strike out with my hoe, the scarecrow reminded me so of my home that it was all I could do not to make my way down the path and begin the journey that would take me back. It was hard to remember now what Hua looked like and how she had felt in my arms. She would be three years old and walking. I tried to imagine what Ma Ma and Ba Ba would say if I returned. I knew I could be sure of Nai Nai's scolding. Han Na was kind to me, and hard as the work was, I was happy helping to make the rice grow. But Han Na was not my ma ma and her
house was not my home. I grew sad, and then the starlings came and I ran about threatening them with my hoe and after a while I forgot my sadness.

At the end of the eighth moon we harvested the rice with our scythes and beat the rice on the threshing stone to rid it of its hull and the bran. The pure white kernels that emerged were like so many pearls. Nothing was wasted. The sweet-smelling straw was saved to stuff our mattresses and to make nests for the chickens. The bran that covered the white kernels was given to the Zhangs to feed the water buffalo who would plow our land for the next crop of rice. We measured out enough rice to feed us. In the measuring Han Na counted Quan, even though he was not there.

“We will have it if he returns,” she said.

The rest of the crop was sold to a man who called at all the paddies, haggling over the price and paying too little. Still, Han Na was able to add to
the savings that now came every month from Quan and rested in the chest. She often took out the money and counted it to see how it grew. “One day,” she said, “there will be enough for Quan to come home.”

When the rice was sold, Han Na handed me some yuan. “Certainly your work should be rewarded,” she said.

“What am I to do with it?” I asked.

“As you like,” she said.

I went to the village and stood by the stall that sold blue jeans. Finally I got up my courage and, asking the price, found I had enough yuan to buy a pair.

“What size?” the woman asked.

I knew nothing of size since my ma ma and nai nai had made my clothes. They were always large for me, so that I would not grow out of them too quickly, and then after a while they were too small.

“Try these,” the woman said. I went behind a curtain and pulled them on. When I saw they fit, I folded up my trousers and, keeping on the jeans, put the money in the woman's hand. There was still a little money, and I bought Han Na candied ginger, which was her favorite thing to eat, and her smile was nearly as pleasant to me as the blue jeans.

It was time to plant the winter crop—radishes, cabbage, sweet potatoes, melons, and squash. When spring came, the paddy would be flooded and the rice planted again. As we worked in the field, it saddened me to see how easily Han Na tired. If she stood up suddenly, she became dizzy and I would have to steady her. Though I begged her to leave the work to me, she would not return to the house and would only rest for a bit in the shade of the bamboo.

The rains had long since ended and the weather was pleasant. I often looked at the hills and wondered how Ling's orchard was doing, for it was
cooler there, and then one day Han Na said, “It is time to visit the Zhangs.” Han Na was not one to accept charity. Though the Zhangs' gift of wheat flour was kindly meant, the gift weighed on her. “I must take them something in return,” she said. After that she fell upon our fattest chicken and imprisoned it in a basket.

I washed my hair, leaving it fall to my shoulders with no ponytail.

Han Na looked at me with surprise. “Now you are more a young woman than a girl,” she said. She was in her best jacket and trousers, and I wore my new blue jeans. Together we set off with the restless chicken. It grew cooler as we went up the hill, climbing slowly so as not to tire Han Na. The winter wheat on the farms we passed trembled in the light winds. The bamboo groves swayed and rustled. Many of the farms on the hill had pigs, and one or two, like the Zhangs', had a water buffalo.
The houses were as large as three rooms. Everywhere there was stone that had been cleared from the land. The houses were made of stone, the fences were of stone, and wherever you looked there were piles of stone waiting to be put to some use.

The Zhangs must have been prosperous, for they lived in one of the three-room houses. Ling and his parents hurried to greet us, apologizing for the climb up the hill and for the disorder of the house, which in truth was as neat as Han Na's house.

They made much of Han Na's gift of a chicken. We were given bowls of tea to drink and pickled ginger and dumplings in broth. It was a mystery where Ling's height came from, for his parents were like two dolls, small and very neat in appearance.

While the Zhangs talked with Han Na about Quan, Ling offered to show me his orchard. On the way we passed the stable where the Zhangs' water
buffalo was tethered. I stopped to stare at the great animal. “Is he dangerous?” I asked, looking at the beast's curved horns.

“He is a great baby,” Ling said. He reached over and patted the beast, who rolled his eyes at us. “I have ridden him since I was five years old and had to be tied onto his back to keep from falling off. In the spring the buffalo and I will be down to plow Han Na's rice paddy and all the nearby paddies. When I come, I'll give you a ride on the buffalo if you like.”

Ling's orchard clung to the hillside with only a high stone wall like two sheltering arms to keep the trees safe. There were twenty trees, some full-grown and some Ling's height and a few no taller than I.

“Each year I clear more stones and bring in more dirt,” Ling said. “Where there was nothing, there is land now.” One by one he introduced me to his trees, which in the winter season had lost their
leaves. “This plum has a golden color like the wheat when it ripens, and this one is lavender like the twilight sky in the eleventh moon.” He stood frowning at a tree. “These peaches are sweet but very small. When I take them to market, no one buys them. They look at the size and won't believe in the sweetness.”

After I had met each tree, we sat at the edge of the orchard and Ling told me of the trees that were to come when more stones were moved and more dirt brought in. “I do not understand how Quan could have left the land for the city,” he said. “In the city when you sit down to rest at the end of the day, there are no stretches of green paddies or rising hills to see, only ugly buildings and dirty streets.”

“Ling,” I asked, “how did you know how to plant and care for such trees?”

The great smile took over his face. “There are pamphlets in the village, which the government
gives out for the asking. I have a box full of pamphlets. You can find your fish in one of their pamphlets. I could show you the place in the village.” In a low voice he said, “It is one good thing among many bad things the government does.” Then he asked, “Can you read?”

I nodded my head.

That seemed to please Ling. “I have as many books as trees. Some of them are foreign stories. I could lend you one.”

He took me back to the buffalo stable. There was a shelf of books. “Why do you keep your books here?” I asked. “The beast does not read.”

Ling shrugged. “It's closer to the orchard. Sometimes I stop my work and read for a bit.” He added, again in the quiet voice, “Though they can't read, it is best that my parents do not see my books. My parents would think some of the words in the books dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Dangerous only because they speak the truth.”

Each book was wrapped carefully in a piece of newspaper.

“It keeps them safe from bugs and dampness,” Ling said, but I thought he had not said all he wished.

“But how do you know which book is which?” I asked.

“From their shapes,” Ling said, “and where they are on the shelf. Here is one for you to read,
A Dream of Red Mansions
. It was written more than two hundred years ago.” He handed me a heavy book.

“So long ago?” I asked. “Why read it now?”

The smile came again. “Do you think people change? Anyhow, it's China's greatest book.”

I nodded my head.

That seemed to please Ling. “In our house I
have a pamphlet on squash and still another on radishes, all of which I know Han Na plants. I'll lend them to you.”

When we returned to the Zhangs' house, Ling filled my hands with pamphlets, handling them as if they might be precious jewels.

His father laughed. “Ling farms with his pieces of paper as well as his hoe, but as long as his trees do well, I will say nothing against the pieces of paper.”

As Han Na and I made the return trip down the hill, Han Na said, “Ling seemed pleased with you.” After a moment she added, “Chu Ju, I have never asked you about your parents or the orphanage that you say you come from. I have only been glad to have you, but others, such as Ling's parents, might be curious. They might wonder if you have anything to hide.”

“I have nothing to hide,” I said. “My parents
are honorable people. My father, though only trained for a short time, is a doctor.”

“I will ask you no more of your family,” Han Na said, “but it may be that one day you will want to visit them.”

For an answer I only shook my head, but sooner than I imagined I was indeed telling Han Na of such a visit. It was a terrible lie, and it came about in this way. I returned from the village with a letter to Han Na from Quan. As usual she opened it and handed it to me to read. For the first time in many months the letter contained no yuan, but Han Na said nothing of that. It was always Quan's words she looked for and not the money. The first part of the letter was short and much as usual. Beneath the usual part were these frightening words.

The letter shook in my hand.

“What is it?” Han Na asked.

“I feel a little sick,” I said. “The broth in my bowl of noodles tasted strange.”

“Ah,” Han Na said, “they are sloppy at the noodle shop. Who knows what was in your bowl? Drink a little boiled water and lie down for a bit and rest.”

I drank the boiled water and said, “I think the air would make me better.” Gratefully I escaped, and as soon as I was out of sight of the house, I sank down in a bamboo grove. I had read Quan's words
only once, but I knew them by heart as surely as if they were cut into my brain with a knife. Everything he asked was impossible. I must steal the money from Han Na. I must find a way to get onto the train. It must be a train that would take me to Shanghai. In Shanghai, a city of millions, with who knew how many thousands of streets and turnings, I must go to the detention center and find Quan. Each thing was more impossible than the other. My heart sank within me. I would tell Han Na, and we would go together. But Han Na tired easily these days, and to learn that Quan had been arrested might truly kill her.

All the rest of the day and all the night I turned over Quan's dreadful words. The next day when our work was done, I said to Han Na, “This book that Ling gave me to read is too difficult. May I take it to him and ask for another?”

Han Na laughed. “You were never a girl to find something too difficult, but if you wish to see
Ling again, one excuse is as good as another.”

I blushed at what she was suggesting, but I had to have someone's help and there was only Ling. It might be that he had a train pamphlet or even a Shanghai pamphlet. I believed the boy who made an orchard from stones would understand how a thing must be done.

I hurried past the Zhangs' home hoping I would not be seen and made my way to the orchard. Ling was standing at the edge of the orchard, his arm stretched out, and perched on his hand was a hawk. The hawk flew off and I watched it soaring over the paddies and fields. For a moment I forgot my trouble, amazed that Ling should have held a wild bird in his hand. I called softly to Ling and he looked around, startled at my voice. Then a great smile came over his face.

“How is it that the hawk sits on your hand?” I asked.

“I take a hawk from its nest and train it to hunt. When I have had it for two years, I let it go and train another. My ba ba taught me and his ba ba taught him.” Ling saw the book in my hand. “You have not read the book already?”

“No, the book is only an excuse. I have a great worry.” Quickly the words tumbled out. It was a relief to tell someone else of Quan's problems, for they had been too much for me to carry alone.

Ling listened closely to my story. “How could Quan ask such a thing of you? It is impossible.”

“No,” I said. “I must go or Quan will stay in jail forever. Han Na has been so kind to me, I must do what I can for her son.”

“I will go,” Ling said. “This is a time of year when the trees don't need me. The making of the new land can wait.”

I shook my head. “A young man like yourself without a residence permit would be as likely to be
arrested as Quan, and there is not enough money for two fines. I'll dress like a young girl. No one will suspect me. It is something that I must do. I came to you for help in doing it.”

Ling had many arguments against my going to Shanghai, but at last he saw that I meant to make the trip. “I'll go into the village in the morning and see when the train goes to Shanghai and how much a ticket will be,” he said. “Shanghai itself is another matter.” He looked thoughtful. “I'll come to your house to tell you what I've found.” He gave me a searching look. “Quan is lucky to have such a good friend,” he said, as if he were asking a question.

Quickly I told him, “It is not my friendship for Quan but my friendship for Han Na. I would do anything for her happiness.”

At that moment the hawk returned, a pheasant in its beak. The hawk landed on Ling's outstretched hand, and Ling took the struggling bird from the
hawk and wrung its neck. “Here, take it for Han Na's supper.”

I shook my head. The hawk had been very beautiful in its soaring, but my feelings were all for the pheasant. Misfortune had swept down upon me like the hawk and now, like the pheasant, I must struggle. I did not want the unfortunate bird to remind me of failure.

I had the night to get through. The moment I lay down, my head filled with my troubles, and I could hardly breathe. The night, which had always seemed quiet, was now full of noises. An owl screeched, frightening the roosting chickens. A cricket found its way into the room, and I could not close my eyes for waiting for its next chirp. I thought of how my ye ye had said, “At night the crickets sing away the darkness,” but this night the darkness seemed never to end. I went over and over Quan's words hoping to find some way to get
around them. Sleep would have been a comfort, but my eyes would not close. I felt as if the whole world were smooth with sleep and I was a great bump. When the morning came, I nearly cried with relief until I thought of what lay ahead.

It was the middle of the morning when Ling appeared in our field. He greeted Han Na courteously. “I stopped on my way home from the village,” he said, “with the thought that if Chu Ju could be spared from her work, she might wish to walk partway to the hill with me. The morning is pleasant.”

Han Na stared a little but after a moment said, “Yes, of course, if Chu Ju wishes.” She smiled knowingly at me. “Be back for our noon rice.”

When we were a little distance, Ling said, “Are you still set on making such a trip?”

“Yes, I must go at once.” It was not only that I was anxious to get Quan from the detention center,
but I was so upset with worrying about the trip, it would only be the leaving that would end my misery.

“Well then, if it must be. The train that goes to Shanghai stops in the village at six o'clock this evening. You will be in Shanghai at noon tomorrow. You must buy a ticket for a hard seat, that is the cheapest, and as you said, you must make yourself look like a child, for the fare will be cheaper yet. Take some food with you. And here, for only a few yuan I found this pamphlet with a map of Shanghai. See, right here in the train station there is the underground train that takes you anywhere in the city. There is no need to wander the streets. And Chu Ju, should anyone ask, you must have a story in your head of why you are there, but the story must not say that you carry money with you. Tell no one that.”